In the interest of providing you all with "fair and balanced" coverage about my misadventures here, I suppose that since I shared my list of twenty-five things I miss about the States, I should share with you my list of twenty-five things that I absolutely love about the United Kingdom. It's simply fair, isn't it? After all, notwithstanding the protestations of nineteenth-century New England transcendentalists or twenty-first century Christian fundamentalists to the contrary, America isn't the best of all possible worlds. It's not the Promised Land--that's in Palestine, not central Missouri. So, without any further fanfare, here's my list of twenty-fifth items in, or things about, the United Kingdom that I absolutely love. In no particular order, they are:
1. Good beer, particularly Newcastle Brown Ale and Bombardier;
2. Bangers and mash smothered in brown onion gravy;
3. The view of London from one of the bridges spanning the Thames on a clear, early autumn night;
4. St. Paul's Cathedral;
5. The speed and convenience of the London Underground;
6. The continued array of different accents and dialects that have persisted to the present;
7. The monarchy;
8. The view of Bath and the surrounding hills from the Royal Crescent;
9. The vast and diverse collections of the Victoria and Albert Museum;
10. A culture is far more literate and more attuned to the clash of ideas on a daily basis;
11. The ruins of the Roman Baths in--of all places--Bath;
12. An English roast chicken dinner with Yorkshire puddings, gravy, potatoes, cooked carrots, and peas;
13. The fact that they still measure distances in miles, even as they reckon speed in kilometers;
14. A stroll through the City of London on a quiet Saturday afternoon when all the banks, exchanges, and trading houses are closed;
15. Open, rolling hills dotted with sheep, cows, and enormous round bales of hay;
16. Public green spaces like Regent's Park and St. James's Park in London, Christ Church Meadow in Oxford, or the Royal Crescent in Bath;
17. A political system that allows for a more robust, even rough-and-tumble exchange of ideas as well as insults;
18. In that vein, Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park;
19. The Painted Hall at the Royal Naval College in Greenwich;
20. A pleasant evening spent in spirited conversation with friends in the corner booth of some pub, drink in hand;
21. Young children speaking with British accents;
22. Chocolate chip cookies from Gregg's Bakery on Goodge Street in Bloosmbury;
23. The fact that the legal drinking age is eighteen, not twenty-one;
24. A "constitution" that is not given in the form of a single document, but in a series of medieval charters, legislative statutes, international treaties, and unwritten conventions; and
25. The people from Dickinson College with whom I get to share all of the preceding.
My apologies for the sentimentality of Item #25. But as the Bard of Stratford put it in his masterpiece Much Ado about Nothing, "[b]y my troth, I [must] speak my thought." (Act I, Scene 1). In any event, a little more narration--and a little less sentimentality--later on.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Late Nights, Pub Crawls, and New Friends
29 September 2008
I managed to shake off my homesickness for the time being early yesterday morning, around three or four in the morning. It's remarkable how much of a difference it can make when you're busy--I dabbled on a short essay discussing the ongoing campaign between Senators McCain and Obama that I may one day publish on this site, read another one hundred pages in Louis Menand's The Metaphysical Club, and composed a rough outline for my Humanities 309 paper. All before I finally turned off my lights, crawled under my covers, and fell asleep at three or four in the morning. Insomina's something of a mixed bag.
I didn't wake till a little after eleven in the morning and talked with James Watson-Krips on Skype for a short while--he and Mike are going to Qingdao, which once was a possession of Germany on the coast of Shandong--before going to baseball practice. I hadn't originally intended to join the team, partially because I thought that I wouldn't have time sufficient for it. I was wrong. And I understand now that if I am to survive this year and successfully ward off my "Black Dog," I need to keep busy, busy, busy. And what's more, it's not as though I will have any hopes of playing organized sports in the future. In any event, it was delightful, even if I'm incredibly sore and covered from purple-and-brown lesions this afternoon from batting practice.
Afterwards, I did my laundry, showered, hurriedly ate a plate of delicious Chicken Tikka Masala, and then headed off with Lauren Deitz, Leah, Shannyn, and Jen to the UEA LitSoc's Fancy Dress Pub Crawl. My apparel didn't exactly conform to either the British or the American definition of "fancy dress." (Whereas we tend to associate "fancy dress" with suit and tie--or a comely blouse and skirt in the case of the ladies--, here it is used in regards to Holloween costumes.) I was dressed in black sneakers, blue jeans, a white Oxford shirt, and light gray sweater. Shannyn was dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, and Leah was Jack Kerouac. When they asked me who I was supposed to be, I tried to be funny and said: "I am Me. I am the main character in The Story of My Live, which even now is being written." Yeah. I am lame. Totally.
The Pub Crawl was really enjoyable. Shannyn and I polished off the last of the 10-pound note that Meg gave me last semester. I bought a pint of Kronenberg, my first since my twenty-first birthday party; Shannyn went for a pint of Strongbow mixed with purple currant syrup, which, when she let me try a small sip of it, I though was actually better than ordinary Strongbow. I also met a few people in LitSoc whom I'd be interested in getting to know a little more, including its president Max Gordon, who is, as horrifying as this will sound, a blonde-haired doppleganger of Chris Eiswerth; LitSoc's vice president, a girl named Hannah; and a fresher named Susie Showers who was dressed as "The Mad Hatter" from Alice in Wonderland. However, I must confess that I spent most of my time talking with Shannyn, Leah, and Lauren.
Around ten-thirty, LitSoc began to move on to their third pub of the evening. I wasn't particularly in the mood to join them since for reasons of economy and health, I'm trying to cutback on my alcohol intake, so I rode the bus back to campus with Leah and Lauren. We had a really great conversation, and I have really welcomed the opportunity which these past few weeks has afforded me to get to know them--as well as Zack, Dwight, Emma, Meghan Blickman, Rob, and others--better. When I arrived back at the flat, I prepared a cup of tea, munched on a plum that I purchased from Morrison's on Sunday, and then talked with the folks. I diddled on the computer for a while before finally going to bed around two o' clock in the morning. Mercifully, the day's exertions helped me to achieve a deep and blissful sleep. Thank God.
I managed to shake off my homesickness for the time being early yesterday morning, around three or four in the morning. It's remarkable how much of a difference it can make when you're busy--I dabbled on a short essay discussing the ongoing campaign between Senators McCain and Obama that I may one day publish on this site, read another one hundred pages in Louis Menand's The Metaphysical Club, and composed a rough outline for my Humanities 309 paper. All before I finally turned off my lights, crawled under my covers, and fell asleep at three or four in the morning. Insomina's something of a mixed bag.
I didn't wake till a little after eleven in the morning and talked with James Watson-Krips on Skype for a short while--he and Mike are going to Qingdao, which once was a possession of Germany on the coast of Shandong--before going to baseball practice. I hadn't originally intended to join the team, partially because I thought that I wouldn't have time sufficient for it. I was wrong. And I understand now that if I am to survive this year and successfully ward off my "Black Dog," I need to keep busy, busy, busy. And what's more, it's not as though I will have any hopes of playing organized sports in the future. In any event, it was delightful, even if I'm incredibly sore and covered from purple-and-brown lesions this afternoon from batting practice.
Afterwards, I did my laundry, showered, hurriedly ate a plate of delicious Chicken Tikka Masala, and then headed off with Lauren Deitz, Leah, Shannyn, and Jen to the UEA LitSoc's Fancy Dress Pub Crawl. My apparel didn't exactly conform to either the British or the American definition of "fancy dress." (Whereas we tend to associate "fancy dress" with suit and tie--or a comely blouse and skirt in the case of the ladies--, here it is used in regards to Holloween costumes.) I was dressed in black sneakers, blue jeans, a white Oxford shirt, and light gray sweater. Shannyn was dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, and Leah was Jack Kerouac. When they asked me who I was supposed to be, I tried to be funny and said: "I am Me. I am the main character in The Story of My Live, which even now is being written." Yeah. I am lame. Totally.
The Pub Crawl was really enjoyable. Shannyn and I polished off the last of the 10-pound note that Meg gave me last semester. I bought a pint of Kronenberg, my first since my twenty-first birthday party; Shannyn went for a pint of Strongbow mixed with purple currant syrup, which, when she let me try a small sip of it, I though was actually better than ordinary Strongbow. I also met a few people in LitSoc whom I'd be interested in getting to know a little more, including its president Max Gordon, who is, as horrifying as this will sound, a blonde-haired doppleganger of Chris Eiswerth; LitSoc's vice president, a girl named Hannah; and a fresher named Susie Showers who was dressed as "The Mad Hatter" from Alice in Wonderland. However, I must confess that I spent most of my time talking with Shannyn, Leah, and Lauren.
