Whirlwind walk through Westminster October 30, 2008

I have had an exhausting and exhilarating day, let me tell you! It started at a quarter after nine, when I hauled myself out of bed and paused only for a brief lunch before running nonstop to five p.m. Today was my walking tour of London for my Representing London class. Another girl and I paired up in our seminar group chose the professor-directed path through the City of Westminster. I now of a sore pair of feet, tons of photos, a few pages of notes, lots of ephemera, fond memories and mental notes of places to return, and a new friend.

Let’s start with the new friend. Her name is Elizabeth and she lives in London–has for all of her life, though her family is back in Hong Kong–and studies English (not her first choice, but she’s happy about it now) at Queen Mary. I didn’t even know her name until last week, and that was only when we swapped phone numbers for our little meet-up this morning. At ten o’clock, I met her outside our professor’s office. We awaited the arrival of our third group mate for a half hour before departing without her, guides and explanatory notes and London A to Z’s in hand. (MIA group mate called me at 11, thinking we were meeting then. Oops.) The two of us took the central line from Mile End down to Holborn, where we departed and began our walk at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a lovely little park in the middle of a square. The square is bizarrely divided. On one side, there’s a few unlabeled businesses with apartments on top, I think. On another side, there’s a massive and beautiful church. On another side, there’s a series of health-related places: a university for surgeons, cancer research center, etc. Queen Mary Law is also located on an opposite corner…odd, as Queen Mary Law is also located right next to the Arts building on the Mile End campus. After wandering round the square, we stopped on the corner trying to make sense of our professor’s bizarre directions and outdated A to Z reference pages. And then, delightfully enough, two men in suits toting brief cases kindly tossed us gallant smiles and asked if we were lost. One took my A to Z from me and then spent the next five minutes scanning pages and the index and the cracks at the binding to find our out of the way location, Bloomsbury Way. After many thank you’s, Elizabeth and I went off and found our destination, St. Giles’s Church, now the Parish Church for the area, which is featured in Hogarth’s etching, Gin Lane. It is distinct in that, instead of a traditional cross steeple, there’s a statue way up there at the tippy top.

We then left Bloomsbury, going down Shaftsbury Ave. to Monmouth St., and into Covent Garden! We discovered a delightful little alley way that gave way to a rainbow-colored assortment of quaint cafes and boutiques before following the directions to Seven Dials, where various streets (7) intersect. No, I can’t name them all. We then went through a bit of a maze and emerged on the street where the Royal Opera is housed (gorgeous building with a conservatory that I’m in love with!)  as well as the Magistrate’s Office, directly opposite. A bit further down the road, we spied Drury Lane Theatre to the left and Covent Garden Market to the right. The directions took us to the right, and we stopped at Boswell’s a coffeehouse/cafe type place that’s in a 18th century building where a Mr. Boswell met one, Samuel Johnson, and later wrote that famed Doctor’s biography. We took lunch in the historic place, which was originally a meeting place for the literati of the day, as our menus informed us (a conversation pitting Austen against Dickens was happening two tables away!). From there, we entered Covent Garden Market, which is an exquisitely maintained old building that has a conservatory feel to it, which, you know, I adored. We didn’t meander and check out the stalls, instead choosing to continue on with the plan. We walked straight through the market to Inigo Jones’s church, directly opposite, which is rather plain on the outside. It’s supposed to be ‘Tuscan style’. Blah. Boring. There was street demonstration occuring practically on its unused main steps (the bishop insisted they place the altar traditionally on the east side of the church, which is where the main steps are, so this entrance has never, ever been used). A light sun shower followed, and then we took ourselves out of the Market area and found the actual entrance to the church, which is in a courtyard type place with tree and rosebush-lined walkways and benches. Quite more picturesque!

After that, we took a suprisingly brief walk from Covent Garden to Trafalgar Square, passing the London Coliseum, and going into St. Martin’s (on the Lanes?) Church, right on the Square. Elizabeth told me that she had attended Chinese worship services as a child there, and the church has been disgusting. In the last few years, apparently, they restored it, and it is a beautiful place to be. No pictures, obviously, but if you get the opportunity, poke your head inside and look up at the pristine white ceiling. Plus, there are pews, which I haven’t seen in a church in Europe very often. Lovely, heavy looking pews, too.

After that, we crossed the square and went into the National Gallery to pay a quick visit to Hogarth’s oil paintings, the Marriage A La Mode series, which I think are quite dull compared to his etchings. After that, I had just a moment to gaze at Seurat’s Bathers at Asnieres before heading off down Whitehall St. towards Parliament Square. I love this road. It has so many beautiful, grand buildings, and somehow, whenever I’m walking down it, the light is magnificent. We stopped by the Cavalry…place…and took pictures with the guards on horseback. The horse was so friendly! He nibbled rather politely and curiously at my palm and nudged me gently and was so sweet. Just as we were continuing on our ramble, another guard (not mounted) came out carrying a sword, maybe a saber. I don’t know. Anyway, he came out and did the marchy/stompy bit, giving measured glances to the two mounted guards standing on either side of the gate, before going up to talk to the one on the left. He then proceeded to march right on down to a car that had stopped by the curb, and had a very normal conversation with the driver, before doing his marchy bit back to the other guards. It was terribly amusing. The expression on his face was something of elitist disgust at all of the tourists taking pictures with the horses and a grim sense of duty. His lip was curled, too. Quite a caricature.

After that, we walked down to Parliament for a few photos, then turned the corner towards St. James Park, which was lovely with all of the leaves changing and falling. Sigh. Then it began to rain a bit. There’s a bitty little English cottage right there, which was adorable, and there were pelicans in the lake! I swear! Three of them! We took a path around the perimeter of the park, coming up to The Mall, which leads to Buckingham Palace, and we took that down to St. James’s Palace, which is quaint and not at all guarded. I wonder if anyone goes in there now, and if so, what for? There were a few lights on in the upper stories… As we passed the palace walking down Pall Mall, we went by two guards in bearskin hats (no red coats though, and they looked rather young). As we walked by, one jumped out of his little box and yelled ‘boo!’ Seriously! He moved and talked! We considered calling on the queen and filing a complaint.

Then followed a bit of wandering. We passed Lock & Co., a centuries old hatters, found a pub down an alley way with the second oldest license in the City, then went by Christie’s before coming up to Picadilly, where the Royal Academy of Art is housed (in a rather impressive building). We went through the Burlington Arcade, then, which is, first of all, beautiful, and second of all, houses some of the oldest (19th century) businesses. There were lots of cashmere and knit shops, a few selling men’s dress shoes, some selling accessories. One had the most beautiful pair of button-up gloves on display! Another had the sweetest toddler-sized fingerless gloves, the kind with the button-over mitten covering. So cute. We came out of Burlington Arcade onto Savile Row, renowned for its mens ateliers and suitmakers. One was a robemaker with royal designations. I got pictures

Finally, our tired feet made there way down Regent Street (which, again, I adore) to Picadilly Circus and the Picadilly Circus station, and home I went! By the time I walked into my flat, my feet were throbbing. But, after all, it was a four and a half mile jaunt on fairly uneven pavement, at times! London does a body good, chocolate biscuits not included.

There’s no bias in this news media… October 29, 2008

Ouch. Check out this article from The Guardian’s Sarah Wildman about the U.S. Election and one of my favorite talk shows, The View.

p.s., Sarah, The View has always focused on political issues…

Has this election made America smarter? If talk shows and gab-fests say anything about where American society is, consider what the ABC morning girl-talk chat show says about this election, and by extension, the country. The View – starring news legend Barbara Walters, comedians Whoopi Goldberg, Joy Behar and Sherri Shepard and former reality television star Elisabeth Hasselbeck – has been on the air for 11 years now, with its share of controversy amid its typical daytime fare of gushing interviews with starlets and chats with authors. Indeed, The View has always been known for dipping into the issues of the moment – Barbara Walters makes sure of it. So did former cast member Rosie O’Donnell who would get into it with the conservatives until she left the show last year.

What’s striking to me about the programme now is how this election has suddenly created political shorthand that is accessible to everyone – not just those who wait until the evening to watch Hardball, or are addicted to Keith Olbermann or Rachel Maddow (guilty!) – in other words the MSNBC liberals or Fox News diehards.

Take a recent exchange on The View, in an argument about Obama and Bill Ayers where Ms Hasselbeck, the former Survivor and only true Republican on the show, returned to insisting – Sarah Palin style – that Americans needed to know the truth about the relationship between Ayers and Obama – days after Obama had succinctly made his statements about Ayers in his final debate with McCain and pretty much everyone else had weighed in on the ridiculous idea of hanging Obama with the long-ago deeds of Ayers. (This wasn’t the first time Hasselbeck clung to the McCain line on this smear; nor was it the most aggressive.) Walters tried to talk Hasselbeck down, pushing away the idea of guilt by association bringing up McCain’s ability to avoid taint-by-association to the Keating Five scandal. To which Hasselbeck cut her off and forcefully maintained that one had nothing to do with the other because McCain was “acquitted” of all wrongdoing in the scandal.

