How I Wish My Mother Was Here

August 31, 2008

Today was a good day. I rose a little after eight o' clock, which was surprising considering the preceding night's activities. Like our room, I smelled of puke, cheap vodka, sweat, and shame, so I showered and throwing on a semi-clean shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers, I headed downstairs for breakfast. The menu was identical to what we have had every day: sausages, scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, and canned peaches. This morning, however, I followed it with a glass of lukewarm water instead of my customary cup of tea. Dwight joined me shortly after I arrived, and we shared thirty minutes or so of pleasant conversation.

For most of the morning, we did not accomplish much of consequence. Dwight slept. Duncan went rock climbing--or so I suspect--and Ben tried to hide from his hangover beneath his down comforter. For my part, I occupied my time downloading and tagging photographs on Facebook; I also drafted a plan of action for the day according to which I was going to visit the British Museum in the afternoon, grab a cheap bite to eat, catch up on my journal entries and reading, and do my laundry.

Around twelve o' clock, Emma Healy telephoned Dwight inviting him to join her, Zach Garlitos, and Rob Sieg in visiting the Victoria and Albert Museum in Kensington. Dwight extended the invitation to me, and with the late addition of Greg Smart, we caught the Underground and headed for the South Kensington Station. I suspect that all of us were pretty drained--nobody got much sleep last night, either because they were drinking or because they were dealing with the recent news of a friend's death--so there was practically no conversation. We finally reached South Kensington and, more importantly, the Victoria and Albert Museum, which was actually linked to the station by a long subterranean tunnel. It was an experience for certain, filing through the glass doors at the entrance and entering an enormous white-walled gallery filled with all manners of sculpture and artwork. It was remarkable.

Properly speaking, I am not certain how to categorise the Victoria and Albert Museum. Although there were many rapiers, wheelock pistols, eighteenth-century hunting rifles, and other arms throughout the place, it is not a "war museum" like the Cabinet War Rooms Museum (which I visited last Wednesday). Neither was it a museum of natural history or of human history, even though most of its exhibits were arranged within the many, many galleries in chronological order. By the planets, the name of the place itself is something of a misnomer since its collection included items from throughout British history and from across the face of the globe; it was not concerned exclusively with the Victorian Era or its well-respected namesakes. But let me say that I loved it. Top floor to basement, it was (and is) my favorite child.

I think what made the Victoria and Albert Museum so appealing to me was the breadth of coverage in terms of the items held in its collection. Like I have already mentioned, there were weapons, furniture, clothes, paintings, sculpture, cutlery, carpets, wall hangings, and dinnerware. They were arranged into exhibits discussing a plethora of topics, including the evolution of men's and women's fashion, changes within the British household between the 1500s and 1900s, the Middle East, China, and Auguste Rodin. (And by-the-bye, I do not mean to be hyperbolic, but I feel like I hardly skimmed the surface.) And as a historian, that intrigues me. Here's why. The greater mass of museums are concerned with a single topic or field of interest--military history, paleontology, modern art, you name it--and what's more, they are concerned with something which our society has determined to be significant and therefore worthy of preservation. I hate to use the word "bias" or "prejudice," but when one pauses to reflect, what else can one call it? With all museums, art collections, or preservation efforts, there is an inherent tendency to marginalise a certain order of things or people in favor of another. As a historian, I encounter this problem whenever I try to consider old wills and testaments, court writs, journals, letters, periodicals, and other primary sources; in order for there to be a seventeenth-century will for me to study in 2008, someone from the period had to determine that the document was significant and therefore worthy of preservation. Overwhelmingly through the ages, people have tended to preserve documents related to issues of war and peace, of the state, of political and military power.

In casting so broad a net and encompassing so much that one might consider secondary to the clash of arms or the lofty affairs of state, what does the Victoria and Albert Museum say about this tendency? I am tempted to say something dreadfully existential right now, but I will resist; I think that the Victoria and Albert Museum indicates that history is not necessarily or exclusively invested in the affairs of the high and mighty, without realising it pointing the way toward a field historians call "social history." Unlike past historigraphical approaches, social history concentrates on the less significant members of society--the poor, women, racial and religious minorities, etc. Due to the relative paucity of sources, it is significantly harder to practice than older schools of thought, and honestly, I remain fond of the older histories that center on the high and the mighty. As far as I am concerned, a cast of paupers makes for a pathetic drama.