Around ten-thirty, LitSoc began to move on to their third pub of the evening. I wasn't particularly in the mood to join them since for reasons of economy and health, I'm trying to cutback on my alcohol intake, so I rode the bus back to campus with Leah and Lauren. We had a really great conversation, and I have really welcomed the opportunity which these past few weeks has afforded me to get to know them--as well as Zack, Dwight, Emma, Meghan Blickman, Rob, and others--better. When I arrived back at the flat, I prepared a cup of tea, munched on a plum that I purchased from Morrison's on Sunday, and then talked with the folks. I diddled on the computer for a while before finally going to bed around two o' clock in the morning. Mercifully, the day's exertions helped me to achieve a deep and blissful sleep. Thank God.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
25 Things I Miss about the States
28 September 2008
Notwithstanding the enjoyable day I had on Friday, I've been feeling rather blue for a while. It's not anything serious, just homesickness. I know that I've said this not a few times on this site, but the fact that I am here for the year is really beginning to sink in. And as exhilirating as that fact is, it's also somewhat discouraging because that also means a year without my friends, my family, or any of the mundane delights that the States has to offer. So, since I don't have much else planned except for a visit with Shannyn to the Union Pub to polish off a few quid, reading and research, and laundry, I figured I'd just share my list of twenty-five items from, or things about, the States that I miss. In no particular order, they are:
1. Homecooked, quintessentially American dishes like meatloaf and potato salad;
2. Genuine Mexican food;
3. The right to privacy and a culture where people don't assume the state knows what's best;
4. The freedom to use a restaurant's or a store's restrooms without having to pay for the privilege;
5. Meals in the Dickinson College Dining Hall that last one to two hours;
6. The Writing Center and everyone associated with it, past or present;
7. Morgan Field;
8. My church family in Pennsylvania, the Heflins;
9. Limestone-faced buildings that date to the eighteenth century;
10. A grinder at The Quarry;
11. Mrs. Heflin's chocolate chip cookies;
12. Being able to tell which direction I'm heading based on what mountain range I'm facing;
13. My cowboy hat;
14. Wanting to burn down the Admissions Office after a particularly horrendous session in the Writing Center;
15. Pandora online radio;
16. Sunday afternoons watching football at the Heflins' house near Gettysburg;
17. My mother's homemade lasagna;
18. Family dinners in front of the television watching "Jeopardy!" and "Wheel of Fortune";
19. Being able to field questions to my professors during lectures;
20. Academic writing that's clear, direct, and adheres to a legion of conventions that probably are antiquated and pointless, but still make for some good reading;
21. Hearing little children who speak in an American accent;
22. Sunday afternoon cell phone conversations with my father;
23. Hanging up on my mother because she's nagging me;
24. Late-night study (and bull) sessions in the Writing Center; and
25. The separation of powers and the constitutional principle of "checks and balances."
As I think about this, I probably could fill a list of thirty or even forty items, but I think I'll stop at twenty-five. It's funny really when you think about it. What do you take for granted until one day it's gone? I love England, I love Norwich, and I love studying at UEA; but I can't help but wish that we could import a few of the smaller, more mundane pleasures associated with life in the States. Oh, well. I write more later when I'm in less of a pathetic mood and more in a frame of mind to tell a story or to slice and dice some unsuspecting person.
Notwithstanding the enjoyable day I had on Friday, I've been feeling rather blue for a while. It's not anything serious, just homesickness. I know that I've said this not a few times on this site, but the fact that I am here for the year is really beginning to sink in. And as exhilirating as that fact is, it's also somewhat discouraging because that also means a year without my friends, my family, or any of the mundane delights that the States has to offer. So, since I don't have much else planned except for a visit with Shannyn to the Union Pub to polish off a few quid, reading and research, and laundry, I figured I'd just share my list of twenty-five items from, or things about, the States that I miss. In no particular order, they are:
1. Homecooked, quintessentially American dishes like meatloaf and potato salad;
2. Genuine Mexican food;
3. The right to privacy and a culture where people don't assume the state knows what's best;
4. The freedom to use a restaurant's or a store's restrooms without having to pay for the privilege;
5. Meals in the Dickinson College Dining Hall that last one to two hours;
6. The Writing Center and everyone associated with it, past or present;
7. Morgan Field;
8. My church family in Pennsylvania, the Heflins;
9. Limestone-faced buildings that date to the eighteenth century;
10. A grinder at The Quarry;
11. Mrs. Heflin's chocolate chip cookies;
12. Being able to tell which direction I'm heading based on what mountain range I'm facing;
13. My cowboy hat;
14. Wanting to burn down the Admissions Office after a particularly horrendous session in the Writing Center;
15. Pandora online radio;
16. Sunday afternoons watching football at the Heflins' house near Gettysburg;
17. My mother's homemade lasagna;
18. Family dinners in front of the television watching "Jeopardy!" and "Wheel of Fortune";
19. Being able to field questions to my professors during lectures;
20. Academic writing that's clear, direct, and adheres to a legion of conventions that probably are antiquated and pointless, but still make for some good reading;
21. Hearing little children who speak in an American accent;
22. Sunday afternoon cell phone conversations with my father;
23. Hanging up on my mother because she's nagging me;
24. Late-night study (and bull) sessions in the Writing Center; and
25. The separation of powers and the constitutional principle of "checks and balances."
As I think about this, I probably could fill a list of thirty or even forty items, but I think I'll stop at twenty-five. It's funny really when you think about it. What do you take for granted until one day it's gone? I love England, I love Norwich, and I love studying at UEA; but I can't help but wish that we could import a few of the smaller, more mundane pleasures associated with life in the States. Oh, well. I write more later when I'm in less of a pathetic mood and more in a frame of mind to tell a story or to slice and dice some unsuspecting person.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
"A good time was had by all..."
27 September 2008
Apologies for not having posted anything for a while. Excuse though it may be, the time I had available for posting was limited because of recent blizzard of activity: we moved up from London to Norwich on the 18th; I had to set up house in my flat in the University Village, get to know my flatmates, and prepare for another year of college. (It has arrived!) Hopefully, I'll have more time for posting since I don't have classes four out of the seven days of the week and I'm not planning on traveling anywhere for a while.
So, with all that said, let's begin--my birthday was yesterday, and it was fantastic! It began early enough. Roughly between two-thirty and three that morning, I awoke to loud series of thuds on my door accompanied by a cacophany of drunken voices. Recognizing that the voices belonged to Greg, Dwight, Sara Verhalen, Annie, and a few of their flatmates, I hurred to the door and ushered them in where they proceeded to sing the Birthday Song to me. I have to admit that I was rather surprised by it all, so I wasn't certain how I should respond. I thanked them of course, but I'm sure that my gratitude seemed rather "lukewarm," shall we say.
Once everyone departed from my room, the celebrations of my birthday stopped until around six o' clock that evening since I had my first seminar for "Modern Germany, 1866-1945" later morning and obviously needed to sleep. The festivities resumed eventually when my flatmates and I (with Emma whom we've adopted as an "Honorary Seventh Flatmate") went to dinner at "Mambo Jambo," a restaurant in Norwich. Advertised as a "Mexican" restaurant, it was nestled on Lower Goat Lane, a tiny pedestrian alleyway located behind Chapelfield. While the food was about as Mexican as I am in many respects--the menu, for instance, called tostadas "Mexican blankets" and the waitresses said "tor-til-lah" instead of "tor-tee-yah"--it was incredible.
I ordered the beef chili enchilada which consisted of spicy beef chili wrapped in a tortilla smothered with mozzarella cheese and tomato sauce. The sauce on the exterior of the enchilada was pretty much thickened tomato soup, so it wasn't terribly spicy, a situation which I corrected with the liberal application of the restaurant's salsa which was pretty spicy. This was not the most opportune time for me to be reminded that in the United Kingdom, servers don't really refill your drinks as often their counterparts in the States, because usually refills aren't free. Crap.
While we were waiting for our server to bring the check, Zack presented me with a small plastic Borders bag that he'd been carrying with him since we left the college. (N.B. Through a freak accident on the part of UEA Accomodations, Zack is one of my flatmates.) In it were two books: The Pianist by Wladyslaw Szpilman and A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini. My birthday presents. Again, I'm not certain if I expressed the full extent of my appreciation, but I was still delighted. I have been so blessed in my flatmates: Zack; Tom Kirk (near Ashdown, Kent); Bethan Collins (Devon in the South-West); Cat Grint (Reading near London); and Domneek Smith (Harrow-West Acton in London). Everybody has been so laidback, and when I'm not in a particularly misanthropic humor, it's wonderful to spend time in their company.
Returning to our flat, we proceeded to relax for a while, as our stomaches mashed and massaged our meals into something that could be passed along to the intestines. I had a bottle of Leffe Blonde (which I bought at a Tesco Metro in Norwich for ninety-nine pence), briefly ducking into my room to visit the lavatory before Tom, Beth, Cat, and Domneek brought forth this lovely little chocolate cake they'd prepared for my birthday. "I know it looks absolutely store-bought," Beth said as they laid it on to the tabletop, "but we made this ourselves." Cutting it into eight pieces, I began to tell everyone a story about my Great-Grandma Wunder's "small" slices (which were roughly a fifth to a third of a pie or cake) when everybody started to crack up.
"What?" I asked, confused as I continued to balance a wedge of cake with my fingers and a knife over the table. "What did I say? Was there a punchline anywhere in what I just said? I don't think so."
Zack smiled, patted me on the shoulder, and laughingly explained, "It's just when you went to the bathroom, we were just talking about how you seem to have a story for everything! It's great, so don't worry about it. It's a good thing, Chad. It's a good thing."