Sure, Elisabeth’s point was infuriating. But since when is the average daytime television watcher on familiar with corruption scandals of the 1980s?

And since when has there been such a crossover into politics themselves? The audience must be used to the strange hybrid this show has become – and the weird access these women have to penetrating questions and real discussion that somehow much of the rest of television news has lost.

Back in September, when John McCain came on the show expecting some tea and sympathy, he was called a “liar” and asked to explain his positions on the separation between church and state, Roe versus Wade and announcing “I approved this message,” when the message was clearly an exaggeration. (In response, Sunday New York Times columnist Frank Rich called Joy Behar, a New York accented hard-talking comedian, “The New Edward R Murrow”) When the Sarah Palin clothing story broke, Joy Behar was quoted in the New York Times coverage of the Neiman Marcus/Saks shopping spree fiasco, saying in language all viewers could relate to: “I don’t think Joe the Plumber wears Manolo Blahniks”. All the women noted Palin has not come on the show since her nomination, but the hosts also chided Biden and Obama for not returning to the show. Obama appeared during the primaries and Michelle Obama largely won over the audience when she appeared this summer.

Some of this crossover into political advocacy treads a bit dangerously. This past weekend Elisabeth Hassselbeck, who was brought on the show in 2003 and is cheerfully anti-abortion and pro-McCain-Palin – spent the weekend stumping in Florida with Sarah Palin. She mocked the Obama campaign and advanced some of the same half-truths and weird elisions the campaign itself supports. When the women of The View fact check each other and smack down some of their wilder allegations, the show’s increasingly political bent feels like a healthy mid-morning snack. But listening to Hasselbeck’s smirking, preening and unadulterated posturing for Sarah Palin was embarrassing at best and mendacious at worst. But then there are rumors she wants a show on Fox. In which case the audition went very well.

Halfway through! October 29, 2008

This week marks Week 6 of classes. Week 6 is kind of like the week before Thanksgiving, in that so many people just don’t attend because they’ve gone off frolicking that the professors don’t really assign you much to do for another two weeks. So, my only real classes were Narrative Fiction and Northern Myth on Tuesday. Today’s English Society class was rerouted to the Museum of London (and only eight students showed up! Something nasty within me hopes they get in t-r-o-u-b-l-e), and tomorrow’s Representing London class has disolved into rambles that us students will take in groups of two or three about town.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, as I haven’t written since Thursday last. Gather round, ducklings, and I’ll tell you of my weekend in this lovely city!

Friday, I slept in to an ungodly late hour (I’m actually embarrassed by how late I slept!), then got my act together and headed out to Trafalgar Square to the National Gallery, where bunches and bunches of pretty paintings from medieval period through 19th century are hung. Maybe more, but I didn’t look at everything. I concentrated on the Renaissance and the Impressionists, my two favorite artsy fartsy periods. There were a few that are Famous, like Da Vinci’s Virgin On the Rocks and Raphael’s Maddona of the Pinks (which might be my favorite ‘Madonna’ painting). They had some Titians, some Boticellis, some unfinished Michelangelos (his fabric rendering is just…so incomparabley great when you see it next to some other master’s works). Some of the Impressionist pieces were a bit more touching; I suppose if you want to see Renaissance art, you go to Italy, right? With the 19th century pieces, I could change stand and stare and think, ‘My high school art teacher had a print of this painting in his classroom. I’ve seen this one in art books. A friend of mine copied that one in junior year.’ It was crazy. They had one of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, a few of Degas’ Ballet Dancers (though I wasn’t a big fan of the ones they had, to be honest), one of Monet’s Japanese Bridge paintings (This one was rather dark, color wise) as well as an exquisite Waterlilies (Water-Lilies, Setting Sun), that showed the reflection of the sunset in the water. That one might be a favorite as well. Cezanne’s Bathers were there, as were a bucketfull of Gaugin’s pieces. And then, there was the crowning glory: Bathers at Asnieres, by Georges Seurat. It was lovely, though you can definitely tell that it’s an earlier–likely much earlier–work than A Sunday Afternoon. The brush strokes are much more impressionistic than post impressionistic pointillism. They also had his Channel at Gravelines, which is a bit more pointillistic.

But seeing that piece, Seurat’s Bathers, was just incredible, since I’ve studied him so much and copied A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte so painstakingly. I think that if I ever made it to Chicago, which I think is where the latter lives, I would cry to see it.

It was nearly closing time when I left the National Gallery. I wanted to stay in Trafalgar Square, as the British Film Institute’s Festival was offering a free night of short films about London on a huge blow-up screen right in the square. But it was cold, and I wasn’t feeling well, and I had food I needed to cook, so home it was.

The next day, Saturday, I went off to Knightsbridge and Kensington to visit Harrods, which was incredible. It very much resembles Bergdorf Goodman in New York, in terms of merchandise carried and the way the clothing salons are set up, but the floor where cosmetics and perfumes are is so similar to the craziness that is Macy’s on 34th Street, particularly with the crowds of people everywhere. London is already dressing itself up for Christmas, and so Harrods has its Christmas Arcade all set up as well as the Christmas Gift Store, which is a few flights up, and people are already flinging themselves upon the goods en masse. Oh Christmas time, how I adore thee! I have to admit, I was not impressed with the women’s shoe salon; Bergdorf’s is a great deal classier in this respect, much more posh. But, they had these two beautiful Shoe Boudoirs with all of these gorgeous Christian Louboutin evening shoes and handbags. /drools. They were beautiful.

But the real thing to see at Harrods is the Food Hall. Because it was so crowded, I didn’t get a good look at it, but what I saw was utter Victorian splendor. The Food Hall is a gourmet food market crossed with a food court. There’s ready made food to take home, food you can sit down with and eat there, along with only the best cuts of meat, a fromagerie, a chocolaterie, specialty teas–everything, and probably the best of everything, too. I intend to return and take pictures.

After Harrods, my plan initially was to go to the Science Museum and then off to Kensington for lunch and a browse through Kensington Palace, but it was getting late and I was famished, so I headed of to the Victoria and Albert Museum, ate my brown bag lunch in their courtyard, and then trotted off down the road to Kensington Palace and Gardens. Given the time of year, the gardens were fairly dead, but you could still make out the manicured hedges and intricacies of the fountains and rose bushes and all. The Palace itself is ‘just’ a brick building, but it’s quite lovely in and of itself, rather understated and without much frippery. Inside, I got to see an exhibit on the last of London’s debutantes. The young women from the best families would be presented to the queen around the age of 17 during the season. It was quite a fun exhibit, showing what the girls had to go through, what they had to learn (I know how to curtsy without falling over now!), and, best of all, what they had to buy (there was also a corresponding section for the ‘deb’s delights’, the young men about town). The last presentation was in 1958, and each girl would have to go through hundreds of pounds (not several hundred, thing 900), which is the equivalent to thousands if not hundreds of thousands of pounds today.

We also got to see some of Princess Diana’s formal dresses. I never knew the woman went to so many film premieres… And, we got to see the King’s and Queen’s Staterooms, where Mary and William lived, where Queen Anne lived, and where Queen Victoria was born. It was also a favorite palace of Diana.

I interrupt this update to tell you that my heater just turned on! heat! i’m so excited!

Sunday brought rainy weather and thus brought me to the library. I did some research for my history presentation a month or so from now. Monday dawned sunny, if colder, and I headed out to Oxford Street to do some shopping after lunch in Hyde Park.

Let me say now, I don’t intend to return to Oxford Street. There were all the expected stores-H&M, Gap, a Zara on every block, etc–plus Sufridges, which reminded me of Bloomingdales but perhaps with more interesting lines. I ventured into Primark, as one of my friends here had raved about it, and quickly left once again. Its a discount chain clothing store with really cheap clothes, but the crowds were MASSIVE. Half of London must have squeezed itself into that store. I would have liked to browse more than an aisle or two, but I hate shopping when browsing becomes a battle, so I crossed that off my list and made for the exits. Most of Oxford Street was the same way: tons of people pushing and shoving and walking down the sidewalks like utter idiots. People don’t know how to walk on the sidewalks in London anyway, but on Oxford Street, it was like Bumper Cars was the word of the day. See how many people you can take out. After an hour or two of walking from one end of the street to the other, I turned away from most of the crowds and headed down Regent Street. Now, Regent Street was lovely. IT, too, was bedecked for Christmas, with nets of lights (kind of resembling a Spider Man set) hanging over the street, stretched between the buildings. The buildings themselves are beautiful Georgian structures all inherently similar, giving the streetscape a very polished, upper crust feel. The shops down this way ranged from high end designer to more Gaps, a Banana Republic (very pretty on the inside), A/X, and a chain called Mango, which I realled liked. Hamley’s, rumored to be the largest toy store in the world (hmmm, FAO?), is also on this street, but I did not go in. I know, that’s surprising, coming from me. I also stumbled over Carnaby, and went through that little maze of boutiques and cute little cafes before returning to Regent. I walked clear down to Piccadily Circus, which is sot of like Times Square on depressants. There are billboards, kind of, and bright lights, but not nearly so overwhelming as Times Square, which I somehow adore, even with the crush of people. Stopped into Boots, which is a chain drugstore, had a very unpleasant encounter with mean, old British man clerk who derided my American roots (getting really tired of that!), and huffed and puffed my way home, yelling about nasty British people in my head.

