Making history of our own — with cell phones

I consider myself a pretty easygoing guy; there are precious few things in life I really dislike. Light jazz would be one. Or John Madden, when he is talking. Both are right up there with students walking around one of the most beautiful campuses in the country with a cell phone strapped to their ear like some kind of chrome-y growth, chatting away between classes, or, better yet, taking calls in lecture.

The gradual, probably unstoppable cellularization of campus is not all bad. Cheap long distance rates make it easy to stay in touch with parents and friends back home, for instance. And to be truthful, my wireless Puritanism probably has its roots in a lovably technophobic family, which used an Apple-IIC, complete with those big black floppy discs, until the mid-1990s. (Hey, it had a word processor and games like Frogger — sadly, my laptop still doesn't see much more use than that.) To this day my mom refuses to replace a cell phone only a few steps beyond the blocky contraptions that used to require their own carrying case.

So imagine my dismay on arriving in England a few weeks ago, for a semester at University College London, where it turns out absolutely everyone uses a "mobile": young people, old people, at least one homeless person so far and, as of a few days ago, me.

Worse yet, I like it. It follows me everywhere — "everywhere" so far comprising Stonehenge, the supermarket and numerous pubs — but the idea of being in constant contact, which seemed so horrid just a week ago, has suddenly become indispensable.

That necessity stems in part from the curious take on student technology in London. I would describe my dormitory as "Spartan-chic," or, alternately, "very small." It has no phone and, like several of the older buildings, no internet jack — not to mention no sink or refrigerator.

All of which makes a mobile here truly indispensable, as are 1) trendy sneakers and 2) the ability to queue effectively, neither of which I have quite obtained. Thankfully, Londoners seem more amused than anything by these telling marks of Yankeeism, and have been so enthusiastically friendly that the general temperament here reminds me of home — a little more Virginia than Jersey.

Odd as it sounds, I actually felt more comfortable with my phone decision after taking in the British museum, which, as our London coordinator pointed out, houses the priceless archaeological plunder from the old England, upon which the sun never set.

The museum makes a good case for lording over an empire: You get really cool stuff, like mummies, Roman ruins and the Rosetta stone. What really strikes one during even a casual stroll around the artifacts, though, is the deep-seated human obsession with communication they reveal. Hieroglyphs fill nearly every available space on the ornate Egyptian caskets. The Elgin marbles, lifted from the perimeter of the Parthenon, wordlessly convey their sculptors' take on the splendor and brutality of Greek martial life. Most impressively, the Rosetta Stone, a carved civic notice, attempts to "get the word out," in both Greek and two forms of Egyptian.

Somehow, between wandering the streets of present-day London and the remnants of lost civilizations, I felt better about my jump into, well, the present. After all, "high technology" communication at various times meant carving hieroglyphs, copying scrolls and sending telegrams, probably with naysayers railing against a loss of cultural innocence all the while. An innate drive to communicate, to share and record the defining moments and minutiae that make up life has done nothing less than propel us through, and help to define, history.

Plus, it's reassuring to know I can be called from home while I'm just about anywhere. On the street, in a museum, even — it's just a matter of time — in a crowded lecture.

Andrew Bosse is a junior. He is studying abroad this semester at University College of London.