Once it was explained to me, I had my own laugh because Zack wasn't the first person to have told me of the great number of stories I have stowed away. Serving the last of the cake, all of us enjoyed every morsel. We had no sooner finished than people began to show up for the main event, my twenty-first birthday blowout. Dwight walked up from his flat downstairs. Tristan, too. There was a low buzz as my mobile began to vibrate. It was Leah. I trotted down the steps to the main entrance which I opened to find Leah and a party of three or four Americans, including Will Schaffenberg who was wearing an empty Bud Ice box that Greg had earlier carved into a kind of space helmet. "Happy Birthday, Chad!" Will cried for the first (and not the last) time in the evening, grasping my hand and shaking it vigorously even as he stabilised himself by placing his other hand on my shoulder.
"Howdy, Spaceman Spiff," I said. (What else could I have said?) "The party's upstairs. Please follow me."
Rob and his flatmate Stuart, Greg, Ben, Jen, Katie, Alana and her flatmates Max, Jess, and Ibrahim, Shannyn with a birthday card and Cadbury's Chocolates in tow, Lauren Deitz, Lauren Martin, Chris Castillo, Meghan Blickman, and a host of others arrived shortly thereafter. What transpired then was one of the best nights in my life; certainly, it was one of the best nights I've spent drinking. And while I'm happy to say that no truly bad decisions were made, there were a few pretty dumb ones; for instance, when Ben and Will convinced me to go shirtless for a while after they saw me takeoff the sweater and dress shirt I'd been wearing all day. Or when Rob and Stuart finally arrived and, without pause or hesitation, instructed me to get on knees at which point they made me take the business end of a makeshift funnel--it was really an empty plastic of Strongbow whose bottom they'd cut away--in my mouth and chug the icy cold contents of a can of Stella Artois. There were also the moments when I randomly started to dance for a minute or two before stopping. (Fortunately, thanks to the presence of Lauren Deitz, I wasn't alone in this regard.)
The party started around nine-thirty, so by twelve o' clock, everybody had tired and gone elsewhere. Tristan, Lauren Martin, and I went over to Shannyn's for a while and watched an episode of Family Guy on her computer. Bidding her and everybody else a fond good night, I then returned to my flat where Max and I chatted and bounced a balloon back and forth for a good twenty to twenty-five minutes. I then thanked everyone in my flat for a wonderful day and "for putting up with so many loud, obnoxious Americans" and went to bed. The room was spinning for a few minutes when I initially laid down, but it eventually stopped when I went to sleep. All and all, it was a remarkable birthday, and I hope that it's accurate of me to say that a good time was had by all.
Apologies for not having posted anything for a while. Excuse though it may be, the time I had available for posting was limited because of recent blizzard of activity: we moved up from London to Norwich on the 18th; I had to set up house in my flat in the University Village, get to know my flatmates, and prepare for another year of college. (It has arrived!) Hopefully, I'll have more time for posting since I don't have classes four out of the seven days of the week and I'm not planning on traveling anywhere for a while.
So, with all that said, let's begin--my birthday was yesterday, and it was fantastic! It began early enough. Roughly between two-thirty and three that morning, I awoke to loud series of thuds on my door accompanied by a cacophany of drunken voices. Recognizing that the voices belonged to Greg, Dwight, Sara Verhalen, Annie, and a few of their flatmates, I hurred to the door and ushered them in where they proceeded to sing the Birthday Song to me. I have to admit that I was rather surprised by it all, so I wasn't certain how I should respond. I thanked them of course, but I'm sure that my gratitude seemed rather "lukewarm," shall we say.
Once everyone departed from my room, the celebrations of my birthday stopped until around six o' clock that evening since I had my first seminar for "Modern Germany, 1866-1945" later morning and obviously needed to sleep. The festivities resumed eventually when my flatmates and I (with Emma whom we've adopted as an "Honorary Seventh Flatmate") went to dinner at "Mambo Jambo," a restaurant in Norwich. Advertised as a "Mexican" restaurant, it was nestled on Lower Goat Lane, a tiny pedestrian alleyway located behind Chapelfield. While the food was about as Mexican as I am in many respects--the menu, for instance, called tostadas "Mexican blankets" and the waitresses said "tor-til-lah" instead of "tor-tee-yah"--it was incredible.
I ordered the beef chili enchilada which consisted of spicy beef chili wrapped in a tortilla smothered with mozzarella cheese and tomato sauce. The sauce on the exterior of the enchilada was pretty much thickened tomato soup, so it wasn't terribly spicy, a situation which I corrected with the liberal application of the restaurant's salsa which was pretty spicy. This was not the most opportune time for me to be reminded that in the United Kingdom, servers don't really refill your drinks as often their counterparts in the States, because usually refills aren't free. Crap.
While we were waiting for our server to bring the check, Zack presented me with a small plastic Borders bag that he'd been carrying with him since we left the college. (N.B. Through a freak accident on the part of UEA Accomodations, Zack is one of my flatmates.) In it were two books: The Pianist by Wladyslaw Szpilman and A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini. My birthday presents. Again, I'm not certain if I expressed the full extent of my appreciation, but I was still delighted. I have been so blessed in my flatmates: Zack; Tom Kirk (near Ashdown, Kent); Bethan Collins (Devon in the South-West); Cat Grint (Reading near London); and Domneek Smith (Harrow-West Acton in London). Everybody has been so laidback, and when I'm not in a particularly misanthropic humor, it's wonderful to spend time in their company.
Returning to our flat, we proceeded to relax for a while, as our stomaches mashed and massaged our meals into something that could be passed along to the intestines. I had a bottle of Leffe Blonde (which I bought at a Tesco Metro in Norwich for ninety-nine pence), briefly ducking into my room to visit the lavatory before Tom, Beth, Cat, and Domneek brought forth this lovely little chocolate cake they'd prepared for my birthday. "I know it looks absolutely store-bought," Beth said as they laid it on to the tabletop, "but we made this ourselves." Cutting it into eight pieces, I began to tell everyone a story about my Great-Grandma Wunder's "small" slices (which were roughly a fifth to a third of a pie or cake) when everybody started to crack up.
"What?" I asked, confused as I continued to balance a wedge of cake with my fingers and a knife over the table. "What did I say? Was there a punchline anywhere in what I just said? I don't think so."
Zack smiled, patted me on the shoulder, and laughingly explained, "It's just when you went to the bathroom, we were just talking about how you seem to have a story for everything! It's great, so don't worry about it. It's a good thing, Chad. It's a good thing."
Once it was explained to me, I had my own laugh because Zack wasn't the first person to have told me of the great number of stories I have stowed away. Serving the last of the cake, all of us enjoyed every morsel. We had no sooner finished than people began to show up for the main event, my twenty-first birthday blowout. Dwight walked up from his flat downstairs. Tristan, too. There was a low buzz as my mobile began to vibrate. It was Leah. I trotted down the steps to the main entrance which I opened to find Leah and a party of three or four Americans, including Will Schaffenberg who was wearing an empty Bud Ice box that Greg had earlier carved into a kind of space helmet. "Happy Birthday, Chad!" Will cried for the first (and not the last) time in the evening, grasping my hand and shaking it vigorously even as he stabilised himself by placing his other hand on my shoulder.
"Howdy, Spaceman Spiff," I said. (What else could I have said?) "The party's upstairs. Please follow me."
Rob and his flatmate Stuart, Greg, Ben, Jen, Katie, Alana and her flatmates Max, Jess, and Ibrahim, Shannyn with a birthday card and Cadbury's Chocolates in tow, Lauren Deitz, Lauren Martin, Chris Castillo, Meghan Blickman, and a host of others arrived shortly thereafter. What transpired then was one of the best nights in my life; certainly, it was one of the best nights I've spent drinking. And while I'm happy to say that no truly bad decisions were made, there were a few pretty dumb ones; for instance, when Ben and Will convinced me to go shirtless for a while after they saw me takeoff the sweater and dress shirt I'd been wearing all day. Or when Rob and Stuart finally arrived and, without pause or hesitation, instructed me to get on knees at which point they made me take the business end of a makeshift funnel--it was really an empty plastic of Strongbow whose bottom they'd cut away--in my mouth and chug the icy cold contents of a can of Stella Artois. There were also the moments when I randomly started to dance for a minute or two before stopping. (Fortunately, thanks to the presence of Lauren Deitz, I wasn't alone in this regard.)
The party started around nine-thirty, so by twelve o' clock, everybody had tired and gone elsewhere. Tristan, Lauren Martin, and I went over to Shannyn's for a while and watched an episode of Family Guy on her computer. Bidding her and everybody else a fond good night, I then returned to my flat where Max and I chatted and bounced a balloon back and forth for a good twenty to twenty-five minutes. I then thanked everyone in my flat for a wonderful day and "for putting up with so many loud, obnoxious Americans" and went to bed. The room was spinning for a few minutes when I initially laid down, but it eventually stopped when I went to sleep. All and all, it was a remarkable birthday, and I hope that it's accurate of me to say that a good time was had by all.