Tuesday was the typical go to class and get work done day, except little work was accomplished, and today has been a ramble about town combined with “class” at the museum and errand running. After leaving the Museum of London around noon, I took the tube to Leicester Square, so that I could go into the big Waterstones and buy a copy of Grimm’s Fairytales for my Northern Myth paper, since the QM library is somehow lacking a copy of any european fairytales collection in English. Odd.

Oh, glorious heat!

I ended up finding a huge complete collection of every single Grimm’s tale, and shall have an amusing time choosing which one I want to write about, I think, given that there’s over 100 of them. Wowzer. After that, I walked back up the hill from Trafalgar Square to Leicester Square and took myself out to lunch at this Italian restaurant called Little Italy. There are a few Italian restaurants right in that little alley, so I think that’s actually Little Italy. Maybe. I haven’t heard of anything big and exciting. After lunch, I wandered up to the square, where bunches of police had blocked off most of the area, putting up a maze of barracades for…a film premiere! Leicester Square is where all of the London premieres occur, at the massive Odeon Theater. Tonight’s premiere? James Bond! There was a red carpetted platform set up in the center of the square, and people lining up at the barricades already to get a glimpse of the stars.It’ll be a nightmare to get limos through, though, because the road to the North East corner is completely dug up for water pipe replacement. Ah, well. Those are the breaks. After chuckling to myself about the freezing people waiting for the stars to arrive, I wandered from Leicester tube station to Tottenham Court Rd. station, which brought me back up to Oxford St. I decided that more wandering was not a good idea for today, given I had dinner to buy and make and some work to do (and blogging, of course). It should be noted that the area around Leicester Square is PACKED with bookshops selling books on everything you could want, from second hand to rare and antiquarian to Borders, from motorsports to performing arts to visual arts to history and literature. And lots of map and print sellers, too. A quick stop at Stratford Shopping Centre for some groceries to last me till the end of the week, and I was once more home bound!

What’s coming up?

I’m not entirely sure. I’m supposed to go to York on the 3rd and stay until the 5th, but the lady hasn’t confirmed my room at a B&B yet, and I haven’t booked (really expensive!) train tickets yet, so that might not happen. I will definitely be going to Salisbury and Stonehenge on the 8th, and am thinking about taking a few day trips to Brighton and Canterbury. Right now, since B&B lady hasn’t gotten back to me 36 hours after I said I wanted her rooms, I might cancel my York trip and up the anty on the day trips… Or get work done–novel idea, no?

If all the sunbeams were bubblegum and icecream… October 23, 2008

Yes, I did just sing a Barney song in my title. The best and most memorable Barney song, thanks very much. Sticking your tongue out and going ‘ah ah ah aah ah ah ah ah ah ah’ (I think I counted right) and catching snowflakes and raindrops and sunbeams is just as fun now as it was, um, fifteen (!) years ago.

Anyway, yesterday presented the epitome of beautiful weather in London. It was a bit cold, but with coat and scarf, life was grand as I wandered about the area west of The City (ahem, Trafalgar, Whitehall, and Westminster!). I had decided to go after looking at one of my handy maps and realizing that since I had so much time before I needed to get to the National Theatre for a platform show (more on that later), I might as well leave the East End early and wander About.

As wandering goes, I’ve wandered the most in and around Westminster and across the bridge to Southbank, so I’m fairly comfortable with the area. I’d never been much north of the Thames River Path, though, so I decided to exit the tube before I needed to (at Embankment rather than changing and going straight to Waterloo) and do a big loop up around Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, Whitehall, and sweep around Westminster, where I would cross the river (as I think the view from Westminster Bridge is the best of all the bridges I’ve been on so far) and then amble on towards the National Theatre.

Just by Embankment Station is a lovely garden (I think it’s called, appropriatly, Embankment Gardens). It has little cafes and what have you and lots of lawn space and planters where people perch. Since it was just a bit after one, all of the be-suited busines people were eating their lunches in the garden, so it was packed to the brim with coworkers chatting, munching on baguettes, and lounging in the grass. There was also a funny little group of pidgeons that had rolled over on the grass and were sunning themselves. I’ve never seen pidgeons laying down before, I don’t think (and, no, they weren’t dead!).

After that, I headed up little side streets up to the Strand took a left pass enormously busy Charing Cross Station, and found myself suddenly in Trafalgar Square. I stood on the corner where I believe the massive Waterstones book store–5 stories, so I hear–is, snapping photos of the square that we’d discussed in that morning’s English Society class. I then walked the full circuit around the square, up to wear the National Gallery is, then walked down past the fountain and the lions, snapping shots all along the way along with the non-smiling Asian tourists, and then headed west along Pall Mall. I love Pall Mall because the architecture is absolutely exquisite, and most of it is rather old, Georgian-style things, but each building is completely unique and some are quite ornate. I passed a restaurant that billed itself as the ‘Texas House’, a real, home-style Tex-Mex canteen. I took pictures of it for you, Catherine. You’ll be happy to hear that the Texas flag out front was MASSIVE. In the area around Trafalgar (probably because most of the parliamentary buildings are just south of there) are all sorts of ‘Houses’–e.g. Canada House, Uganda House–all with proud little engraved stone plaques and foyers where sleepy looking guards are propped up in folding chairs.

From Pall Mall, I took a left, heading South, down Waterloo Place, where they appeared to be filming something. I’m not sure what lovely building is right next to it, but in the middle of the road was set up a caravan of trailers. It looked like they were in the middle of serving lunch. Wish I knew what was going on… Anyway, walked down the steps to The Mall, which faces St. James’s Park, went through the Admiralty Arch which is gorgeous. It’s got a gently arching, rounded facade, with beautiful stone work all over and gilt gates… /sigh. That put me back out on the south side of Trafalgar Square, giving me yet more photo-worthy panoramic views of the National Gallery. I took a right from there, and headed down Whitehall, where it quickly morphs into parliament central. I passed what I suppose is the royal cavalry…not sure if it’s ‘working’ or not, but I think there is a museum back there somewhere, behind all the horses and guards in fancy-dress. It was rather like being by Buckingham Palace with people posing with the guards, but this time, they were standing next to bored-looking horses. Oh, and on the other side, there was a sign warning that the horses kick and bite. Hm.

Whitehall has some beautiful buildings on it. I’m sure most are now government buildings, but I’ll have to do some more research, as not all of them were labelled. The street opens up facing Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. If I had a wide-angle lens and could magic away all of the obstructing poles and vehicles, it would be the most perfect picture. I took in beautiful Parliament once more, made another mental note to visit the Abbey ASAP, and then crossed Westminster Bridge. There were two men dressed up like Highlanders playing bagpipes none to well there, and as I walked down along the river again, this time on South Bank from Town Hall to the National Theatre, there were tons of street performers, some highly entertaining (all of the painted people-as-statues, but wearing Georgian-era costume, and a man playing violin at the book market), some bizarre (the man wrapped up in a chain…), and some bad (the Charlie Chaplin impersonator).

And finally after about an hour and a half of wandering, I reached the National Theatre and picked up my ticket for a platform performance called ‘The Horse Whisperers’. It was put on in conjunction with War Horse, a play based on a popular children’s book that is in its second sold out run over here. The ring leader of the affair was internationally renown horse whisperer Monty Roberts, a man in his seventies who truly doesn’t look it, whose first memory is being on horseback. He’s trained race horses, worked on films, done showing, written a memoir (by order of the Queen, by the way), and toured all over the world. He has started thousands (50,000 by his count) of horses using his join up method of gentle treatment that has the human communicating to the horse in the horse’s own language. The man has, suffice to say, done quite a lot in his life, and he’s not done yet.