To return to our narrative, I ran into Lauren Deitz and Meghan Blickman at the Victoria and Albert Museum, specifically in the exhibits dedicated to Europe between the 1500s and 1800s. The others were speeding along like crazed motorists, so I decided to follow Lauren and Meghan around the displays. It was so much fun. We did not return to the Arran House till five o' clock, and we did so most reluctantly. I then talked with the family over Skype for about an hour, went to dinner with Shannyn, Leah, Katie Stewart, and Greg at a delightful pizzeria on Goodge Street, and now here I sit, literally pounding at my helpless keyboard as I try with all my might to put off the last element of my plan for the day: the laundry. How I wish my Mother was here!

I Shall Never Listen to Nat King Cole the Same Way Again

August 27, 2008

I don't think that I will ever be able to listen to Nat King Cole the same way again. I suppose it is not the perfect statement with which I should begin today's entry, but it is where I must.

Today we went to see Let There Be Love, a recently released play by Kwame Kwei-Armah, discussing the relationship between elderly Alfred Maurice, an Afro-Carribean immigrant to the United Kingdom, and his Polish home assistant Maria. While I do not want to ruin the plot for anyone whom might chance to see it, I wasn't terribly impressed by it. The play had its moments. The dialogue was, almost without exception, very well written, reducing the audience to tears at the appropriate times. (I can remember one line in particular, when Alfred replies to Maria's statement that old people are too old for sex with the one-liner: "Not so. In many cases, the spirit is willing, and the flesh--well, nowadays, they have pharmaceutical medications.") It also made innovative use of the songs of Nat King Cole to propel the plot--indeed, the play's very title is taken from one of his lyrics. The players did their job well, I'm happy to say; and I must say that Let There Be Love did provide me with cause for contemplation, but on the whole, it struck me as too much of a mish-mash of hot-button issues including the morality of assisted suicide, lesbianism, spousal abuse, racism, the typical intergenerational angst. In the end, it was proof, if nothing else, that casting a wide net does not ensure one a bountiful catch.

The place where we watched it, to a degree, impressed me more than the play itself. It was staged at the Tricycle Theatre & Cinema in Kilburn, which is north and west of the heart of London; a remarkable structure, an old cinema--from the 1950s or 60s, I surmise--where all the seating was atop a red and blue framework of plastic pipes and cloth. I know that every thing had to be in optimal or near-perfect condition, but I could not help but feel that the whole structure might collapse, catch fire, or suffer some other tragedy. There was a fragility about the theatre that served to heighten my pleasure at it all--which was fortuitous since the play, as I have said, proved to be so mediocre.

Afterwards, Lauren Deitz, Meghan Blickman, Julieta Rabinovich, and I decided that we wanted to explore the area surrounding Covent Garden, possibly finding our way from there to Chinatown for a bite to eat. While it wasn't on the level of The Odyssey, we had some--how shall I word it?--"intriguing" encounters with first the fans of Georgie Sampson, a fifteen-year-old boy who, thanks to his dancing prowess, apparently won Britain's Next Big Star. They were between twelve and seventeen, trampy, dressed in pink skirts and leggings, with pink eye shadow, and screaming beneath his dressing room window at a local theatre. The promotional materials on the exterior walls of the threatre--the posters, placards, and flyers--had been literally covered with such exclamations as "Marry Me, Georgie," "I Heart You, Georgie," and "You Make Me Horney." (I'll leave you guess which of the preceding statements I found more disturbing.) Julieta decided that as responsible emissaries for Dickinson College in England, we needed to leave Georgie a small note amid the rabid, written shrieks of his followers encouraging him to "engage the world."