Monday, September 22, 2008
London's Lungs
17 September 2008
Our last day in London has finally arrived. It wasn’t too spectacular. In the morning, we ascended Parliament Hill. Located in the heart of Hampstead Heath, it afforded us a magnificent view of the great metropolis of London. (And I should mention that it also afforded us an opportunity to escape the prying eyes of the British authorities—“Big Brother” was busy taking a nap.) I loved the Heath. It was so rugged and beautiful, covered with all manners of greenery—there were trees, shrubbery, wildflowers, tangles of ivy, rolling hills and open fields of grass. I loved it so greatly. And as I consider it, I suppose that ultimately, places like the Heath are more important to the health, spiritual as well as physical, of London. It’s not the London Stone that assures the city’s prosperity. It’s the open fields and the parklands that are the “lungs” of the city. Regent’s Park, Hyde Park, St. James’ Park, the Heath, and other such locations are the places to which the people can come to admire the wondrous beauty of Nature, enjoy a pleasant afternoon of quiet conversation with their friends, or do the wash in clean, clear, running water. They are the places where the people come to be people, where they escape the dehumanizing tendencies of urbanization and industrialization. I know this all sounds like Romantic nonsense, but I certainly don’t think it’s accidental that William Blake in his poems “London” and “Pillars of Gold” can see the pain and the potential of London. In one case, he was probably looking toward the great mass of sooty fog, soulless mills, and abject poverty which was already developing in his day; and in the other when he directed his gaze toward the Heath, he could see the possibility to build “Jerusalem in England’s green and blessed land.”
We had lunch at a pub in the Village of Hampstead called the “Holly Bush.” It was Professor Rudalevige’s treat. For the rest of the day, we were free—and Lauren Deitz, Zack, Meghan, Emma, and I made the most of it, spending a quiet afternoon in Regent’s Park before heading to Knightsbridge to break bread in the high temple of commercialism, Harrods; and finally, we casually sauntered along the South Bank, pausing for a pint at the same restaurant where we had lunch with Lord Griffiths so many weeks ago and then crossing the Thames to head homewards on the Underground. A wonderful day from start to finish. And I’m happy to say, a delightful month. I have been so privileged and so blessed. May my time in Norwich continue to be equally delightful.
Our last day in London has finally arrived. It wasn’t too spectacular. In the morning, we ascended Parliament Hill. Located in the heart of Hampstead Heath, it afforded us a magnificent view of the great metropolis of London. (And I should mention that it also afforded us an opportunity to escape the prying eyes of the British authorities—“Big Brother” was busy taking a nap.) I loved the Heath. It was so rugged and beautiful, covered with all manners of greenery—there were trees, shrubbery, wildflowers, tangles of ivy, rolling hills and open fields of grass. I loved it so greatly. And as I consider it, I suppose that ultimately, places like the Heath are more important to the health, spiritual as well as physical, of London. It’s not the London Stone that assures the city’s prosperity. It’s the open fields and the parklands that are the “lungs” of the city. Regent’s Park, Hyde Park, St. James’ Park, the Heath, and other such locations are the places to which the people can come to admire the wondrous beauty of Nature, enjoy a pleasant afternoon of quiet conversation with their friends, or do the wash in clean, clear, running water. They are the places where the people come to be people, where they escape the dehumanizing tendencies of urbanization and industrialization. I know this all sounds like Romantic nonsense, but I certainly don’t think it’s accidental that William Blake in his poems “London” and “Pillars of Gold” can see the pain and the potential of London. In one case, he was probably looking toward the great mass of sooty fog, soulless mills, and abject poverty which was already developing in his day; and in the other when he directed his gaze toward the Heath, he could see the possibility to build “Jerusalem in England’s green and blessed land.”
We had lunch at a pub in the Village of Hampstead called the “Holly Bush.” It was Professor Rudalevige’s treat. For the rest of the day, we were free—and Lauren Deitz, Zack, Meghan, Emma, and I made the most of it, spending a quiet afternoon in Regent’s Park before heading to Knightsbridge to break bread in the high temple of commercialism, Harrods; and finally, we casually sauntered along the South Bank, pausing for a pint at the same restaurant where we had lunch with Lord Griffiths so many weeks ago and then crossing the Thames to head homewards on the Underground. A wonderful day from start to finish. And I’m happy to say, a delightful month. I have been so privileged and so blessed. May my time in Norwich continue to be equally delightful.
"Sister Suffragette," "Merry Christmas, Maggie Thatcher," and Other Hits
16 September 2008
Before I begin my narrative for the day, let me say: I can't believe that our time in London is almost finished. A moth has come and gone like a bird speeding through the air. It's simply unbelievable.
Well. To begin my narrative, today, I went on Sarah Salisbury, Abby Reed, and Liza Williams' tour on British suffragist and suffragette movements during the early 1900s. I'll admit that the topic didn't intrigue me beforehand, partially because my mind can't any thoughts related to it without the song "Sister Suffragette" from Disney's Mary Poppins becoming stuck there. Fortunately, it turned out to be much more than the impassioned slogans one hears from Mrs. Banks. Explaining that the tour was their response to criticisms of Her Naked Skin, which many in our program believed to have failed to provide any information about the campaign for the right to vote, they led us across a significant part of the West End and the City of Westminster. We began on the steps of the Arran House, marched Millicent Fawcett's house on Gower Street, to St. George's Church Bloomsbury where Emily Davidson was buried after throwing herself in front of the King's horse at the Epsom Derby; and from there, we traveled via the Underground to Royal Albert Hall and Hyde Park--popular sites for the suffragettes' public demonstrations--and south on to the Palace of Westminster and Westminster Abbey.
From first to last, the tour was well organized, and in those terms, I would say that it was the superior of the tour on politics and theater. However, I have to say that ultimately, I enjoyed the tour on politics and theater to a greater degree than I did the tour on the suffragettes. It may have been better organized and its participants were certainly better speakers, but there was a certain want of enthusiasm I detected in Sarah, Abby, and Liza. Now as I reflect over it, the whole production was too professional and it was rather cold. A mechanical procession of facts and information, it was cold and efficient. Additionally, as well organized as it was, it wasn't without its flaws--like the politics and theater group, I felt that they didn't divide the workload well among themselves, and I also thought that apart from a few remarks outside Fawcett's house or in Hyde Park, they really didn't connect the whole movement to the history, culture, and background of London.
Later that night, we attended a production of Billy Elliot: The Musical at the Victoria Palace in the West End. As spectacles go, it was certainly impressive. It had not a few songs that we're rather enjoyable; "Merry Christmas, Maggie Thatcher" leaps most readily to mind. However, watching it, I apprehended a problem--or perhaps "phenomenon" or "reality" is a better choice of word?--that I had noticed in nearly every production we've attended: that is, I thought that it worked better as a film. Beforehand, Professor Rudalevige also asked us to consider whether it would succeed in the States, particularly since it is scheduled to open on Broadway in the immediate future. Having watched it, I would say, "No." My rationale is that as a drama, it was too heavily invested in the British class syetm, which is far, far different from the class system we know in the United States. Whereas ours tends to be rather informal (because as Americans, we have this pleasant fiction that ours is a truly "classless society" because anyone can succeed if they work hard enough), the British system has assumed a more formal, more ossified shape, probably because there a few more centuries of history behind it. Dress, speech, schooling, neighborhood, attitudes, politics--they are all heavily wrapped up in the notion of class. Moreover, in terms of its political messages in the visual and dramatic arts, Americans have historically preferred subtlety to bold declarations of principle. And I don't think an enormous effigy of Maggie Thatcher with the word "HATE" written in bold capital letters on her long, knife-like fingernails is exactly "subtle."
When the show ended and we were making our way toward the street from the theater, Professor Rudalevige happened to see me, and he asked me, "So, Chad, what did you think?" What could I do? I had to be honest--and yet I also tried to be diplomatic about it.
"Not too bad," I said after a moment of hesitation.
"Not too bad?" He responded feigning incredulity. "Not too bad? Get away from me. If all I get is a 'not too bad,' I want my forty pounds [the amount he paid for each of our tickets] bac."
Half reaching for my wallet, I couldn't resist the temptation to play along. "I have twenty on me right now," I said with a grin on my lips, "but if you want to see me on Stipend Day, I can pay you then."
He laughed, I'm happy to say. Definitely, it was one of my wittier moments since I have arrived in England.
I headed home in the company of Lauren Deitz, Zack, Meghan, Tristan, and Emma. We chilled in Zack and Tristan's room for a while where between Emma's fascination with the television series "Bonanza" and Meghan's constant pestering of Zack, who was trying to pack his clothes, I was very well entertained. We sallied forth around eleven o' clock in search of a pub which we had heard was opened till two o' clock in the morning. We didn't want too much. Just a pint, perhaps two. In the end, thought, it was all for naught, and we returned to the Hotel around twelve o' clock. Ascending the stairs to my room, I dabbled on my laptop for about a half-hour and then I went to bed.
Addendum
For your entertainment (and also hopefully for your enlightenment):
"Sister Suffragette" from Walt Disney's Mary Poppins (1964)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUhwA-C-ACg
"Merry Christmas, Maggie Thatcher" from Billy Elliot: The Musical (2005)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l51fXC3SsQ0
Before I begin my narrative for the day, let me say: I can't believe that our time in London is almost finished. A moth has come and gone like a bird speeding through the air. It's simply unbelievable.
Well. To begin my narrative, today, I went on Sarah Salisbury, Abby Reed, and Liza Williams' tour on British suffragist and suffragette movements during the early 1900s. I'll admit that the topic didn't intrigue me beforehand, partially because my mind can't any thoughts related to it without the song "Sister Suffragette" from Disney's Mary Poppins becoming stuck there. Fortunately, it turned out to be much more than the impassioned slogans one hears from Mrs. Banks. Explaining that the tour was their response to criticisms of Her Naked Skin, which many in our program believed to have failed to provide any information about the campaign for the right to vote, they led us across a significant part of the West End and the City of Westminster. We began on the steps of the Arran House, marched Millicent Fawcett's house on Gower Street, to St. George's Church Bloomsbury where Emily Davidson was buried after throwing herself in front of the King's horse at the Epsom Derby; and from there, we traveled via the Underground to Royal Albert Hall and Hyde Park--popular sites for the suffragettes' public demonstrations--and south on to the Palace of Westminster and Westminster Abbey.