The platform was an hour long and featured a well known British show jumper and trainer in Monty Roberts’s method, as well as the puppet horse from War Horse. The British trainer started by doing a few things she’d taught her horse how to do that rather cheesily resembled what a war horse would be required to do, e.g. side passing over a length of rubber tubing, stepping over a see-saw bridge, standing quietly by itself, e.g. things Mo would never do, aside from the standing bit, maybe. After we saw what her real live horse could do (by the name of Pie, btw.), they brought out Joey, who is the puppet in War Horse. When I saw puppet, however, Joey isn’t what comes to mind. This isn’t a Sesame Street, Avenue Q-esque puppet. This is a machine like thing that moves technically via puppetry, but after watching him for a few minutes, you quickly forget about the three humans that operate hime. You forget that Joey isn’t a real horse at all, even when he’s standing on the same stage as a real horse. Monty has Joey and Pie interact, and while Pie didn’t really seem to buy Joey as a real horse, just kind of sniffed him to see what he was, there was a moment when Pie was walking around Joey in a circle, and Joey reached out to nip at Pie’s flank. Pie shied away, as any horse would do. They did it again however, and this time, Pie simply did not want to go near that fake horse again. Monty and Pie’s owner brought them back together, eventually, but Pie was always wary of Joey after that, as well he should be, I think…

What was most remarkable about seeing Joey and Pie standing side by side, however, was just how in tune the three puppeteers were with the horse’s consciousness and mannerisms. I understood every gesture they made, from the slight tossing of the head to the arched back and neck to the pawing of the ground to the slight wiggling of the tail. Everything was spot on appropriate, except for the way Joey sidepassed over the tubing. He kind of shuffled, like a human would do, rather than crossing his legs, as Pie did, but I suppose that’s a sort of mechanical limitation of the puppet combined with these three humans (all three had never been on a horse, prior, and weren’t horsefolk now. One was terrified of horses.) couldn’t capture. It takes awhile to teach a horse to move like that, as well, so perhaps they’d just not been taught the proper mechanics of the movement. It’s incredible just how lifelike Joey is. At the end of the hour-long show, they did a brief Q&A during which the puppeteers explained their thought processes during War Horse and how they managed to become so horse-like. They explained that they tuned out the words of the play and rather reacted to the emotions of the actors, becoming anxious when a good companion of theirs became anxious. They reacted to sound levels–loud noises and such–but not to the words themselves. I thought, at first, that War Horse would be a silly thing, with its puppets and it’s history, but now, I’d rather like to see it, if only to watch Joey for two and a half hours.

Photos from War Horse

Well, look at ignorant little me October 21, 2008

I’ve been logging on to The Guardian’s website to read their news on the US election and whatnot, largely because it’s much more amusing than reading it on the New York Times’ website. Today, I stumbled across an article not on the election, but on abortion. Here comes the ignorant bit: as I learned in my intro to Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies class last spring, a lot of the women’s rights movement, including action in favor of abortion-legalizing laws and domestic abuse laws in the U.S. were inspired by similar action abroad, including in Great Britain. I had assumed that, given the lack of religious political fervor over here and the Brit’s obvious disdain for America’s mixing of religion and politics, abortion wasn’t an issue here anymore. I though abortion was legal, as in the U.S., and that was that.

Well, as I found out today, that’s not exactly so. Polly Toynbee writes in an Oct. 21st article entitled “Labour’s Stitch-up Will Deny Women Fundamental Rights”,

Here’s the case for reform: the 1967 abortion law casts women as too morally unreliable to decide if they should become mothers. Two doctors must agree that a pregnancy can be terminated; women must plead psychological cause and attend a registered clinic. All that adds to cruel delays: some women still wait six weeks.

Doctors are not making a medical diagnosis, but giving or withholding their moral blessing. Not surprisingly, the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists wants an end to this archaic hypocrisy. In these days of “choice” and “empowerment” for patients, doctors are not priests. How odd that women should be morally incapable of making this most important decision and yet might be compelled against their will to become mothers – presumably morally incompetent ones.

There’s lots more to the piece about current issues in Parliament and pro-choice protestors trying to fight for reform of this 1967 law (to one doctor’s agreement on the abortion rather than two, imagine), and about North Irelanders not having legal abortion choices, and I confess I didn’t read the full article because a lot of it is over my head in terms of the entrenchment in cultural values and political history and whatnot, but I was quite surprised by two things. They are perhaps illuminated further in my mind by the way that the Brits over at The Guardian portray American politics just two weeks away from the election, particularly on the conservative/religious right side of things.

The first is the harping on morality. When you think about it, both the religious right and the pro-lifers in the UK are harping on the same thing: a child is alive when it is conceived. The other side of the argument isn’t really the opposite of that statement, as it is many times in the U.S. Rather, it’s that allowing reform in the abortion law will empower women by giving them control over their bodies, and that it won’t necessarily mean that just because it’s easier to get an abortion, that all pregnant women will do so. What I think the Brits aren’t considering, thus making them somewhat hypocritical, is the connection between morality and religion. I know not everyone believes this, but you can trace morality to religious principles. E.G. no matter how separate we make church and state in the US, our laws are still ‘moral’, they’re still based in religion.

The second is the commentary, which I usually find interesting. Here are a select few odds and ends, make of them what you will:

“What a sordid little article. Not one mention of the importance of birth control and sex education to prevent these unwanted unpregnancies in the first place and yet repeated mentions of the ‘empowerment’ that abortion represents. What a strange world Polly inhabits.”–Sunfish

“sunfish, going over the contraception and sex education arguments again would be nothing short of tedious and insulting to the readers of this who could probably give you chapter and verse on the merits of those any time. This is about abortion and abortion does represent empowerment when it acts to hand back control of women’s bodies to the women themselves, wresting it from the state.”–LoneArchitect

“This is about abortion and abortion does represent empowerment when it acts to hand back control of women’s bodies to the women themselves, wresting it from the state.

I know a lot of people feel fuc*ed by the state but your comment is absurd, Lonearchitect.”–Sunfish

“Polly spectacularly misses the point. The ‘Rights of the Woman’ argument in favour of extending the 1967 Act to Northern Ireland may be persausive to you and me, but we are not the audience that matters. There is a strong and morally defensible argument based on the rights of the unborn child, and it is up to the people of Northern Ireland to make their choice between these two positions.

If you think this is as fundamental right as any in the UN charter, go to Ulster and campaign for your beliefs. In the meantime, let’s not pretend it isn’t hypocritical to suspend democracy merely because it suits your personal views.”–CraigMorrisonUK

“I support abortion where it is in the best interests of the mother. I support abortion on demand, But I don’t support abortion if it is for the convenience, social or otherwise, of the mother. Because whatever you say about abortion it is taking a human life and that should not be done lightly.

I suspect that outside of the religious fanatics this is the view of the people of Northern Ireland, and the doubts they have is that it will become little more than cosmetic surgery with the loss of a human life for a proportion of women as it has here in the UK. (Isn’t there a famous journalist in this country whose had five abortions?). In any event I suspect the cosmetic surgery aspect of abortion is holding back enthusiastic support in NI.

I supported the abolition of the death penalty simply because it was not worth the risk of one innocent person dying because of the system. I supported abortion because of the poor girls who needed backstreet abortions while the toffs got them on demand, and always will, but I am now left with a nagging guilt that several thousand, or more, human beings have had their lives prematurely terminated for no other reason than they were inconvenient.

Truly it is s moral dichotomy, and without wishing to sound arrogant it seems to me that anyone who could take a blanket approach in either direction of this argument is a fanatic of one sort or another, and history shows that moral stances by fanatics rarely benefit the rest of us.

So I ask Polly, do you support abortion as a form of cosmetic surgery and if not what checks and balances do you see necessary to prevent the taking of inconvenient human life?”–GerryM

“And as if by magic idiot right wing blokes turn up.

My Uncle had scars over the left side of his entire body…like birth marks even on his face…caused by the hot needle.

He ended up drinking himself to death.

Can you imagine every time you look in a mirror seeing the evidence of your mother wanting you dead?

Perhaps had he not been born it would have saved a lot of pain.

But then his daughter keeps asking me to look after my wee neices and they’re wonderful and painfully cute.

I dunno.”–NemesistheWarlock

“MoveAnyMountain (and CraigMorrisonUK) – There’s nothing imposed on anyone by legalising abortion. Nobody will have an abortion they do not want. If the women of NI are 100% opposed to abortion in all circumstances, legalisation will result in zero abortions.

What is imposed on women in NI is the refusal of any legal way within the province to get an abortion if they want one.”–Outradgie

“@salmonbury; “There is no parallel between abortion and cosmetic surgery.How crass and in poor taste to say otherwise.Women dont enjoy having abortions.”