Our second encounter was with a troop--or perhaps it was a battalion?--of very excited, very drunk Arsenal fans who beating on drums, chanting away, and jumping outside a pub near Leicester Square. Now this was not the first time during the evening when we happened on fans of one of London's football squads; we had seen a few strolling around Covent Gardens, occasionally starting choruses of "oh-ley, oh-ley, oh-ley, oh-ley" with their fellows, who were drinking in one of the nearby taverns. They were not rowdy or rude or any of the things that folks in the States expect from British football fans. They certainly didn't use their eye sockets as lid openers like in Euro-Trip. But when we encountered them near Leicester Square, their numbers were so great--and they were so enthusiastic--that they had filled the whole of the sidewalk in front of the pub and begun to spill on to the left lane of the street. There were police there, the trusted "Peelers" decked in incandescent yellow and white, trying both to keep the football fans in order and to prevent the many frustrated motorists from commiting vehicular homicide. But still the Arsenal fans beat on their drums, drank their beer, and sang their songs, hoping that they might somehow contribute to their team's success later that night. Oh-ley oh-ley oh-ley oh-ley!

We eventually found Chinatown, and after resisting the urge to share our favorite Chinese jokes, we settled on one of the nearby Chinese restaurants for dinner. The conversation around the dinner table was excellent--easily, it was the best I have had since I've arrived in England. Till now, most of the conversations in which I have participated have tended to lack energy or verve, because we've been too tired or because we didn't have much to discuss beyond mere pleasantries. We discussed our plans for the Christmas holiday--for the record, I remain undecided whether I'm going to fly home or travel Europe--, sibilings, the Writing Center, the dynamic of our group so far, and so much more that I have since forgotten. It was wonderful. I only wish that I could say the same for the food, which was tasty but unspectacular, or the service, which was pathetic. Don't worry, though. We didn't forget the tip.

Returning to the Arran House around eight-thirty, I was not there five minutes when Dan, Duncan, and Leah asked me if I wanted to go to Piccadilly Circus and see whether we might be able to find some ice cream. Having visited Piccadilly before with Shannyn, I have to say that I was greatly impressed with all the bright lights of the Circus after nightfall. I know that it might seem cliched, but it's nearly as bright as midday. We eventually found a Baskin-Robbins; and like I always do, I had a scoop of vanilla in a regular cone for two pounds and forty pence. Since I was running low on money and Dan had agreed to pay for mine, Leah kidded me that I was a "cheap date" (which, coincidentally, hits fairly close to the truth). Of course, I explained to her that vanilla so happened to be my favorite flavour--indeed, it's almost the only flavour of ice cream that I eat--because I'm weird. She didn't need much convincing on that score.

Once we were finished with our ice cream, we walked toward Trafalgar Square, where we enjoyed the view for a while, before boarding the Underground and heading back to the Arran House. Good old Goodge Street Station--by now, I must have disembarked from at least fifty trains there! And once home, I talked with Sarah, Jen, and Chris for about a half-hour before going upstairs and going to bed. A good day.

More later as my schedule permits...

Perfect Pubs, Bureaucratic B.S., and the Gutenberg Bible

Author's Note: We are required to keep a journal while we are in London. The following is my entry for 26 August 2008. Apologies if this rambles needlessly or if this offering seems more argumentative than previous posts. Feedback, as always, is welcommed.

I suppose before proceeding with today’s entry, I should spare a paragraph (or two) to recount my activities on the twenty-fifth of August, since I did not take the time to write anything about it at the time. Yesterday, after a classroom session in the breakfast room at the Arran House, we returned to the City of London where, in addition to passing by such sights as the Mansion House, the Royal Exchange, and the Bank of England, we visited many of the churches designed by Sir Christopher Wren after the Great Fire of 1666. It was fascinating to discover, for instance, that the peculiar structure of the spire to St. Bride of Fleet Street inspired the layering one observes in modern wedding cakes. Once our tour reached its end at the Bank Street Station, Rob Sieg and I accompanied Professor Rudalevige to a pub in Holborn called the “Cittie of York.” (Initially, the Professor had intended to go to a pub called the “Ye Old Cheshire Cheese,” but it was closed because the twenty-fifth happened to be a bank holiday. Our loss.) The beer was very good, and once we were finished, which was around five-thirty in the evening, we walked back to the Arran House.

Later that night after a tasty dinner of pre-packaged ham salad sandwich and generic British cola, a few individuals in the group—Leah Gable, Dan Reich, Duncan Lennon—and I hopped on the Underground and went to the River, where we enjoyed the lovely view from the Jubilee Bridge and visited a pub called “The Sherlock Holmes.” Dan, Duncan, and I ordered the home brew, which was unsurprisingly called “Old Sherlock Holmes.” I fear that I do not possess the necessary vocabulary to paint a truly vivid picture of what this beer tasted like, but I can say that it was very, very good—and in all likelihoods, a little less heavy than the beer I had with the Professor and Rob earlier in the day. Regardless of the beer’s quality, it was a wonderful few hours with Leah, Dan, and Duncan; so far, I would have to count them among the best hours I have spent here. Finally, we returned to the Hotel around 10.30 PM, and I retired for the night two hours later. It was a very good day.