From first to last, the tour was well organized, and in those terms, I would say that it was the superior of the tour on politics and theater. However, I have to say that ultimately, I enjoyed the tour on politics and theater to a greater degree than I did the tour on the suffragettes. It may have been better organized and its participants were certainly better speakers, but there was a certain want of enthusiasm I detected in Sarah, Abby, and Liza. Now as I reflect over it, the whole production was too professional and it was rather cold. A mechanical procession of facts and information, it was cold and efficient. Additionally, as well organized as it was, it wasn't without its flaws--like the politics and theater group, I felt that they didn't divide the workload well among themselves, and I also thought that apart from a few remarks outside Fawcett's house or in Hyde Park, they really didn't connect the whole movement to the history, culture, and background of London.
Later that night, we attended a production of Billy Elliot: The Musical at the Victoria Palace in the West End. As spectacles go, it was certainly impressive. It had not a few songs that we're rather enjoyable; "Merry Christmas, Maggie Thatcher" leaps most readily to mind. However, watching it, I apprehended a problem--or perhaps "phenomenon" or "reality" is a better choice of word?--that I had noticed in nearly every production we've attended: that is, I thought that it worked better as a film. Beforehand, Professor Rudalevige also asked us to consider whether it would succeed in the States, particularly since it is scheduled to open on Broadway in the immediate future. Having watched it, I would say, "No." My rationale is that as a drama, it was too heavily invested in the British class syetm, which is far, far different from the class system we know in the United States. Whereas ours tends to be rather informal (because as Americans, we have this pleasant fiction that ours is a truly "classless society" because anyone can succeed if they work hard enough), the British system has assumed a more formal, more ossified shape, probably because there a few more centuries of history behind it. Dress, speech, schooling, neighborhood, attitudes, politics--they are all heavily wrapped up in the notion of class. Moreover, in terms of its political messages in the visual and dramatic arts, Americans have historically preferred subtlety to bold declarations of principle. And I don't think an enormous effigy of Maggie Thatcher with the word "HATE" written in bold capital letters on her long, knife-like fingernails is exactly "subtle."
When the show ended and we were making our way toward the street from the theater, Professor Rudalevige happened to see me, and he asked me, "So, Chad, what did you think?" What could I do? I had to be honest--and yet I also tried to be diplomatic about it.
"Not too bad," I said after a moment of hesitation.
"Not too bad?" He responded feigning incredulity. "Not too bad? Get away from me. If all I get is a 'not too bad,' I want my forty pounds [the amount he paid for each of our tickets] bac."
Half reaching for my wallet, I couldn't resist the temptation to play along. "I have twenty on me right now," I said with a grin on my lips, "but if you want to see me on Stipend Day, I can pay you then."
He laughed, I'm happy to say. Definitely, it was one of my wittier moments since I have arrived in England.
I headed home in the company of Lauren Deitz, Zack, Meghan, Tristan, and Emma. We chilled in Zack and Tristan's room for a while where between Emma's fascination with the television series "Bonanza" and Meghan's constant pestering of Zack, who was trying to pack his clothes, I was very well entertained. We sallied forth around eleven o' clock in search of a pub which we had heard was opened till two o' clock in the morning. We didn't want too much. Just a pint, perhaps two. In the end, thought, it was all for naught, and we returned to the Hotel around twelve o' clock. Ascending the stairs to my room, I dabbled on my laptop for about a half-hour and then I went to bed.
Addendum
For your entertainment (and also hopefully for your enlightenment):
"Sister Suffragette" from Walt Disney's Mary Poppins (1964)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUhwA-C-ACg
"Merry Christmas, Maggie Thatcher" from Billy Elliot: The Musical (2005)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l51fXC3SsQ0
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Club Tesco?
15 September 2008
Well, for the second consecutive day, my quiet evening at home didn't materialise. I ate dinner with Greg, Rob, Dwight, and Ben; we had marinated chicken, pasta in marinara sauce, and cooked peppers and onions. It was a remarkable meal--I am happy that Greg and Rob are such exemplary chefs because otherwise, I fear my dinners would have consisted of a great deal more takeaway, which, in the aggregate, can be rather costly. Well, Greg and Rob had finished with their tour on modern music in London that afternoon, so they were in a celebratory mood. In fact, they had been such a mood from three o' clock onwards--and they had no intentions of slackening with the arrival of the evening. "We're going to get fud up," Rob said once or twice through the meal with a grin.
"Yo," Greg chimed in, taking a long draught from his second or third glass of red wine, "I'm getting so drunk tonight. Those beers in the fridge are going to be so good." (He and Rob had earlier that day gone to Tesco and, in their words, "cleaned out all of the Beck's Beer.")
We all laughed. "Yeah, it was so hilarious when Rudy [one of our nicknames for Professor Rudalevige, a token of our affection] saw us coming downstairs this afternoon."
"What?" Dwight and I both asked. "What are you talking about?"
"Yo, Rudy saw us walking down the stairs this afternoon after we got back from Tesco."
"Yeah, I was carrying one of my bottles of Beck's," Rob continued the narrative, as it would happen bringing it to a close. "And he just looked at us and he was like, 'Started already?' It was so funny!"
"Especially since we finished our tour at a pub and we had already had a couple of rounds with him!" Greg exclaimed, choking back his laughter and another forkful of pasta and chicken.
"We're going to get fud up," Rob said again. "It's going to be a shit show."
After I helped with tidying up, I talked with Shannyn for a while in her, Leah, and Lauren Martin's room. I hadn't planned on drinking more that night. I had already had two glasses of red wine and I was pretty contented, and if Rob hadn't called me, my evening in all likelihoods would have gone largely according to plan. However, around eight o' clock, I heard a series of beeps emanating from my cell phone--or my "mobile," as folks on this side of the pond name it. Thanks to the innovation that is caller ID, I knew that it was Rob.
"Hey Rob," I said, pressing the green talk button and raising the phone to my ear.
"Yo, Chauncey." (His favourite nickname out of the litany which includes "Chazzle-Dazzle," "Chiz," "Chazilla," "Chizad," and "Mothers Lock Up Your Daughters.") "Are you drinking with us tonight?"
"Um," I hesitated a moment, "I think I may be."
"No, dude. That's not acceptable. Are you drinking with us tonight?"
What could I say, really? I heaved a sigh and exhaled the word, "Sure. I'm in."
Rob proceeded then to notify me that everybody was assembling in the lobby of the Arran House within the next five minutes or so. Besides my mess-mates for the evening and me, our happy party of debauchers was going to include Dan, Duncan, Leah, and (later on in the evening) Sara Verhalen, Annie, and LIza. Heading upstairs toward my room where I wanted to grab a jacket before we headed out, I passed Dan who was dressed up in a navy blazer and tie. For some reason explicable only to God, this inspired me to throw on one of my dress shirts and a bright yellow tie. As Leah and Duncan noted later, the resulting ensemble of shirt, tie, blue jeans, and black sneakers caused me to resemble a Republican campaign worker. Don't worry. I played it up for laughs. When you're desperate for a laugh and you have nothing else at your disposal, use the Republicans. Or the Democrats, if it suits your fancy. Realistically, they're interchangeable.
At the time, I was under the impression that we were going to the "Bricklayers Arms" or a club; and I suppose you could say that we did after a fashion. We hit up Club Tesco, which is located on Goodge Street just around the corner from the Underground station. Unlike the preponderance of clubs in London, there were no shady boosters wandering about the neighborhood, promises of cheap liquor, good music, and attractive women on their honeyed lips; no cover charge, no bouncers dressed in maroon shirts, dress slacks, and gold chains like a third-rate Sicilian would-be gangster. To be certain, it wasn't a paradise; there wasn't really anywhere to sit, and there was really no place where you cut loose and dance, which I suppose has everything to do with the fact that Tesco is a grocery store. That's right--I changed into my Republican campaigner outfit for a grocery store. Needless to say, I felt like something of twit for it, but such self-recriminations proved to be short-lived.
Reaching the alcohol section, everybody proceeded to make their selections for the evening; as I have previously mentioned, Rob and Greg had already made provisions for themselves, so they were cast mostly in the role of advisor to those of us who were not so blessed. Duncan and I were very pleased when we stumbled on the last five bottles of Newcastle, especially since Tesco was selling them at the special price of two bottles for two-pounds-four. We left one for the last man, but we decided to adopt its four brothers. I'm sorry to say it, but we didn't wait to return to the Arran House before opening them up. They were absolutely delicious. (If you have the opportunity to sample Newcastle, I strongly recommend that you pursue it, if for no other reason than you experience Newcastle's distinctive, almost nutty flavour.)