You don’t think so? You believe do you that all abortions (and make note I am for abortions, and even abortion on demand) are the result of some excusable reason to get shot of the baby? If you do then there’s no point in engaging on the issue because even if I’m wrong about the numbers there are bound to be women who have the baby aborted because they don’t want it, and if I choose to compare that with cosmetic surgery then I’m entitled to do so. I don’t think the abortion acts were brought in for that purpose, and I think it’s the biggest impediment to acceptance of abortion in NI and Ireland in general.”–Crompton

“Crompton, If a child isnt wanted then continuing with the pregnancy is not in the childs best interests.Every child should be wanted.Some reasons for abortion will be better than others but we cant morally arbitrate over each case.
I think not wanting the baby for WHATEVER reason is a very solid reason and not superficial like cosmetic surgery.Of course you are free to make whatever parallels you choose and Im free to beg to differ.Life isnt at stake in cosmetic surgery, but vainity .I dont see the parallel, particular in terms of motivation or outcomes of the procedure.
Its the freedom to choose thats important, not to get hung up on whether people have good or not so good reasons for their decisions.The law cant operate at that level.”–Salmonberry

“Seems to me that whatever the law is it should apply equally to everyone in the UK. Women in Northern Irealnd are not being treated the same as those in England. They are forced to go to greater expense to access the same services other women receive. They are forced to jump through more hoops at what is a stressful time in their lives. This to me is wrong. regards.”–Jacqueschidt

“If it’s a medical procedure then it is the doctor who decides whether treatment is appropriate although he usually consults the patients.

But is pregnancy an illness? Should doctors really be spending their time doing operations like this when there are lots of ill people waiting for treatment?

Either way Polly’s argument does not stand up. If it’s a medical procedure it is the doctor who decides whether it is a necessary procedure or not. If it’s not a medical procedure then the doctor should spend his or her time more productively.”–ThomasY

“Bioluminescence
“So Deyna, do you only have sexual intercourse to procreate?”

Yes, if you must know.”–Deyna

So maybe I got a bit carried away. I do think these Brits have entertaining opinions, whatever my thoughts on them.

<3

Company Comes and Goes October 20, 2008

The last few days have gone by in a mad dash. Thursday was spent attending class, then journeying down to Stratford to run errands before Emily arrived the next day. It was actually quite a fun trip, as I ended up taking the 425 bus, which is a double decker, from Bow Road (as my 25 bus decided to fall out of service…) to Stratford Station. As you may remember from an earlier post, the last time I was on a double decker, I was so not impressed. It felt, from where I was sitting in the middle of the upper story, rather like a shakey Knight Bus out of Harry Potter. But this time, the bus was nearly empty and I clambered up the stairs and plopped myself down in the front seats, inches away from the massive windows at the nose (forehead?) of the lovely red bus. The experience from this vantage point was incredible. It left me thinking, ‘well this is certainly the way to ride a bus’. You could see everything, but not in the normal way, like you do just looking out normal bus windows. It felt like I was right on top of the world, experiencing the street from a new angle. Everything was glittering under the early afternoon sun, everything was shining and fresh and lovely. That’s quite a transformation for the East End of London! Pulling into the station, I also marveled at the driver’s ability. I don’t know how we managed to not hit the signs and the railings as we swooped around turns, but somehow we made it, unscathed, to our disembarkation point.

When I got off, I found that there was a tiny little market featuring artisan food and crafts right outside the station. There was some delicious looking fudge and a bakery stand and a man selling drool-inducing sausages, among others. I ended up heading across the street to Stratford Center for a quick run to Sainsbury’s to scope out the snack situation, then to Wilkinsons to buy a cheap bedding set for Emily to sleep on. Both of those things having been accomplished for a grand total of fourteen pounds, I headed back home on the bus (the 25, this time). Right around 2 p.m during the week is the best time, I’ve found, to make use of London’s bus system in the East End. On my way to Stratford, the buses are usually empty and quiet, allowing me to sit down for the ten minute ride, and on the way back, even though you have to fight through the hords of noisy, bratty British school children, the buses are somehow still fairly empty, and most everyone is able to gain a seat. It’s quite pleasant, and certainly much more so than squeezing into a bus with groceries only to stand in traffic for 20 minutes alongside sweaty men and women with prams. My evening concluded with a bit of frantic research, facebook messaging Elizabeth about our plans, and talking to Emily for just a bit before catching some sleep.

Friday

I met Elizabeth at 9:15 outside of Beaumont to go pick Emily up from London City Airport. We tubed to Stratford, switched to the delayed Jubilee Line, then switched to the DLR at Canning Town before arriving at LCY. The airport itself seems quite tiny. The arrivals area is like an itty bitty lobby that is smushed together with rental car stands and ticket counters stretching alongside opposite ends of the room. There are very few seats, but somehow, finding Emily proved difficult. Luckily, international cell phones were on our side and we quickly discovered that she’d been waiting outside, meaning we’d somehow walked right by her as we came in from the DLR entrance to the airport arrivals area. Odd. Anyway, we ran into each other’s arms, had a lovely group hug that drew some interesting glances from onlookers, and made our way back to the DLR station, up to Bank, and tubed back to Mile End to drop of Emile’s surprisingly small bags. Seriously, I was impressed. I’ve only ever seen her trying to cram as much as possible into large, rolly suitcases. This was a show of great restraint.

A quarter of an hour later, we met up with Elizabeth once more and tubed down to east central London for a spot of lunch at Pret a Manger, a massive chain of prepared lunch options–sandwiches, wraps, and salads, mostly–that is scattered throughout London. We ate outside, luxuriating in the beautiful weather, and took in the view. Right across the street was All Hallows by the Tower, the oldest church in the City of London. I’ll have to back track for a moment now; we arrived at the Tower Hill tube station, intending to visit the Tower after lunch, and then go to St. Paul’s. When we walked out of the station, we were confronted with the magnificent expanse of the Tower of London, which is to much more than just a tower, stretching out before us. The Tower is a royal palace, something I knew, I suppose, but hadn’t much considered. I had thought of it only as the place where traitors were sent, where poor Anne Boleyn was murdered, where Jane Grey was beheaded as a teenager, where Elizabeth I was imprisoned by her half sister, Bloody Mary. But it is indeed a royal palace, and on that day of most beautiful days, it certainly looked it. And so, after lunch, we made our way back to the Tower, bought tickets (which are usually 14 pounds for students, but were just 1 pound each for Elizabeth and I since we are residents of the borough that the Tower is in. Whoo!), and made our way to the visitor’s entrance. When we entered, we came across a tour given by a Yeoman Guard that had just begun, and so we tagged along as we were taken past the Traitor’s Gate, up by the White Tower, and into the Royal Chapel. The Yeoman Guards are an elite set, world renown as ‘beefeaters’, though that wasn’t mentioned once on our tour (and it is suggested on the website that you not bring it up). Today’s guards have highly honorable professional backgrounds. There is a requirement of at least 20 years of service to the Crown of England with a medal for honorable conduct and another for…I want to say services rendered, but that sounds highly inappropriate, no?  I’m sure I’m butchering it, but suffice to say, the guidelines are stringent, and becoming a Yeoman Guard is an honor. The Guards live within the walls of the palace, as do a doctor and a chaplain. The Guard the led our tour was the Ravenmaster, the guard in charge of the, um, ravens. He told us that because of an old superstition–if the ravens were to abandon the palace, it is said that the white tower would crumble and bring England down with it, thus a small number of ravens are kept on site in luxury accomodations–they clip the wings of the birds, but only on one side, so as to keep the birds off balance. The guard explained that if you clipped both wings, the raven wouldn’t have too much trouble, but if you did just one, they would only be able to fly in circles, really, which I found kind of sad. Anyway, these ravens are HUGE, mammoth birds. When I picture a raven, I picture a crow. These birds are not crows. They look like they eat crow pies for breakfast (they eat red meat, actually).

As I said, the tour went over about half of the palace, including the chapel, which was restored by order of Queen Victoria after it had fallen into disrepair. It is currently very faithful to its Tudor roots, and materials, where possible, though the Tower itself is so much older. It is also the only royal palace not to have been successfully broken into, though is has, as we later learned, been under seige. In the chapel lie the remains of Anne Boleyn, Jane Grey, Jane (Viscountess Rochford, wife of Anne Boleyn’s brother George, who was also executed), Catherine Howard (cousin of Anne Boleyn) and countless others, including the last person executed in the Tower, Simon Fraser, a Jacobite traitor. It was eery, being told that Anne Boleyn was laying just under the altar. I am a great Anne Boleyn sympathist, so it was very moving to see where she was imprisoned (in the queen’s quarters that Henry VIII had built for her, prior to her arrest), where the platform was built, and where she lay, hopefully in peace.

