[Editor’s Note: New York Magazine does these Sex Diaries that are sometimes cool, sometimes lame. Sometimes they’re interesting portrayals of every day life, and sometimes they make it seem like EVERYONE in New York City is having copious amounts of crazy sex — which isn’t always the case, btw. What would happen, I wondered, if some of CC’s writers blogged about their sex life for a week? Would it be cooler? Funnier? More believable?

Let’s see…]

DAY ONE
9:15 a.m.: Walking to the gym in sweatpants, a dirty wifebeater, no makeup. Get catcalled by at least fifteen people. Oh, ethnic neighborhood, you’re so charming.
12:03 p.m.: Walking home from the gym in the same gear as before, only now drenched in sweat, get catcalled by about fifteen more people. I finally tell one of them to f*ck off. It feels good. His response? “Someone needs to get laid!” I hate dudes.
11:23 p.m.: At my place of business which is, in fact, a strip club, where I am, in fact, a stripper. A scruffy but jovial old man solicits me for a trip to the VIP room, which I gladly agree to (Guaranteed $160 for a half hour? Hell yes!), but first warn him that I’m not one of those girls that do “special favors” in said room. He says that’s fine and wanders off to get more cash from the ATM.
11:43 p.m.: After about ten minutes, the old man pulls out his dick and asks me to give him a blowjob. I tell him no way in hell; I already said that’s not how I do. He tells me it’s fine, because he has a condom. I tell him he can get the f*ck out.
11:50 p.m.: After five minutes of arguing and an extra fifty bucks for being an asshole, we finish the dance and the guy behaves himself. Before we exit the room he kisses me on the cheek and tells me I’m a lovely girl. Read More »

I never studied abroad as an undergrad–the programs my school offered always seemed pointless to me. Instead of sending us to a foreign school to meet new people or learn a new language, my college had set up satellite campuses around the globe. I’d have the same teachers, the same peers, even the same dorm life, just transplanted to a new city. And since I was an English major, that new city had to be London, because that’s where they offered the classes I needed.

I thought it would be fun to have a change of scenery for a semester, but I had heard many a tale of study-abroad-gone-useless: “I never went to class, I just got drunk all the time”. “I only hung out with other Americans”. “We lived with other English speakers, so we never even bothered to work on our French”.

So I decided to skip the whole semester abroad experience and go all out–after graduation, I’d go to grad school in another country.

I applied to a few universities, one in Dublin, Ireland, two in London, and one south of London in the seaside town of Brighton. Because of rolling admissions, I heard back from the three UK schools almost immediately–accepted! Yes! Having never been to England, however, I wondered how I could possibly choose. So…I flew to London. For the weekend. In a jet lag-induced haze, I wandered the city, taking photos, visiting campuses. I took a train to Brighton and tried to imagine myself at school there. I made my choice. I bought a London guidebook.

On graduation day, I got another letter in the mail. It was from Ireland, and informed me that I had been accepted to the school in Dublin. My well-laid plans were suddenly de-railed–the masters program in Dublin was exactly what I wanted, and the school had a bit more prestige. At the advice of friends, professors, parents, strangers, whoever…I changed my mind.

I moved to Ireland in the Fall.

When I arrived at Dublin airport on a sunny day in late September, my entire life packed in two suitcases, it was the first time I had ever set foot in Ireland. I knew no one, and my program wasn’t supposed to begin for another few weeks. I was entirely alone…

[I’ll be chronicling some of the best and worst experiences here, so stay tuned!]

If you’re lucky, you’ll be studying abroad this summer instead of taking a load off and “relaxing” (aka being unemployed) or working at Barnes and Noble (which is how my summers typically go). To avoid such occupational plagues, I decided to go to France last summer even though I didn’t really know French and I hate cheese. Nevertheless, I learned a thing or two about our neighbors overseas and being an American on old, foreign soil.

1. Blend in. The problem with studying abroad is that the experience tends to lack authenticity — You go abroad only to find yourself surrounded by more Americans than in America. And these Americans can be fairly “exotic” themselves (in my program there was a tribe of Mormons).

In many cases American students abroad make no bones about their nationality and flaunt it by traveling in large, loud groups, bumping and grinding in discotheques, speaking odd Franglish and buying bottles of champagne by the crate to drink in the streets. My best advice is to stray from the American wolf pack and try to pass as a native. It’s a fun challenge that prompted a man to feel me up on a bus in Paris because he thought I was German. Close enough. Read More »