Once we had all arrived back at the Arran House, we headed into the garden, which is located in the rear of the building, where we proceeded to spend the rest of our night drinking, laughing, smoking, and listening to music. Duncan and Leah were so good as to offer their pipe tobacco and wrapping papers to everyone. Dan provided four brown, aromatic, perfectly shaped cigars. Many pictures of us, beers in hand and cigars clasped between our lips or in our fingers, were taken. It was great. Probably one of the finest, most relaxing evenings I have ever enjoyed in my life. There's simply about good beer, a good cigar, and good company that elevates your spirits. It's a combination that no anti-depressant, however powerful it may be, can equal.
Of course, the evening had to come to a close. Around eleven o' clock, we had to head inside because the Hotel was starting to receive complaints about the ruckus we were making in the garden. A few of us tried to start a game of cards, but Duncan, Leah, and I decided that instead, we wanted to watch "Thank You For Smoking." While we didn't watch it through the conclusion, it was nice to unwind a little more sampling a little Americana. I wouldn't say that I am homesick, but I am starting to discover some of the things from the States that I'm starting to miss: country-western music; decent Mexican food; steering wheels on the left sides of cars; free restroom facilities in pubs and restaurants; the right to privacy; even peanut butter, which has never been a significant element to my diet. I adore the commentary that "Thank You For Smoking" makes on our system of government and, more importantly, on the sense of personal entitlement, the unreasonable and altogether narcissistic expectation that society should support you, the attitude of coddling and hand-holding, that permeates our culture. It also doesn't hurt that I wish I was Nick Naylor.
Well, I suppose that there isn't much more to tell. After we had watched as much of the film as we cared to, I went upstairs, tossed the DVD back into my suitcase, changed into my pajamas, and went to bed. I was well satisfied when my head hit the pillow and without much time or effort at all, I was asleep. Like I've said, it was a delightful evening. So, if I may, let me close then with a word of advice: if any of you have the opportunity to visit London and you wish to explore the clubbing scene, I recommend that you go to Club Tesco. It's cheap and if you hang with the right people, you will have more fun than if you went to somewhere on Leicester Square or along Oxford Street.
Well, for the second consecutive day, my quiet evening at home didn't materialise. I ate dinner with Greg, Rob, Dwight, and Ben; we had marinated chicken, pasta in marinara sauce, and cooked peppers and onions. It was a remarkable meal--I am happy that Greg and Rob are such exemplary chefs because otherwise, I fear my dinners would have consisted of a great deal more takeaway, which, in the aggregate, can be rather costly. Well, Greg and Rob had finished with their tour on modern music in London that afternoon, so they were in a celebratory mood. In fact, they had been such a mood from three o' clock onwards--and they had no intentions of slackening with the arrival of the evening. "We're going to get fud up," Rob said once or twice through the meal with a grin.
"Yo," Greg chimed in, taking a long draught from his second or third glass of red wine, "I'm getting so drunk tonight. Those beers in the fridge are going to be so good." (He and Rob had earlier that day gone to Tesco and, in their words, "cleaned out all of the Beck's Beer.")
We all laughed. "Yeah, it was so hilarious when Rudy [one of our nicknames for Professor Rudalevige, a token of our affection] saw us coming downstairs this afternoon."
"What?" Dwight and I both asked. "What are you talking about?"
"Yo, Rudy saw us walking down the stairs this afternoon after we got back from Tesco."
"Yeah, I was carrying one of my bottles of Beck's," Rob continued the narrative, as it would happen bringing it to a close. "And he just looked at us and he was like, 'Started already?' It was so funny!"
"Especially since we finished our tour at a pub and we had already had a couple of rounds with him!" Greg exclaimed, choking back his laughter and another forkful of pasta and chicken.
"We're going to get fud up," Rob said again. "It's going to be a shit show."
After I helped with tidying up, I talked with Shannyn for a while in her, Leah, and Lauren Martin's room. I hadn't planned on drinking more that night. I had already had two glasses of red wine and I was pretty contented, and if Rob hadn't called me, my evening in all likelihoods would have gone largely according to plan. However, around eight o' clock, I heard a series of beeps emanating from my cell phone--or my "mobile," as folks on this side of the pond name it. Thanks to the innovation that is caller ID, I knew that it was Rob.
"Hey Rob," I said, pressing the green talk button and raising the phone to my ear.
"Yo, Chauncey." (His favourite nickname out of the litany which includes "Chazzle-Dazzle," "Chiz," "Chazilla," "Chizad," and "Mothers Lock Up Your Daughters.") "Are you drinking with us tonight?"
"Um," I hesitated a moment, "I think I may be."
"No, dude. That's not acceptable. Are you drinking with us tonight?"
What could I say, really? I heaved a sigh and exhaled the word, "Sure. I'm in."
Rob proceeded then to notify me that everybody was assembling in the lobby of the Arran House within the next five minutes or so. Besides my mess-mates for the evening and me, our happy party of debauchers was going to include Dan, Duncan, Leah, and (later on in the evening) Sara Verhalen, Annie, and LIza. Heading upstairs toward my room where I wanted to grab a jacket before we headed out, I passed Dan who was dressed up in a navy blazer and tie. For some reason explicable only to God, this inspired me to throw on one of my dress shirts and a bright yellow tie. As Leah and Duncan noted later, the resulting ensemble of shirt, tie, blue jeans, and black sneakers caused me to resemble a Republican campaign worker. Don't worry. I played it up for laughs. When you're desperate for a laugh and you have nothing else at your disposal, use the Republicans. Or the Democrats, if it suits your fancy. Realistically, they're interchangeable.
At the time, I was under the impression that we were going to the "Bricklayers Arms" or a club; and I suppose you could say that we did after a fashion. We hit up Club Tesco, which is located on Goodge Street just around the corner from the Underground station. Unlike the preponderance of clubs in London, there were no shady boosters wandering about the neighborhood, promises of cheap liquor, good music, and attractive women on their honeyed lips; no cover charge, no bouncers dressed in maroon shirts, dress slacks, and gold chains like a third-rate Sicilian would-be gangster. To be certain, it wasn't a paradise; there wasn't really anywhere to sit, and there was really no place where you cut loose and dance, which I suppose has everything to do with the fact that Tesco is a grocery store. That's right--I changed into my Republican campaigner outfit for a grocery store. Needless to say, I felt like something of twit for it, but such self-recriminations proved to be short-lived.
Reaching the alcohol section, everybody proceeded to make their selections for the evening; as I have previously mentioned, Rob and Greg had already made provisions for themselves, so they were cast mostly in the role of advisor to those of us who were not so blessed. Duncan and I were very pleased when we stumbled on the last five bottles of Newcastle, especially since Tesco was selling them at the special price of two bottles for two-pounds-four. We left one for the last man, but we decided to adopt its four brothers. I'm sorry to say it, but we didn't wait to return to the Arran House before opening them up. They were absolutely delicious. (If you have the opportunity to sample Newcastle, I strongly recommend that you pursue it, if for no other reason than you experience Newcastle's distinctive, almost nutty flavour.)
Once we had all arrived back at the Arran House, we headed into the garden, which is located in the rear of the building, where we proceeded to spend the rest of our night drinking, laughing, smoking, and listening to music. Duncan and Leah were so good as to offer their pipe tobacco and wrapping papers to everyone. Dan provided four brown, aromatic, perfectly shaped cigars. Many pictures of us, beers in hand and cigars clasped between our lips or in our fingers, were taken. It was great. Probably one of the finest, most relaxing evenings I have ever enjoyed in my life. There's simply about good beer, a good cigar, and good company that elevates your spirits. It's a combination that no anti-depressant, however powerful it may be, can equal.
Of course, the evening had to come to a close. Around eleven o' clock, we had to head inside because the Hotel was starting to receive complaints about the ruckus we were making in the garden. A few of us tried to start a game of cards, but Duncan, Leah, and I decided that instead, we wanted to watch "Thank You For Smoking." While we didn't watch it through the conclusion, it was nice to unwind a little more sampling a little Americana. I wouldn't say that I am homesick, but I am starting to discover some of the things from the States that I'm starting to miss: country-western music; decent Mexican food; steering wheels on the left sides of cars; free restroom facilities in pubs and restaurants; the right to privacy; even peanut butter, which has never been a significant element to my diet. I adore the commentary that "Thank You For Smoking" makes on our system of government and, more importantly, on the sense of personal entitlement, the unreasonable and altogether narcissistic expectation that society should support you, the attitude of coddling and hand-holding, that permeates our culture. It also doesn't hurt that I wish I was Nick Naylor.
Well, I suppose that there isn't much more to tell. After we had watched as much of the film as we cared to, I went upstairs, tossed the DVD back into my suitcase, changed into my pajamas, and went to bed. I was well satisfied when my head hit the pillow and without much time or effort at all, I was asleep. Like I've said, it was a delightful evening. So, if I may, let me close then with a word of advice: if any of you have the opportunity to visit London and you wish to explore the clubbing scene, I recommend that you go to Club Tesco. It's cheap and if you hang with the right people, you will have more fun than if you went to somewhere on Leicester Square or along Oxford Street.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Britain's Grand Cabinet of Curiosities
14 September 2008
Before I headed for the United Kingdom this summer, I always knew that I have my quieter days and my exuberant days, but it's another thing to live through one. Today, the agenda has consisted of showering, eating, completing my written evaluation for yesterday's tour on political theatre, and a visit to the British Museum. Nothing too overwhelming. Just a still and rather lethargic day in London. I have conflicted feelings about it, but before I delve into the day's events anymore deeply, I suppose I owe you all a brief account of last night.