After the tour, the three of us went to see the Crown Jewels, which were magnificent, though I have to say that I expected there would be more of them. I wish I could have just stood and stared, but when you go past the state crowns and what not, you’re standing on a moving walk way, so you don’t have too much time to look. The exhibit did offer some interesting footage of both Elizabeth II’s coronation ceremony and factoids about the crown jewels themselves. We saw a ton of state plate, a lot of gold or gold plated, including a massive punch bowl the corresponding ladle (the cup of which resembled a conch shell, in shape and size). After that, we walked back down past the White Tower, watched the ravens for a bit, saw some British girls scream when a hord of pigeons charged them in the air, and then wandered through the Bloody Tower. After that, we hit the gift shop, then we stumbled upon the reenactors. We met a very chatty woman impersonating a well-to-do Jewish woman in the 13th C., I think, as well as King Henry III and a constable who was rather adept at working a bow. We were given a demonstration of the various ways the castle was protected from the Baron’s seige during the period, as well as a history of the Jews in London. After *that*, we headed over to the White Tower, which contains the armoury, but I was so out of it at that point (we’d been there for nearly three hours!) that just kind of wandered through, cracking jokes about Henry VIII’s rather well-endowed suit of armor and what have you.

Given that it was so late by the time we left, and clouds were starting to roll in, we decided to hit St. Pauls the next day and make our way home. We met up with Jill and her company, two friends from Richmond, at Hayfields Pub that night for dinner, then went back home for some tea (hot chocolate!) and chocolate. My roommates were at the horrific worst, though I’m happy to say that Tim was not one of their number that night, for reasons unknown. For only the second time since I’ve been here, really, they were pregaming with other people in our kitchen, and it was a loud mess. Then, Xavier put on music–clubbing music–and propped the kitchen door open so the entire flat was pulsing along, and then, while the three of us were cloistered in my room rolling our eyes, he and his cohorts left the flat, but kept the music on. When I returned to the kitchen and was almost deafened by the pounding music, shocked by the state of the room and the number of bottles strewn about, I was so very angry. It’s lucky I didn’t see them for the rest of the weekend, otherwise I would have said some very unpleasant things. The anger has, fortunately for them, left me now. Sigh.

Saturday

Today was a crazily busy day filled with constant movement. We woke up not too early and made our way to St. Paul’s Cathedral for a tour of Christopher Wren’s ‘monument’ with an exceedingly chatty tour guide that went a half hour over the alotted time. We went all through the cathedral, though, starting at the West end (I think!), which still maintains Wren’s unique architectural point of view and it’s austere, simple beauty. This end of the cathedral is largely unadorned. You’ll find exquisite trim work, beautiful columns, etc., but it lacks the gaudiness of the East end of the cathedral, which was altered by the request of Queen Victoria. She apparently thought the cathedral was dull as it was, and so had artisans add glass mosaics and tons of gilt work all over the dome and quire. The mosaics are quite striking in their own right, but I can’t hep but imagine what the entire cathedral would have looked like before Victoria changed it. Both ends are beautiful, and it’s interesting that the detail becomes to rich right at the heart of the cathedral, but it seems to me that the kind of detail added in the Victorian period is easily dismissed because you see so many churches, particularly in Italy, that maintain their catholic heritage and the typically gaudy decor that comes with it. Wren’s cathedral is beautiful in its simplicity, and such clean, frech beauty is not often found alongside such a grand architectural monument. The only real decor in Wren’s vision is the painting on the dome of the cathedral, which really resembles more of a dull, sepia-toned, beautifully executed charcoal sketch of the life of St. Paul rather than a painting that you would find in Rome or Florence. But according to our guide, Wren didn’t even want the painting! He wanted mosaics instead, but the painting won the competition…

As I said, we saw most of the building, including the geometric staircase, where a scene in the third Harry Potter movie was filmed (can anyone guess which scene?), the quire (we got to sit in the seats! cool!), and the chapel in the far east end that is dedicated to American servicemen and women who fought abroad in World War II. We also went down into the crpyt and saw lots of memorials, but that was topped by the adventure that lay hundreds of steps above it. After the tour ended, Emily, Elizabeth, and I climbed all the way to the golden gallery, the third viewing gallery in the dome, and over 500 steps from the main floor. We got some great views of London, several frights on the way up and down, and about an hour of shakey legs (and two days of soreness!) afterwards.

Aftwerwards, the three of us happily embraced terra firma by trekking over (via tube, not foot, thank goodness!) to Buckingham Palace and Green Park, where we picniced. Today was the first day that I really noticed it was fall. Leaves weren’t changing to much, rather fading from bright green to dull yellow before falling to the ground, but the light was gorgeous as it wafted through the tree-lined walkways and highlighted the groups of people lounging on the grass just across the street from Buckingham Palace. We were plagued momentarily by some pidgeons who fancied themselves to be great sandwich predators, but they were rather frightened by the angry bag-waving Texan and decided to seek safer grass. After taking a few pictures with the palace as our backdrop, we walked under Wellington Arch found Hyde Park Corner, and then went separate ways. Elizabeth headed back home so she could get dinner and dessert from Sainsbury’s while I took Emily off to Notting Hill for a sojourn through Portobello Road Market. It was late by the time we returned (and no, I didn’t buy anything!), and so we had just a half hour or so before we had to head over to Elizabeth’s flat for dinner, ice cream, and a movie (Ever After). Quite a lovely, if busy, day indeed.

Sunday

Today is Emily’s last day in London. We traveled back to St. Paul’s early this morning for the 10:15 sung mattins. The service was interesting, as I’d never attended a ’sung’ service before. It was slightly disappointing at the same time, though, because the choir boys (who were so cute!) looked like only half the real choir size, and since the cathedral is so large, is was difficult to make out what they were singing. Plus, I’d never heard any of these hymns before (neither had Elizabeth, before you say anything, roomie!), so none of it was really familiar. I surprisingly enjoyed the sermon more than any other part, as it wasn’t a religious sermon at all, really (though I know Elizabeth was disappointed by that fact). It addressed the bitterness and self-centered-ness that many people have felt and fallen prey to during this economic crisis, and how we have to break out of that habit and embrace what’s good in the world and make a change for the better rather than simply act out on what we think serves us best.

After the service, we marched on over to a nearby Starbucks, snagged a table and five chairs (as our threesome was supplemented by Liz and a new American acquaintance, Heather), and partook of warm beverages and nibbles on a very chilly morning. After that, we tubed and DLR’ed to Cutty Sark for lunch in Greenwich! I really do like Greenwich quite a bit, and wish it wasn’t such a pain to get to, particularly with all of the engineering that goes on during the weekends. Maybe I’ll head down there during the week. After lunch at Pistacio’s, where I had my first and probably last jacket potato, I took Emily and company (sans Liz, who wanted to check out the museums) to Greenwich Market. Emily went a bit shopping-happy, and I found a really well-stocked handbag boutique that had a cute clutch that I am considering purchasing… After that, Elizabeth took us on a Greenwich tour that took us probably on a half-mile/mile route around the block, North to the Thames, down to the Old Royal Naval College which was once Greenwich Palace, up to the Maritime Museum where we spied the Observatory, and then back to Cutty Sark DLR so that we could get Emily to the airport for her flight, which I, indeed, accomplished.

And that, ladies and gents, was my action-packed, exhaustion-enducing weekend! Voila.

I’ve also just now been invited out to a birthday dinner for one of my flatmates, I think. I wish they stop inviting me out to dinner at 4:30/5:00. I’ve planned my entire day. I laze around for the earlier bit, then do work during the evening, when I’m most productive. I’ve planned out my diet for the next two days, including dinner tonight, and that’s that. I don’t do frozen food, so I actually have a fresh dinner ready to be made. And I’m not going out on an hour’s notice! No! I refuse! They’re not half so good as Nakita is at guilting me into going to a birthday dinner.

I sense a theme.. October 15, 2008

And that theme is perpetual sleepiness, likely brought on by lack of sleep combined with poor lunch habits. Oh well. I’m trying to fend off my late afternoon nap which often keeps me up later than I’d like by just…staying awake, some how or other. Hopefully, flatmates and the rest of campus will cooperate with my sleep schedule tonight.

I haven’t given you a real update since last Thursday, so now I’ll write my own weekend/midweek update.

Friday was a sick-feeling day. I believe I went to bed very late Thursday night, which inspired me to get up round noon on Friday, which was then followed by two hours or so just laying about my room. Inspiring, I know. I did manage to pull my act together, however, and took the tube to, I want to say South Kensington, walked down this long ’subway’ (an underground walk, really) which had various exits for the various museums gathered along the road–Science Museum, Natural History, and, finally, my destination: the Victoria and Albert. The V&A is a fab museum that has a bit of a wonky layout. It’s dedicated to design and textiles, and they’ve got tons of pieces from all over the globe. From the subway, you enter the massive sculptures corridor and stumble through the haphazardly erected students sketching Rodin sculptures while perched on tiny folding chairs. I went up to the right, to the costume gallery, which is, I believe, a very poorly done exhibition. There is no direction telling you which way to go, so I kind of guessed, and you know, maybe I was right, because the exhibition was comprised of a dozen or so different themes that arrange costumes by date within the theme (e.g. sportswear…). They had some windows for cities (NY, Paris, London, Milan), which I didn’t really understand the purpose of, as they didn’t tell you much about the individual city’s contribution to fashion. There were wedding dresses from different ages scattered around the room. And all of the displays were really poorly lit. In some cases, it was too dark to read the plaques! And one of the exhibits had gotten switched out of order, so the plaques were telling you the wrong things… Sadness.