In regards to today: I rose around eight o’ clock, dressed, checked e-mail, ate breakfast, and headed to Trafalgar Square and the National Portrait Gallery. In person, Trafalgar Square reminded me of the National Mall in Washington, D.C., in that it was not as impressive as I had imagined it would be. There were too many barricades proscribing one’s movements; you draw closer than eight or ten feet to the base of Nelson’s Column, even if to touch the slightest portion of the marble had been your life’s highest ambition. It simply diminished the dignity of the place, denuding it of its more numinous, awe-inspiring qualities.

I did, however, enjoy the National Portrait Gallery tremendously, not the least because I had the pleasure of seeing many of the great men and women of history—and, what’s more, many of my heroes—immortalized on its canvasses. Queen Elizabeth. William Cecil, Lord Burghley. Michael Faraday. William Pitt the Younger. Charles Darwin. Thomas Clarkson. William Wilberforce. I was absolutely giddy with excitement; I think I quietly jumped up and down in place for a few seconds. Even though they had all been dead for a few centuries, for a moment they almost seemed to live again. It occurred to me how fortunate I would be to be so honored—but then I thought of Wilberforce’s criticisms of his friend William Pitt’s portrait which he had failed to capture his “dear, young Pitt.” As much as it is an honor to be enshrined in a place like the National Portrait Gallery, the memories we share with our family and friends do not fade like a painting in sunlight—and those are what we ultimately should value most of all.

I finished with the National Portrait Gallery shortly after twelve o’ clock in the afternoon. Shannyn, Leah, Liza Williams, and I then went to a small pub called “The Blue Post,” where we had lunch. The food was easily the finest I have had at a pub so far—I ordered the chili con carne, and while it resembled an Indian curry more than it did one of the signature dishes of the American Southwest, it was delightfully, even painfully spicy. What’s more, it was reasonably inexpensive, costing me £5.50 for a plate that equaled my laptop keyboard in size.

While we were sitting there, I began to consider what I liked about each of the pubs I had visited since I was England: the “Admiral Hardy” in Greenwich had an abundance of natural lighting and comfortable seating; the “Cittie of York” afforded its patrons a measure of privacy; the “Sherlock Holmes,” while it decidedly favored the tourist, had good beer; and as I have already mentioned, the food at “The Blue Post” was exceptional. And like George Orwell in his essay The Moon Under Water, I began to construct a mental image of my ideal pub. I have not thought of a name for it yet, but my imaginary pub would sell a wide variety of good beer and food at a reasonable price—say, £2 for a pint or £4.50 for a burger and fries—and in terms of its décor, it would be uncompromisingly “English” with heavy oak tables and chairs, hardwood floors and paneling, and large windows to permit in an abundance of sunlight. There would be separate spaces for smokers and non-smokers with a common bar located between them, near the exact centre of the structure. And like Orwell’s “The Moon under Water,” there would be several “‘regulars’ who occupy the same chair every evening and go there for conversation as much as for the beer.” Of course, I can imagine that someone might read the preceding description and wonder about my rationale behind my ideal pub: well, the short answer is that from where I sit, the pubs are fundamental communal spaces, institutions even where people of all stripes can assemble, eat, drink, and be comfortable. They are a place that one can belong to, like a town or a school or a church. And in a modern world where a profound sense of alienation is the rule and not the exception, it is crucial that we have places where we can feel safe and peaceful, places that can serve as refuges whenever the gale is simply too strong. Perhaps that’s what I should name my imaginary pub? “The Refuge”?