Yesterday, I reported that after dinner, I was going to spend my evening working on my journal; that didn't happen. I went with Zack, Meghan, and Emma to "The Fitzrovia" for dinner. I had the roasted chicken dinner and a pint of Bombardier, which put me roughly five pounds over budget but was a delight to the tastebuds. Afterwards, I ran into Shannyn who was going with a troop of people to the Mayor's Thames Festival on the South Bank. I decided to tag along. I changed into something a little more practical considering the chilly and windy conditions outside--a navy sweater, dress shirt, and blue jeans--and then headed to Meghan, Abby, Katie, and Alana's room where everybody was congregating. That was fun because I had the opportunity to see Meghan drunk, which is always entertaining. At one point, she asked Alana to pass her a bottle of red wine complaining that she wasn't sufficiently drunk. Grimacing after a long draught that lasted perhaps three to four seconds, she stated, "That's not good at all."
"Well, you said that you wanted to get drunk," I couldn't resist the temptation. "You said nothing about titillating your pallet."
Meghan started to laugh at the word "titillate" for reasons that I think are obvious. More or less, everybody followed suit. What did you expect? We're students at one of the finest liberal arts colleges, the future of our country's intelligentsia, but we're not that mature.
Once that episode of hilarity drew to a close, we headed to the Goodge Street Station and hopped on to the Northern Line for Embankment. We disembarked and then headed across the Jubilee Bridge. Shannyn paused because the view from the bridge is nothing less than spectacular and she wanted to photograph it. I waited for her. Nobody else did, so in the end, Shannyn and I ended up sauntering up and down the South Bank together. We were able to see one of the most amazing fireworks displays I have ever seen in my life. Words cannot describe how beautiful and powerful it was. All I could say at the time was "I love this city."
As the residual brown and black clouds mingled with the strong scent of chordite drifted up the Thames, we headed back across the Thames. Originally, we were going to catch the Underground at Embankment, but Shannyn and I had both had our fill of crowds, and so we decided to catch a bus at Leicester Square and return to the Arran House that way. Once we arrived back, I headed upstairs where I talked with my mother for a while, worked on my journal, and then I headed for bed.
When I awoke this morning, I didn't do much of anything. I showered, dressed, munched on the remnants of the baton I yesterday purchased at Sainsbury's, and gulped down the last of my Diet Coke. (I suppose it's worth mentioning here that I've decided to switch from Coca Cola to Diet Coke, because I'd hate to have to go shopping for special shoes.) Rob, Dwight, Greg, and I went to a cheap baguette shop on Goodge Street for lunch, and then Dwight and I went to the British Museum, which is the last of the museums that Professor Rudalevige required us to visit.
I have to confess that I was really overwhelmed by the sheer size and diversity of the collection at the British Museum. I didn't read any of the descriptive or explanatory placards or study any of the exhibits with any great degree of care. There were great granite sarcophagi from Late Dynastic Egypt, ornate funerary masks from Papua New Guinea, colossal Assyrian wall reliefs depicting the bloody recreations of that civilization, all sorts of odds and ends from King George III's library, and of course the (infamous) Elgin Marbles. For two hours, I pretty much wandered up and down the galleries, staring at everything with pupils bigger than tea saucers. I think if I had remained for any longer than I did, my head would have started to hurt because it was so difficult to wrap my mind around everything.
That's not to say that I spent all that time among the relics of millenia of human civilization and an intelligent thought or two didn't occur to me. My mind spend a significant amount of time turning over Erica's passionate arguments about the repatriation of the Elgin Marbles, even as I was standing before them. I wouldn't say that I have decided whether they should or shouldn't be returned to the Greeks, but I was struck by the sterility of the gallery in which they were on display. The ceilings were high, standing twenty or thirty feet tall; and the walls and floors were plain and painted the most dismal shade of battleship gray. It reminded me of an enormous warehouse in the States, except the walls were lined with these intricately carved, incredibly old friezes depicting battles between the Amazons and the Greeks, the birth of Athens, and other important episodes in Greek history instead of crates or boxes. I know that considering the considerable levels of damage they have endured here and when they were still attached to the Parthenon, they can't be restored to their original home, but I should very much like to see them as they were when Pericles first unveiled them to the Athenian public. The awe, the wonder, the novelty.
Another (somewhat morbid) thought: when I was walking through a gallery in which they have all manners of mummies from every dynasty and period in Egyptian history, I wondered over how awful it would be for my body one distant day in the future to be exhumed, examined, and put on display in some museum. Could you imagine the young cockroaches, dressed in purple and white school uniforms, their crusty brown faces pressed against the glass while they wonder over the queerly shaped remains before them? It certainly reminds one of their morality; I couldn't help but think of Percy Shelley's famous sonnet:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Like the pharoah for whom Shelley titled the sonnet, each of us spend our lives erecting "monuments" that will bear our names into the future, relics to remind future generations that once we lived here. Ultimately, though, we have no more control over how we are remembered than we do over the weather--particularly, if we're discussing English weather--or the seasons; and often, the monuments we erect to our own memories crumble beneath the steely heel of Time. Mummies can be destroyed, ground up into powder for fertilizer or to make a quack's remedy. Statues can be defaced. Codices and papyri make excellent kindling. Children disappoint. Grandchildren can't remember our faces. Great-grandchildren don't know our names. And "the lone and level sands stretch far away..."
I will not try to depress you any further. It is certainly food for thought, and if I were to remain this train of thought to its final destination, I would say that this situation presents us with two (not necessarily conflicting) alternatives from which we may choose. We can choose to invest our energies and our ambitions in some entity or purpose higher than we are, a phenomenon that is not subject to the dictates of Time. Call it "God," if you are so inclined. We can also decide to live for the present, squeezing every drop of significance from every second that Happenstance has given us. But as I said, I don't want to travel to that station. Not today.
Anyway, Dwight and I left the British Museum around three o' clock and returned to the Arran House. Tonight the plan, which I reserve the right to alter at any moment, is: (1) prepare and eat dinner; (2) work on journals; and (3) relax and enjoy one of my last days in London. I trust that everybody is doing well. If any of you want to contact me, just give me a ring on Skype or AIM. I will try to be not-so-foreboding when you call. I promise.
Before I headed for the United Kingdom this summer, I always knew that I have my quieter days and my exuberant days, but it's another thing to live through one. Today, the agenda has consisted of showering, eating, completing my written evaluation for yesterday's tour on political theatre, and a visit to the British Museum. Nothing too overwhelming. Just a still and rather lethargic day in London. I have conflicted feelings about it, but before I delve into the day's events anymore deeply, I suppose I owe you all a brief account of last night.
Yesterday, I reported that after dinner, I was going to spend my evening working on my journal; that didn't happen. I went with Zack, Meghan, and Emma to "The Fitzrovia" for dinner. I had the roasted chicken dinner and a pint of Bombardier, which put me roughly five pounds over budget but was a delight to the tastebuds. Afterwards, I ran into Shannyn who was going with a troop of people to the Mayor's Thames Festival on the South Bank. I decided to tag along. I changed into something a little more practical considering the chilly and windy conditions outside--a navy sweater, dress shirt, and blue jeans--and then headed to Meghan, Abby, Katie, and Alana's room where everybody was congregating. That was fun because I had the opportunity to see Meghan drunk, which is always entertaining. At one point, she asked Alana to pass her a bottle of red wine complaining that she wasn't sufficiently drunk. Grimacing after a long draught that lasted perhaps three to four seconds, she stated, "That's not good at all."
"Well, you said that you wanted to get drunk," I couldn't resist the temptation. "You said nothing about titillating your pallet."
Meghan started to laugh at the word "titillate" for reasons that I think are obvious. More or less, everybody followed suit. What did you expect? We're students at one of the finest liberal arts colleges, the future of our country's intelligentsia, but we're not that mature.
Once that episode of hilarity drew to a close, we headed to the Goodge Street Station and hopped on to the Northern Line for Embankment. We disembarked and then headed across the Jubilee Bridge. Shannyn paused because the view from the bridge is nothing less than spectacular and she wanted to photograph it. I waited for her. Nobody else did, so in the end, Shannyn and I ended up sauntering up and down the South Bank together. We were able to see one of the most amazing fireworks displays I have ever seen in my life. Words cannot describe how beautiful and powerful it was. All I could say at the time was "I love this city."
As the residual brown and black clouds mingled with the strong scent of chordite drifted up the Thames, we headed back across the Thames. Originally, we were going to catch the Underground at Embankment, but Shannyn and I had both had our fill of crowds, and so we decided to catch a bus at Leicester Square and return to the Arran House that way. Once we arrived back, I headed upstairs where I talked with my mother for a while, worked on my journal, and then I headed for bed.
When I awoke this morning, I didn't do much of anything. I showered, dressed, munched on the remnants of the baton I yesterday purchased at Sainsbury's, and gulped down the last of my Diet Coke. (I suppose it's worth mentioning here that I've decided to switch from Coca Cola to Diet Coke, because I'd hate to have to go shopping for special shoes.) Rob, Dwight, Greg, and I went to a cheap baguette shop on Goodge Street for lunch, and then Dwight and I went to the British Museum, which is the last of the museums that Professor Rudalevige required us to visit.
