As it turns out, I didn’t have to. Come Saturday, I’ll be on my way back to the U.K., on the verge of further adventures and even more new places.

If this seems a little unexpected, I’m right there with you. The trip comes as a combination of luck (my parents having a really generous day) and good timing (thanks for studying abroad this semester, Kaleigh and Michelle).

My to-do list for my week abroad is already overflowing with newness and intrigue: Visit friends in Scotland, lunch with former CBS coworkers, feast upon Thanksgiving dinner in a country that doesn’t celebrate the holiday, explore the sights of London with my three best friends, — oh, and attend a ball at Oxford University.

More details to come. In the meantime, I’ll be tying up some loose ends here in the States, and packing. And daydreaming, too.

Cheers.

After a summer of firsts, I have been celebrating with a day of lasts.

Tomorrow morning I’ll be on my way to San Diego, with a week of jet lag and wrap-up blog posts to follow.

But, for the moment, I’m drinking in London to the very last drop. Cheers.

I have it from a reliable source that golden boy Prince William sang karaoke on his 21st birthday when he was still at St. Andrews University.

His song choice? “I Just Can’t Wait To Be King,” from The Lion King.

I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

If you haven’t heard it, listen up. Europe is an alien jukebox, blasting all the best tunes you’ve never heard.

Here, in no particular order, a selection of my summer’s greatest hits:

F**k You, Lily Allen: Sorry for this one, Mom, but the British aren’t always polite. Also, they love Lily Allen. But if you want to get in touch with the British counterculture and overall rebellious personality, this ditty is a perfect introductory lesson.

We No Speak Americano, Yolanda Be Cool & Dcup: This song is composed largely of melodic beeps but, somehow, that’s precisely what makes it so fantastic. I’ve heard this song played at clubs every Friday and Saturday night for weeks straight.

Dance Wiv Me, Dizzee Rascal feat. Calvin Harris: “Who’s Dizzee Rascal?” I asked a friend (in my American naivete) at the onset of my stay in London. My question was answered by a blank stare and two iPod earbuds. Trust me, he’s big here.

Addicted to Love, Florence + The Machine: I might as well face it, I’m addicted to this song. A friend told me about it before London convinced me to listen to it – but either way, I’m glad I took a chance on one of Britain’s hottest songstresses.

Oh No!, Marina & The Diamonds: “I just want a change,” Marina sighs in this uptempo, cynical song. Trust me, Marina, I know the feeling. London was just the change I was looking for.

Alors on Danse, Stromae: As July 3rd dwindled away into the 4th, I danced beneath fireworks and Belgian stars to the voice of this crazy, surprisingly infectious French singer. Technically, the concert was meant to celebrate the EU, but I am convinced we were honoring the silliness and fun of being young and in Europe. Take your pick.

Turn it Up, Pixie Lott: Pixie Lott is the latest and greatest pop tart to come out of Europe. Her songs aren’t deep, but her sweet voice and danceable melodies are guaranteed to keep you singing all night long.

Sex On Fire, Kings of Leon: Clearly, the Kings of Leon have already made their mark on America. (How many times have we all belted out “Use Somebody” with maximum drama and gusto?) But there’s nothing quite like sitting outside of their Hyde Park concert as hordes of British fans go crazy for our American royalty. Dancing and singing in the twilight to “Sex on Fire” isn’t too bad, either.

Chelsea Dagger, The Fratellis: If you haven’t heard of this little band from Scotland, listen up. Their greatest and most popular song, “Chelsea Dagger,” will have you swaying rhythmically as you walk down the street. Trust me, I’ve done it.

Once, Diana Vickers: I discovered this song (and blogged about it) just before I came to London, but I’ve grown to adore it even more. During my first week here, seeing Diana Vickers on a British television show helped me to transition into my new life abroad, if only in a small way. My first British friend? Absolutely.

The Fear, Lily Allen: Just like the Brits, I can never have enough of Lily Allen whilst in London. This song, especially, captures the sound and sensation of living in a massive city. “I am a weapon of massive consumption. It’s not my fault; it’s how I’m programmed to function.”

Did I miss a vital track? As always, comment away!

From Argentina, Jordan Rasch points out the pros and cons of living abroad, and leaving. I, for one, can relate to missing creature comforts like my dishwasher and tumble dryer.

In Greece via his awesome travel website, Drew Meyers examines a question I’ve been asking myself all summer long: Why does the American workplace promote taking so little vacation time? Drew says it best: “In America, people live to work. In most of the world, people work to live.”

Also in Greece, Hunter Richard straps on the feed bag and details the food selection in his summer home. Trust me, it’s enough to make anyone’s stomach rumble.

I’ll be taking Lexi Perconti’s advice on the dos and don’ts of staying in a hostel when I travel to Barcelona this weekend. Tips like this one make me thrilled for my first hostel experience: “Be prepared to kick out drunk men that pass out in your bed. Swearing, flashing the lights, pinching, and attempts at various languages may be necessary.”

And from here in London, the incomparable Kevin Lawless looks closely at the city and finds a number of quirks only a local could love. My personal favorite: A mysterious wet spot on Edgware Road, which never seems to dry no matter the heat index.

Do you have, or know someone who has, a travel or study abroad blog I should check out? Please leave your recommendations in the comments section!

Londoners hurry to the Tube and buses before it’s too late. Shall we drink in Soho tonight, schmooze in Mayfair, or dance in Shoreditch? London is a city of quick decisions, leaving little time for thought or ponderance.