Anyway, after we paid the bill for our lunch, we returned to the Arran House, where Shannyn, Leah, and I collected the materials we needed to acquire our youth rail cards and passes to the British Library. Boarding the Underground at Goodge Street, we went up the Northern Line to Euston Station, where we applied for and received our youth rail cards. Then walking over to the British Library, we proceeded then to jump through a series of hoops in order to acquire a piece of plastic about the size of a credit card, with our photograph, and our “Reader Number.” It was incredibly frustrating, not the least because each of us had the distinct sense that the people at the British Library would have preferred it if we did not get our pass. Certainly, I can understand the impulse to preserve the millions of books, periodicals, personal journals, and pamphlets in the Library’s collection; you do not want to entrust such treasures to people whom will abuse them. But there was something in how the people there said the British Library “wasn’t a public library” that reminded me of the medieval practice of keeping the Bible under lock and key. That practice, too, was reasonable in light of the great expense entailed in producing books by hand—but what do we necessarily accomplish in restricting the individual’s access to knowledge? Like Jesus Christ once observed, one does not “light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead, [one] put[s] it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.”

Anyway, the frustration was worth it all in the end, because we spent 1½ hours walking through the exhibits they have opened to the public at the British Library. We saw priceless editions of the Quran, flipped through a replica of The Lindisfarne Gospels, and listened to some of the world’s finest composers. The highlight of our time, though, was the Gutenberg Bible. As experiences go, it was almost religious. I still cannot help but bounce with delight whenever I think about it. The Gutenberg Bible! I do not think there is any question that it was the high-water mark of a wonderful day.

Notting Hill Craziness

Sunday, 24 August

I set my alarm for around eight in the morning; I did not rise, however, until eight-ten or perhaps eight-fifteen at the latest. Based on the comments of Ben Roderick, one of my roommates, I can tell already that in addition to my tendency to be "over-helpful" and my half-baked efforts to be witty, my (relatively) early hours will be a major source of amusement at my expense. I do not particularly care, of course. So long as people are laughing, I suppose that it is not too bad.

After my almost customary breakfast of scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, sausage, and peaches, I went with Shannyn, Leah, and Tristan to the market in Covent Garden. We were not looking to buy anything, so much as take in the sights and enjoy our first British market. At least from my perspective, Covent Garden did not disappoint. There was a street performer there--his name, he said, was "Lucky Jim"--who, dressed in a yellow shirt and black suspenders, juggled bowling pins and small, plastic, hourglass-shaped cyclinders, rode the unicycle, and continually chided the audience for their want of generosity. We also passed by a series of vendors whom were offering up all manners of intriguing goods for sale, including clocks made from old DVDs, scarfs and schalls, and homemade straw hats. It was very enjoyable.

We spent an hour at Covent Gardens before Shannyn, Leah, and I decided that we wanted to go to the Notting Hill Carnival, which was scheduled to open at twelve o' clock. We, thus, bade the Covent Garden Market a hasty adieu, and boarding the Underground, we made our way toward Notting Hill. (Tristan was not terribly excited by the thought of dodging through crowds of thousands of hungry, probably drunk carnival-goers, so we parted ways at Tottenham Court Road). Reaching the carnival, the three of us walked around for little over an hour, partially in the pursuit of something acceptable to the Leaf Eating Crowd--that is, Leah and Shannyn. There was an abundance of options. Nearly on every street of Notting Hill we visited, there were three or four booths selling such Jamaican staples as jerk chicken, red beans and rice, chicken curry, and dumplings. Most had menus that listed vegetable curry among the items that they offered for sale. Unfortunately, wherever we stopped to eat, they never had any vegetable curry ready. All I can think throughout this, of course, is, "Damn it. We're not going to have to find a pidgeon, are we?"

Finally, we discontinued our pursuit of vegetable curry and stopped at a stall near what was the centre of the festival. I ordered chicken curry and plain rice--at first glance, a dish whose appearance did not appeal greatly to one's senses. Indeed the sauce, in particular, reminded me of the contents of an infant's soiled diaper on string bean day. Disgusting. But I was hungry, and when I shovelled in the first mouthful, all my misgivings dissolved into the ether. The food was simply incredible; the chicken was thoroughly cooked but tender, and the curry was so delightfully spicy that I could but smile while my tongue melted. I let my traveling companions (who wound up sharing a plate of red beans and rice) have a taste of the curry sauce. They both expressed their approval. Leah, though, wondered whether I was in pain because it was so spicy and I had nothing to drink. All I could say: "It hurts so good." And it did. It hurt so good.

