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.