I realized, however, as I continued through the next few rooms, that period clothing was also featured in the other rooms, as well, along with furniture and decor. That made me much happier And yes, I admit it, I really came to see the pretty clothes… Although I did see a chair and table set made entirely of ivory. It was quite lovely, but I can’t imagine anyone sitting in it!

After two hours or so, my sick-feeling self was museum-ed out for the day, so I headed to the street and walked around the area for a bit. One of the big London universities is located right there, too…Imperial, maybe. Then it was back to the tube, as I decided wandering around unknown part of London while slightly out of it was a bad idea, and back home.

Saturday was a gorgeous day with warm weather and blue skies. The girls and I braved the convoluted weekend public transit system (all of the engineering work is done on the weekend!) and somehow got ourselves to Greenwich. The idea was to go to Greenwich Market then have lunch before the others had to head off on their pre-booked tour of the area. However, as we disembarked the replacement bus service bus at the wrong location, we got all turned around and managed to visit two different, markets–one tiny antiques market, the other a larger collection of odds and ends–before giving up and seeking food. We stumbled into a small, cheap cafe where we were actually waited on (hasn’t happened yet with this crowd, though the waitress wasn’t very good). I had a somewhat cold ham and cheese panini with the most addictive fries ever. Yes, fries. Not chips. These were out and out McDonalds copy cats. And they were sooooo good. I could not stop eating them. After lunch and more market browsing, the other three were off to the tour, and I was off on my own to wander around. I headed towards the cuter looking side of town, and low and behold, I found the real Greenwich Market!

On Saturdays, it’s a high-end arts and crafts market, and they had some wonderful things in the most wonderful setting. The entire market is located in a sort of huge open courtyard area surrounded by arcaded shops. The shops were all boutique types, and should prove quite amusing on a second look when next I go to Greenwich. The products sold were fabulous. I bought two t-shirts that were designed by an artist in Camden. I’m not sure what you would call them…they’re not screened, but they’re line drawings done in the graphic novel style that an old schoolmate of mine totally mastered. Made me think of him quite fondly. He could make a fortune with his drawings. Maybe he is? I don’t know. Anyway, after the t-shirts, I found this woman who makes various things from vintage fabrics–bill folds, change purses, covered compact mirrors, etc., and I’d been looking for a cute billfold, so I picked one up. It’s done in a neutral fabric with a print of fluffy sheep on it. Some of the sheep are coral colored. I’m quite amused by it There was another stall that had repurposed glass bottled. I’m not sure how they did it, but they had one dark green bottle that looked like it had been melted down into a cheese plate. It was v. cool. There were also TONS of dogs (like the big golden retriever who decided to sprawl across the aisle while his owner browsed) and lots of children toted around. And did I mention the food? They probably had cuisine representing every nationality you could think of. If I hadn’t already stuffed myself on fries, I would have been alllllll over it, let me tell you!

Yum.

After Greenwich, I decided that I was dying to go back to Portobello Road to purchase an item or two that I couldn’t stop thinking about since my last visit. So I took the replacement bus up to the DLR station, took the DLR to the tube station, and tube all the way across town. It was three by the time I popped out at Notting Hill, and then I became a woman with a mission. I dodged around the people milling about the antique dealers (who were packing up their wares anyway), stopped at a bakery stand for bagels and muffins, then powered on into the fashion section. I bought my requisite scarves (wait–have I told you this story? i feel that I have), and a few other things, then searched out the nearest tube station and took the hour plus ride back home.

Sunday was…not so long ago, and yet I’ve forgotten… Oh! Sunday I went down to South Bank (the south side of the River Thames). I took the tube to Waterloo Station which is a BEAUTIFUL building. I’ve taken some pictures of it. It’s quite neat. I don’t know if they did an addition onto the old train station or if it just abutts another building, but when you walk through the main corridor, you can see the exterior of an old brick building that looks like it was built in the Victorian period, perhaps late 19/early 20C. The ceiling above you is glass, criss-crossed by exposed steel beamwork and what have you. Just lovely. I exited the building, walking over a raised walk that passes through the Shell Building, then followed the signs to walk along the river towards the National Arts Center, I believe they called. That consists of a few concert halls and performance spaces, the British Film Institute, and the National Theatre, which was my destination.

The area in front of and around the National Theatre is really lovely, a great place to hang out in on a beautiful day. There were lots of families with young kids playing and walking, lots of dogs being walked, people eating lunch, etc. I decided to do the latter, took a seat on a bench overlooking the Thames, and ate my bagel quite happily. After that, I wandered over to the Waterloo Bridge overpass, which is, conveniently enough, located between the Theatre and the BFI, and browsed the South Bank Book Market. It ended up being mostly second hand books, with a few interesting antiquarian finds here and there. I was sorely tempted by a few, but only walked away with a cheap Nancy Drew hardback. I just couldn’t help myself After browsing for a few hours, I headed back to the National Theatre to snag my cheap-o ticket.

I ended up purchasing a standby ticket for In-I (pronounced ‘In+I’), which is a collaboration between a renowned choreographer and Juliette Binnoche. It was about love, and was quite stirring, sometimes funny, sometimes disturbing, but usually very poignant and easy to relate to. For ten pounds, it was quite a good ‘buy’, though I feel odd calling a performance that. I have to say, I’m not a big fan of the National Theatre itself. Perhaps it was just a crazy day (there was this loud NBA Live thing going on right in front of it all afternoon), but I found the entire setup to be poorly signed and staffed with…not very nice people. I know I’m used to Modlin and Southerners, but the woman I bought my program from was m-e-a-n. She was a meannnnnie with a big stick up her arse.

The theatre that the dance concert was in–the Lyttelton–was absolutely beautiful, though. The house was done up in this sandy-grey fabric with a lovely, soft visible texture to it, including the walls and seats, and the lights when you walk in were low, but they caught the sheen of the fabric beautifully. Quite serene. Did I mention that I was the very first person in the house? I showed my ticket to the usher at the top of the….rampy thing…and she waved me inside. And I opened a door only to be faced with two more closed doors. I took my best pick, opened the one of the left, and walked into a completely deserted theatre. There was a guy in the glassed-in booth at the back of the house, and that was it. No ushers in the balcony. No ushers downstairs. Just me, in this huge theatre. Weird. And it remained that way for a good 5-10 minutes. Sketchy. And then people started arriving, slowly but surely. The woman sitting to my right was topped only by the man sitting to my left. The woman came in first, and she was huffing and puffing and sweaty. She wasn’t smelly, for which I was grateful, but she whipped our her program and she just fanned herself like there was no tomorrow. And it’s not like she was late for the show or anything. There was a good ten minutes before curtain… Ah, but the man to my left. He made me nervous, and I usually don’t get nervous in theaters, but he kept on looking at me funny and giving me this awkward smile, and he sat with his knees and thighs pinched together, his hands kind of… lingering over a certain area. All I could think of as the lights dimmed was, ‘please god, don’t let this man wet his pants during the show.’ I even moved my purse closer towards the sweaty woman beside me. Just in case, you know.

As I said, the show was lovely. It ran about an hour long, so it was just after four when I left. I walked along the river for a little while enroute to Waterloo Station, and came across the based of the London Eye as well as a lovely little park that I might just have to picnic in one of these days. Then it was back home! Ha. And then my kitchen fell apart. As I was preheating the oven to roast some potatoes, the light in the back of the oven exploded and started smoking, which tripped the fuse on the entire ‘cooker’, as they call it, meaning we were without oven and stove. Plus, an hour later, my flatmate broke the handle off of the freezer door. Lovely, right? Luckily, everything was fixed the next day, and so I’ve returned to my normally scheduled work week. Tuesday classes were boring, today’s class was interesting, I suppose, although there doesn’t seem to be much of an incentive to do the reading, I have to say. Its like they urge you to do it at the beginning of term, telling you how important it is, but if you freely confess that you just couldn’t get beyond the first twenty pages of this novel we’ll be discussing for two weeks, it’s totally okay. At least you tried, eh?
/Sigh. Makes me appreciate home. Maybe I just like being a teacher’s pet, but you know, I do the work, I participate, I make thoughtful contributions and am respectful. And teachers generally like me for it, which I, in turn, appreciate. I’m used to that. That’s how it’s been for the past 14 years. I don’t like being ignored, or being lumped into the same category as those who don’t give fuck.

Better news follows though: Emily G. (from Long Island, mom and dad!) is visiting this weekend and Patricia might fly over and stay over Thanksgiving!! Whoo for company!