We then wandered around the Carnival for a while longer, enjoying the pulsating rhythms of the music blaring all around us and taking a turn around Portobello Road, where ordinarily there are all kinds of vendors selling books, beads, posters, food, beer, etc. Deciding around one-fifteen that we had enjoyed our fill of the Carnival, we headed toward the Notting Hill Gate, which was the nearest Underground station to the Carnival. We did not become aware that due to the sheer enormity of the event, the London authorities had decided that Notting Hill Gate was to be entirely for exiting the Underground until we arrived there. We then walked a further five to ten minutes east, finally boarding the Underground at Queensway and boarding the Central and Northern Lines for home. As we headed away from the festival, we were surprised by the thousands of people whom were heading toward the festival; I realise that I come from Nowhere, Colorado, but I have visited a few metropolises in my time--Los Angeles, Washington, Denver, and Chicago--and I have never seen so many people concentrated in so small a space. It was positively astonishing; most shocking, though, was the fact that it was the first day of the carnival, which was expected to be significantly less busy than the second day.

Later than evening, the Arran House staff, entirely at their expense, treated us to a supper of grilled hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, cole slaw, and beer. It was excellent, especially the beer. Everyone was talking, laughing, and generally enjoying one another's company. As one member of our group noted at breakfast on Monday, the barbecue was fantastic because it afforded us our first serious opportunity to relax and interact with one another. It also afforded us an opportunity to meet Professor Rudalevige's wife and two children, whom had taken the train from Norwich for that specific purpose. Very sweet family from all appearances. And in many regards, their presence simply added to the delightful nature of the day--the veritable cherry on the sundae. Did I already mention that they had beer?

All and all, it was a fine day. A fine day, indeed.

Weekend Update

I realise it might seem as though I'm not taking this thing seriously; I haven't posted to it in a week. No retrospective on my summer activities. No account of my stay in Jersey or of the journey to London. Nothing. My apologies, but I did warn you. Anyway, I think that it's time to remedy this situation, and bring everybody up to speed on how things have gone since our arrival in London Thursday morning.

Thursday, 21 August

We landed in Heathrow around 10.20 AM (GMT). After we negotiated the labyrinth of passages between our gate and immigration--and what was technically the British border--we collected our bags and met up with Professor Rudalevige. (Descriptions of him within the group have varied from "goofy" to "gung ho" to "sweet"; so far, I really like him, which is good since he's in charge of me till June 2009.) Filing out of Terminal 3 at Heathrow, we boarded a bus or coach (as the Brits call them) and travelled to the Arran House, which is where we will be staying while we're in London.

Traffic was slow, so we didn't reach the Hotel till shortly after twelve o' clock in the afternoon--or should I say five o' clock, since that was what my body was telling me? I guess that it goes without saying that I was simply exhausted. Ordinarily, I have difficulties with sleeping on aeroplanes, mostly because of the limited leg room and the absence of any sense of forward motion. And despite the best efforts of the flight crew, who were lovely (notwithstanding their baseless fear that a loose pillow or blanket might become a deadly projectile in the event of turbulence or a crash), the flight to Heathrow was no exception. The fact that the pilot turned on the heater in economy class--in our section of the plane--only made it more difficult to sleep. So, when we reached the Hotel at last, I was ready for a nice snooze.

Sadly, Professor Rudalevige had plans for us, beginning with a light lunch provided by the Arran House. The meal mostly consisted of tiny sandwiches; they were fairly good, but they also introduced me to some of the strangest combinations I have ever seen in my life. Anyone for ham and egg salad? Or how about cucumbers and tuna fish? After lunch, there was a brief orientation where Carol Ann, the manager of the Arran House, and Professor Rudalevige explained some of the ground rules to the Hotel and the program. The Professor then led us on a stroll around the neighborhood around the Hotel (for those whom are interested, we're near Tottenham Court Road in Bloomsbury) before dividing us into small groups and sending us to sights scattered all across London in order to introduce to the Underground. Having come from a small town with no subway at all, I have to confess that this did succeed in rousing me.

My partner was Duncan Lennon, an English major from Massachusetts, and we visited Marble Arch, which is on the corner of Hyde Park near Speakers' Corner. It was a pretty impressive monument, a triumphal arch to commemorate the Duke of Wellington's victory over Napoleon. Unfortunately, Duncan and I couldn't get a closer view of it, because all of the crosswalks between it and the Underground station were closed. Damn London Transport Council.