Tonight commences at a wine bar near Embankment – London’s oldest such establishment. A cavernous wine cellar dating to the 17th century belies the modern crowd here. Old stones and fresh faces? Don’t mind if I do. 

I squeeze through a white-collar crowd that runneth over, onto a charming patio that stretches for a block. I’ll have the house white wine, please, and a cheese plate (cheddar and manchengo to start). Among suits and goblets we welcome the coming night.

With wine waning, where to now? The decision rests heavily, and only some doors lie open.

Like British society itself, the London nightlife is stratified via a rigid social class system: The best clubs are members-only, while common non-members are forced eastward to the hipper, dingier areas of the city. You didn’t attend Eton, you don’t know the Queen? Next, please.

We settle on a Hawaiian club, Mahiki, where the princes used to party. Open to everyone, if a little pricey – so, a perfect fit.

As we drink out of tiki-themed glasses and move to the sounds of the Kings of Leon, a surprise guest makes an appearance: Macy Gray, entering the DJ booth with nary an announcement or a pause. People glance, but don’t miss a beat. Well, except for me.

But the party is short-lived. Nothing is open late here – on weekends, even, you’re hard-pressed to find a bar open past 2, or a club blaring its tunes past 3.

And so the party moves to a small Middle Eastern joint on Edgware Road where, even as the sun begins to rise, night owls perch in a queue for the best shawarma in town (I’ll take the chicken-lamb mix, please).

Somewhere in London, Big Ben strikes. The early glow of morning signals day, and we retreat to our flat for a few hours of rest.

Tomorrow, we’ll begin again.

In this, the second installment in my “Shameless Self-Promotion” series for this blog, I explore why the Brits think Americans are being anti-British.

Read the whole column, “BP oil spill highlights across-the-pond differences,” here. It’s my first ever for the Missourian, and the first column submitted from the Missourian’s new London bureau.

Expect more columns from abroad in the coming weeks!

I don’t notice the rays penetrating the curtains of my bedroom until around 5:30, at which point I awaken frantically and fear I’m late for work. I look at my clock, breathe, and roll back to sleep for a precious few hours more. I have a long day ahead.

At 9:00 sharp, my first cup of tea behind me, I reluctantly exit my flat. The elevator creeps up to the tenth floor and then slowly down again. I exit, and walk briskly to the Tube. Passersby turn their heads, because so few people walk with purpose in this city. I may be kept to a strict schedule, but London is not.

I emerge from the Gunnersbury Tube station at 9:50. A sea of business casual carries me in the direction of Building 10, Floor 1, where my electronic keycard opens a sliding glass door. The CBS eye stares back at me.

In the newsroom, time embodies a spectrum. As I log videos, the clock’s second hand cannot will itself to tick; when I am called upon to leave the office for a shoot, life is a unstoppable force of forward motion. Speeding across London to film a story awakens my under-caffeinated body and, as I stand in a crowd of football fans in Trafalgar Square, a news camera pointed squarely at me, my being is liquid adrenaline.

Back at the office, I might sit in on a live interview with Britain’s Got Talent host Amanda Holden or film an Up to the Minute segment with BBC’s Peter Allen. Later, I return to my desk to check upcoming stories and search for new projects. “Would anyone like a cup of tea?” my supervisor, Andy Clarke, asks. My thoughts, for once, are not on caffeine.

5:00. A slow news day’s quitting time. Exhausted and battered but fulfilled, I let the Tube carry me where it will, and will it to carry me home. Around me, silent commuters stare into space or bury their heads in The Evening Standard. Politeness cedes itself to post-work, pre-pub pallor.

And then, after dinner and a glass of cheap wine, the blessed sunset comes at 21:30. The day begins anew with the evening.

In London, nights meld together like so many stars in a kaleidoscope. What night was it when I danced in the front row at a Vampire Weekend Concert? Was it a different time than the night I toasted friends on a rooftop terrace in Kensington, or watched a football game from a pub down the road? Recollection blurs in the bright lights of Picadilly Circus, and tonight becomes every night.

The sun rises again at 4:30. And still, there are too few hours in a day.

And so, I’m sorry I’ve been absent. I’ve been lost in London.

Lost, and found.

Admittedly, our flat did not come equipped with a posh TV; in fact, it’s quite the opposite. The screen is no bigger than 10 inches (on a good day) and we have access to only five channels – but the entertainment value (intentional or not) of British TV makes up for it every single time.

Exhibit A: Britain’s Got Talent. This show is a complete mishmash of everything the Brits love about TV: campy hosts, snarky judges, cheesy performances and really, really colorful sets. And, as the video below shows, the program really does bring the most interesting characters out of the woodwork.

The most interesting characters, that is, with the exception of Justin Lee Collins, who is just as weird and extraneous as the contestants on Britain’s Got Talent but, for some reason, actually has his own talk show. In a nutshell: He looks like Zach Galifianakis, but is uncomfortably awkward and incredibly unfunny. Observe:

I’ll stick with Conan O’Brien, thanks.

Fortunately, there are high points in British TV; unfortunately, they’re mostly advertisements. This one, for example, is a catchy take on one of Britain’s favorite TV shows, Big Brother:

And then there’s this one, which appears to be advertising yogurt but really just compels me to befriend a cow:

Ah, British television. Sure, sometimes I confuse it for a bad SNL skit, but it’s always a breath of fresh air – and a surprise.