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.