Anyway, once that was finished, the rest of the day followed quickly. I bought a new mobile phone, made my first batch of pasta for dinner, talked a little with my sister on Skype, showered, and went to bed.

Friday, 22 August

I rose around eight o' clock, dressed, and went downstairs for breakfast, which the Arran House provides free of charge to its guest every morning. (I suppose that might be the reason that it's called a "bed and breakfast"). The food was delicious--I had scrambled eggs, baked beans, fried tomatoes, and peaches--and I washed it all down with my first cup of English tea.

We had to meet Professor Rudalevige by ten o' clock at the Westminster Pier for a boat ride on the Thames to Greenwich, so after breakfast was concluded, a whole troop of us headed that way. I suppose now is a pertinent time to express my profound admiration for the London Underground. There are stations located across London, and in many cases, each station will have multiple entrances and exits, so the whole system is very accessible. The stations are fairly clean, well lighted, and (as the public announcer will periodically remind you) constantly monitored by closed circuit television cameras. It is a remarkably safe means of transport--certainly, it is far safer than what I've heard of New York City's subways or the L-train in Chicago. You, thus, have a great deal of flexibility and freedom in travelling across London. We availed ourselves of this freedom of movement, this liberty, and travelled to the Embankment station about five to ten minutes away from the Westminster Pier, taking the time to enjoy a pleasant walk along the river and snap a few photographs in front of the Palace of Westminster.

Following our meeting with Professor Rudalevige, in which he, more or less, explained our agenda for the day, we boarded the boat, departing from the Pier a little past ten-thirty in the morning. The journey down the Thames was pleasant enough. It was sunny, with a light cool wind blowing up the river. Almost everyone was in their raincoat or in some kind of sweater, except for Greg Smith and Dwight Dunston. (They spoke pretty honestly of their foolishness in defying Britain's legendarily fickle weather). It was intriguing to watch how the seating patterns of the members of our groups varied based on their sex; all the women sat on the port side facing the northern side of the river, while nearly all the men were on the starboard side facing the river's southern bank. And whereas the women were clustered together filling up a whole section of seats, the men were strung along the starboard side in one's and two's. I must admit that it was a little lonely. Beautiful, but lonesome.

We reached Greenwich around eleven-thirty. Landing on the shore, we walked through the campus of the old Royal Naval College--now the property of the University of Greenwich--and visited the Painted Hall. I could go into it in greater depth, but some wonders need to be beheld with one's own eyes. We then went to a public house called the Admiral Hardy, which is named for the man whom commanded the HMS Victory and, according to the legend, craddled Admiral Lord Nelson's dying body in his arms. The food wasn't terrible, and I have to say that my first legally purchased beer was a cause for pure delight. We must have been at the Admiral Hardy for a couple hours--I'd guess two, at least--before we sauntered up to the Royal Observatory and waited out a rainstorm in the National Maritime Museum.

When we finally arrived back at the Hotel around five-thirty in the afternoon, Shannyn and I decided that we didn't want to lounge around and do nothing, so we decided to go toward Piccadilly Circus and find somewhere to eat. A simple enough of a proposition, right? Well. We spent the next two hours trudging through Piccadilly and St. James' Park and by Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. It was an enjoyable walk for the both of us, but sadly, we could not seem to find a restaurant where the prices were not too excessive; if we did, it was closed. Finally, when we seemed on the verge of capturing, killing, and feasting on the tender viscera of a plump London pidgeon, we happened on a Pizza Express somewhere in the vicinity of St. James' Station. It certainly proved to be more expensive than what we had originally bargained for--it cost, with tip and taxes, roughly 30 pounds--but it was amazing.

Arriving back around nine-thirty, I sat and talked with Shannyn, Sarah Salisbury, Lauren Deitz, and Abby Reed in the breakfast room for a while before going upstairs, getting out of my clothes, and settling into bed.

Saturday, 23 August

Initially, this day roughly followed the pattern of the preceding: I rose; I showered; I walked downstairs; and I ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, sausage, friend tomatoes, and buttered toast. Shortly after I finished with breakfast, the whole group led by Professor Rudalevige marched to Euston Square Station about two or three blocks to the north of the Arran House, where we boarded a train for the City. Beginning at Tower Hill and ending with the Musuem of London, we spent the morning and most of the afternoon crossing all over the almost empty streets of the City.