I almost bought my own memoir today October 12, 2008

Your result for Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz…

You Are a Katharine!

You are a Katharine — “I am happy and open to new things”

Katharines are energetic, lively, and optimistic. They want to contribute to the world.

How to Get Along with Me

• * Give me companionship, affection, and freedom.
• * Engage with me in stimulating conversation and laughter.
• * Appreciate my grand visions and listen to my stories.
• * Don’t try to change my style. Accept me the way I am.
• * Be responsible for youself. I dislike clingy or needy people.
• * Don’t tell me what to do.

What I Like About Being a Katharine

• * being optimistic and not letting life’s troubles get me down
• * being spontaneous and free-spirited
• * being outspoken and outrageous. It’s part of the fun.
• * being generous and trying to make the world a better place
• * having the guts to take risks and to try exciting adventures
• * having such varied interests and abilities

What’s Hard About Being a Katharine

• * not having enough time to do all the things I want
• * not completing things I start
• * not being able to profit from the benefits that come from specializing; not making a commitment to a career
• * having a tendency to be ungrounded; getting lost in plans or fantasies
• * feeling confined when I’m in a one-to-one relationship

Katharines as Children Often

• * are action oriented and adventuresome
• * drum up excitement
• * prefer being with other children to being alone
• * finesse their way around adults
• * dream of the freedom they’ll have when they grow up

Katharines as Parents

• * are often enthusiastic and generous
• * want their children to be exposed to many adventures in life
• * may be too busy with their own activities to be attentive

Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz at HelloQuizzy

Fulfilling the Absent Minded Professor Stereotype October 9, 2008

My Nothern Myth and Epics class is taught by a somewhat bumbling professor who randomly gets up in the middle of class and walks out of the room, comes back with a mug in hand, saying ‘forgot my tea.’ He’s a bit absent minded shall we say, but he researches Old Norse literature as well as Old English, and one if his areas of interest is pagan myth and religion, which is pretty much the basis of the class that I am taking.

Last Tuesday, during our two hour seminar, we were talking (well, this professor, a few other people, and I were talking. The rest of the class were picking at their nails, gazing off into the distance, or studiously ignoring us.) about defining various essential elements of the folktale (fiction vs. truth, myth vs. legend vs. folktale, etc.). Well, when we reached the bit about the characters and elements typically found in folktales, we began talking about divinity, and how you usually don’t find deities in folktales. Someone brought up Beauty and the Beast, someone else brought up a story about Cupid and Venus (um, those two are mythic characters). Meanwhile, as people were discussing these odds and ends and arguing fruitlessly with the professor, I was thinking about this folktale that Kathleen had told me about over the weekend, one about a river god and holy water. The holy water stood out to me especially, because I’ve never read a folktale that mentioned ‘holy’ anything, much less something so significant as holy water. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember the name of the tale during class, but when I returned home, I immediately logged on to the internet and searched for Victorian fairy tales about river gods and holy water. Discovered that it was written by John Ruskin. Grand. Search Project Gutenberg for the full text, with great success. Lovely. Then I write up an email to him explaining the connection. This is the fully text of what I sent:

“I recently had a discussion with a friend back home regarding her classwork for an English class on Victorian fantasy. She was reading a folktale of the Victorian era that mentioned ‘holy water’, which struck me as unusual, as I don’t think that I’ve ever heard of anything ‘holy’ in a folk/fairy tale before. I couldn’t think of the name of the tale during class, or I would have brought it up. I’ve just looked it up, and it is John Ruskin’s “The King of the Golden River”, which is available online via Project Gutenberg here: “http://www.gutenberg.org/files/701/701-h/701-h.htm. I thought it an interesting tangent, based on our class discussion this afternoon.”

This is what he sent back, two days later:

“I read through all the the Grimms’ Hausmarchen a few years ago and I
remember this holy water dimly. Of course the expression: `Holy water’ would
suggest to us today consecrated water of the kind used for baptism in the
Christian church, but sources of information about paganism often speak of
certain wells as have magical properties (see, for example, accounts of
wells in Gylfaginning). We must remember that folktales in the form we read
them are often translations (as are the Grimm stories). In German, heilig
originally meant `healing’ (it’s related to the English word `hale’, as in
`hale and hearty’). So I suppose any holy water in a folktale translated
from German might refer more to magical healing properties. It would be
interesting to know what text exactly your friend found her `holy water’ in.
Still, thanks for taking the trouble to write.”

SERIOUSLY? Need I shove it under his nose? I told him what the tale was! I told him who wrote it! I told him where to find it! I even provided the link! And John Ruskin is BRITISH, fricking BRITISH, he didn’t write in GERMAN, there is no translating, the man wrote bloody ‘holy water’ for god’s sake!

Why do I bother trying when I just get this sort of response? Why bother being a good student is going to reply to an email in this manner, without even reading through the email I sent in the first place?

I have to say, I am very not impressed with classes here, although really, I still have the same complaints back home. Largely, it’s the seminars that I have problems with, because nobody (repeat: nobody) talks. In my Representing London seminar today, we were discussing the night’s reading, which was a fairly provocative, extremely crude piece of journalism from the 17th century. I found it hysterical and shocking, and there was so much to say about it! But nobody said anything except me! Try having a conversation with yourself and a seminar leader for an hour, all while the seminar leader is attempting to draw others in the conversation. A few other girls piped in, one repeating something I’d already said, another giving a half-assed attempt just to say something. We were supposed to be digging in the literary techniques of the four writers’ whose works we had read, and they said nothing. And they’ve been specializing in English Lit for years! YEARS! This is their degree! It doesn’t matter to me, technically, if I do well in this class at all. This grade won’t factor into my GPA. All I have to do is past. And here I am, outdoing the students whose futures rely on the way they’re graded in these classes. It’s a good thing that there aren’t any grades for participation, because I think they’d all be failing. Or maybe they’d all be doing really well. Maybe they don’t really care, and are just doing what they need to do to get by. Who knows?

I wish I didn’t care so much, but I do.

(london) Trends October 8, 2008

As I did my laundry today–no major mishaps, unlike other students, I might add–I had the time to think about some very ‘London’ things that I’ve noticed. And because I like to share things for some reason on my dear blog, I will now share that which I can remember, with you, oh lucky readers (and parents! hi mama! hi daddy! you’re so techno-advanced now, and I am so proud!)

Hampers. Londoners, apparently, don’t use them or don’t know what they are, as all of the natives to this glorious city (or, um, those with British accents, anyway) carried their piles and piles of dirty clothes in plastic shopping bags or the nifty reusable bags that Wilkinson’s and Co-Op gave us during Fresher’s Week. I am now beginning to understand why my (male) flatmates’ floors are covered in clothes; they simply have no where else to put the dirty ones. Oh, insight. I loves it.

Scarves. If you aren’t wearing a scarf tied about your neck (either looped and wrapped ala bandito bandana, kind of, although more looped and less with the triangle ends sticking down, or wrapped about the neck once with both ends hanging down the front), you are nothing. Well, that’s a bit harsh, but this is, after all, a harsh city. I wonder how many scarves stores sell daily.

Skinny Jeans. Maybe Gordon Brown decreed that all must wear skinny jeans (even some of the guys. creeeepy and way to much information, thanks very much). Or maybe it was Prince Harry. They are everywhere. Now, I like a nice cigarette pant, but I’m not big on the masses wrinkles that go up and down the leg, plus the miles of fabric gathered round the ankle.

Tights. They are everywhere, on everyone, accompanying largely those wearing super short (and I mean, if those weren’t thick tights, I could probably see your bum–short) shirts/tunics/dresses with boots. Lots of tights, though somehow, the tights with super short things make the super short things acceptable? I understand, given that I wore riding pants for about ten years, but still. Thats a lot of you hanging out all at once for the entire world, not just the barn, to see. And what happens if you get a run? Then what?

Heels. I don’t know how these women do it, but I do know that I can’t. The boots are heeled, the pumps are out, even kitten-heeled flats are all over the place. And these are women who are walking and standing every where they go! On the tube, on the bus, in the line at Sainsbury’s. My feet were SCREAMING and just about ready to fall off when I went out shopping for two hours in heels. I think what really did it, though, was the standing on the bus ride home. Owwie.

Smoking. Lots of smokers here, even though this is a non-smoking campus. Two of my flatmates smoke, that I know of, although they don’t smell of smoke, which is good.

Crazy hair. Lots of interesting, high-fashion cuts here, lots of teasing, lots of …interesting…dye jobs. Somehow, their hair defies the humidity and drizzly days. My hair laughs in the face of rain, then throws a party. /sigh

Pale pale pale skin. I’ve found my people! I no longer have the palest skin! There was somebody at the laundry place on campus today and she was ghostlike! I felt this surge of no-longer-being-alone-ness upon that realization.

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