With the preceding night's extravagance in mind, I tried to be as economical as possible when it came to meals. For lunch, I bought a packaged sandwich--a chicken and bacon club on malted wheat--and a 500-mL bottle of Pepsi at the Museum of London cafeteria for around five pounds. (As a meal, it was not too bad, though I will say that the Pepsi was certainly an exception to the rule that everything is better in Europe). For dinner, I decided to carry the spirit of economy one step farther and kept it to an apple that I had taken from the Arran House's breakfast room earlier that day.

The Museum of London was fairly interesting, though I agreed with Shannyn that it simply did not help to make the past live again. The interactive displays, which including a station where one could compare the effectiveness and comfort of a twenty first century fireman's helmet with that of his seventeenth century counterpart, were more of a joke or a childish amusement than a source of true enlightenment. And in regards to the five-minute film on the Black Death, let's simply say that it succeeded where political advertisements so often fail: it filled me with barely articulable dread without really elucidating a cause or a reason for me to be afraid. So, around two o' clock, Shannyn, Leah Gable, and I headed back toward the Arran House. The journey was altogether uneventful, and we reached the Hotel at two forty-five.

I spent the next couple of hours sprawled on my bed trying to rest a little before we had to leave for a concert at St. Martin-in-the-Fields on Trafalgar Square. My efforts met with very little success. (I despise it when you are so tired that you cannot fall asleep despite every effort made to do so). I then contended myself by stalking random people on Facebook before unpacking the blazer, dress shirt, and slacks and putting them back into service--I like to think that I looked pretty daper when I had everything on.

The concert was amazing. The program consisted of some concerto by Mozart followed by his legendary Requiem. You know that a piece has been performed well when the audience confines their fidgeting to the interlude between the movements of a piece. I was wowed and amazed by it all. Unfortunately, the thermostat in the church was set so high that there were moments when it was so easy and tempting to close my eyes and let Morpheus take hold of me, so while it is true that I managed to stay awake through the majority of the concert, it would not be accurate to sat that I stayed awake for the entirety of the concert.

When the concert ended, a group of us paused on Trafalgar Square to watch the strangest street show I have ever seen in my life. I do not know how else to describe except to say that it was the most perverse combination of incredible music, childhood nostalgia, and BDSM. At one point, one of the performers actually led on to the stage four or five of his fellows dressed in black leather bikinis or briefs like they were his pet dogs. It was disturbing. Profoundly disturbing.

Fortunately, the English weather furnished us with an opportunity to flee the madness, and Tristan, Shannyn, Jen Anolik, Alana Garvin, Christopher Castillo, Lauren Martin, Katie Stewart, and I boarded a train at Charing Cross and headed back toward the Hotel. We lost Jen, Alana, Lauren, Katie, and Chris at Tottenham Court Road where Tristan, Shannyn, and I switched to the Northern Line. I don't know where they went. (Truth be told, I don't where anyone really went after the concert, but everyone was alive today, which was a good sign that everybody made it home all right). Anyway, I was happy to be home and nestling beneath the covers, I slept very well till morning.

Introduction

Hello everybody,

I hope that all of your summers have been happy ones--and I hope that all of you are prepared for them to reach their inevitable conclusions, because whether we like it or not, the end is drawing nigh. (Cue ominous music in the distance.) While I will soon be providing additional details about my summer, I simply wanted to explain that this blog will help me to keep my family, friends, and other acquaintances abreast of my adventures across the pond.

I have to confess that I am not the most conscientious chronicler of events. (What can I say? If there's no deadline, I have trouble summoning the ambition necessary to sit before a computer, develop, and then actually write a narrative.) Neither do I have the gift that all great authors seem to possess for making strange places and people live in the minds of their readers. I'll try my best to keep things current and interesting, and that's all I can do. I also promise that I will keep the self-pity and narcissism to a minimum.

In conclusion, I hope that all of you have a wonderful year here in the Land of the Free, while I am over there trying my best not to set Anglo-American relations two hundred years. I'll be in touch.

Best Regards,
~Chad