I have to confess that I was really overwhelmed by the sheer size and diversity of the collection at the British Museum. I didn't read any of the descriptive or explanatory placards or study any of the exhibits with any great degree of care. There were great granite sarcophagi from Late Dynastic Egypt, ornate funerary masks from Papua New Guinea, colossal Assyrian wall reliefs depicting the bloody recreations of that civilization, all sorts of odds and ends from King George III's library, and of course the (infamous) Elgin Marbles. For two hours, I pretty much wandered up and down the galleries, staring at everything with pupils bigger than tea saucers. I think if I had remained for any longer than I did, my head would have started to hurt because it was so difficult to wrap my mind around everything.
That's not to say that I spent all that time among the relics of millenia of human civilization and an intelligent thought or two didn't occur to me. My mind spend a significant amount of time turning over Erica's passionate arguments about the repatriation of the Elgin Marbles, even as I was standing before them. I wouldn't say that I have decided whether they should or shouldn't be returned to the Greeks, but I was struck by the sterility of the gallery in which they were on display. The ceilings were high, standing twenty or thirty feet tall; and the walls and floors were plain and painted the most dismal shade of battleship gray. It reminded me of an enormous warehouse in the States, except the walls were lined with these intricately carved, incredibly old friezes depicting battles between the Amazons and the Greeks, the birth of Athens, and other important episodes in Greek history instead of crates or boxes. I know that considering the considerable levels of damage they have endured here and when they were still attached to the Parthenon, they can't be restored to their original home, but I should very much like to see them as they were when Pericles first unveiled them to the Athenian public. The awe, the wonder, the novelty.
Another (somewhat morbid) thought: when I was walking through a gallery in which they have all manners of mummies from every dynasty and period in Egyptian history, I wondered over how awful it would be for my body one distant day in the future to be exhumed, examined, and put on display in some museum. Could you imagine the young cockroaches, dressed in purple and white school uniforms, their crusty brown faces pressed against the glass while they wonder over the queerly shaped remains before them? It certainly reminds one of their morality; I couldn't help but think of Percy Shelley's famous sonnet:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Like the pharoah for whom Shelley titled the sonnet, each of us spend our lives erecting "monuments" that will bear our names into the future, relics to remind future generations that once we lived here. Ultimately, though, we have no more control over how we are remembered than we do over the weather--particularly, if we're discussing English weather--or the seasons; and often, the monuments we erect to our own memories crumble beneath the steely heel of Time. Mummies can be destroyed, ground up into powder for fertilizer or to make a quack's remedy. Statues can be defaced. Codices and papyri make excellent kindling. Children disappoint. Grandchildren can't remember our faces. Great-grandchildren don't know our names. And "the lone and level sands stretch far away..."
I will not try to depress you any further. It is certainly food for thought, and if I were to remain this train of thought to its final destination, I would say that this situation presents us with two (not necessarily conflicting) alternatives from which we may choose. We can choose to invest our energies and our ambitions in some entity or purpose higher than we are, a phenomenon that is not subject to the dictates of Time. Call it "God," if you are so inclined. We can also decide to live for the present, squeezing every drop of significance from every second that Happenstance has given us. But as I said, I don't want to travel to that station. Not today.
Anyway, Dwight and I left the British Museum around three o' clock and returned to the Arran House. Tonight the plan, which I reserve the right to alter at any moment, is: (1) prepare and eat dinner; (2) work on journals; and (3) relax and enjoy one of my last days in London. I trust that everybody is doing well. If any of you want to contact me, just give me a ring on Skype or AIM. I will try to be not-so-foreboding when you call. I promise.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
I Would Stab Your Mother, But I Definitely Wouldn't Mug You
13 September 2008
Today was probably the least uneventful day in the United Kingdom, relatively speaking. I rose early, and for only the second time in two weeks, I went to breakfast. Although the food wasn't anything too spectacular or too awful, it was pleasant to sit with Dwight and Ben and enjoy a meal together. Afterwards, I returned to my room, showered, trawled the Internet, and then Zack and I went to Subway for lunch. I know, I know that I'm in the United Kingdom and I should therefore spend my lunches at a English pub munching on bangers and mash, washing down the potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and Cumberland sausage with a pint of good English ale. Generally, I would be in agreement with you; and most days, I would greatly prefer such a repast. However, since today is a Sunday, most of the smaller local establishments are closed for the day.
Returning for a short while to the Arran House, Zack and I headed to Covent Garden where one of tour groups--in this case, our "politics and theatre" group which consisted of Meghan Blickman, Julieta, and Katie--was assembling before they began their tour. Their itinerary, I daresay, wasn't as ambitious as ours was yesterday; they stopped at five locations--the Royal Opera House, Drury Lane Theatre, Leicester Square, the Haymarket Theatre, and Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park--and for the first half, I think it safe to say that I really wasn't that impressed. Before the fourth (and penultimate) stop, the Haymarket Theatre, I was fully preparing to drop the hammer squarely on their skull. They tended to pause too long at their stops. They really didn't seem to divide the workload evenly among themselves. Julieta and Meghan dominated the conversation, and Katie seemed to accept whatever crumbs of "air time" she could get. I was irritated more than anything, feverishly scrawling notes in my moleskine just to make the time pass. It's definitely a weakness of mine, but if you don't impress me, I can't help it; I want to eviscerate you.
Fortunately, Meghan, Julieta, and Katie avoided such an unhappy fate, because at their final two stops, they really rallied together and seemed to address almost every grievance I had begun to nourish. The stops were not too long. They related things back to the topic matter with a greater degree of focus and clarity. Julieta and Meghan did not talk less than they had on the previous occasions, but Katie certainly contributed more to the dialogue. And of course, it didn't hurt that the final stop was Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park.
For the benefit of the uninitiated, the Speaker's Corner is an area at the northeastern corner of Hyde Park. It is near to the old site of the infamous "Tyburn Triangle," the site of hangings in London until the eighteenth century; and since 1855, it has been a place where practically any person may set up their soapbox--or their metal step ladder, as the case most commonly is nowadays--and declaim on any subject that they consider of importance. People of every creed, stripe, color, and political affiliation are represented. Walking from one end of the Corner to the other, you can hear the impassioned rhetoric of socialists, environmentalists, vegetarians, racists, Christian evangelicals, radical Muslims, secular humanists, conservatives, classical liberals, survivalists, anyone you can imagine.
Yet, it's remarkable not simply for the variety you see in the orators; as an American, it's fascinating because it is far more rough-and-tumble than your average cable news broadcast. Most speeches are punctuated with angry shouts of condemnation, feverish waving of the arms and hands, and profanity. Lots and lots of profanity. Audience members also will not hesitate to criticise anything to which they might take exception. For instance, we passed an elderly woman dressed rather like an Iowa housewife and with skin as white as the full moon who was declaring that God had accorded every race its respective homeland and that "useless foreigners" were risking His fiery judgment by coming to England, which, according to her, was reserved exclusively for the English nation. There was an extensive crowd standing before her, and most of them did not hesitate to lambaste every statement. I have to admit that I felt rather sorry for her, because most of her critics weren't interested in refuting her ideas--I presume, because they thought them so patently ridiculous--and were content to hurl insults at her. The old racialist tried to give as good as she got, but I'm ultimately glad to say that she met with limited success. The whole situation was far more confrontational in nature than we Americans are used to. It was far more direct, blunt, and visceral.
I have to own that it was also fascinating walking through Speaker's Corner and observing how many of the orators were Christian evangelicals. With the Scriptures raised aloft in their left hand, they were gesticulating as wildly and speaking as furiously as the Black Muslims to their left or the racist septugenarian across the way, declaring that the judgement of the Lord was drawing nigh. (Indeed, their rhetoric was so fierce and uncompromising that it would make John the Baptist, Savonarola, or even Jerry Falwell proud.) I say it was fascinating because it differed so radically from what I've seen of religion in the United Kingdom, which tends to far more sedate, intellectualised, and concerned with the crimes and outrages of the present life. Like a great hand had plucked them from the backhills of Tennessee, here they were foaming and frothing about Heaven and Hell, Christ the Everlasting Lord and Saviour, Judgement Day, and the evils of Islam. I don't want to say that it was something of a homecoming, because to do so would be to discredit so many men and women of faith whom I know also to be men and women of humanity; but it served to remind me that even in the midst of a profoundly secular society, there still was room for religious fanaticism.
Needless to say, I loved it and ending the tour there was a masterful stroke on the part of Julieta, Meghan, and Katie. I told them so after the fact, and I plan on repeating the compliment when I complete the evaluation form that Professor Rudalevige distributed at the beginning of the tour. Afterwards, I milled around the place with Dwight and Zack for a while before heading back to the Arran House. Dwight and I stopped along the way at the Sainsbury's Central on Tottenham Court Road where I bought a microwaveable dinner, two cans of Diet Coke, and a baton for three-pounds-forty-nine. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to congratulate myself on my thrift for too long because when we arrived back at the Hotel, Tamlyn informed us that due to the filthy condition of the kitchen this morning, our cooking privileges have been rescinded, which wouldn't be too tragic since we have a mere four days to go in London. But I'd hate it if I had to eat my money instead of the chilli con carne and rice I purchased tonight. Oh, well. There is hope, of course, as Tamlyn notified us that if we handed over the responsible parties, that would result in the restoration everybody else's privileges. We shall see if any of us can play stool pidgeon. Besides probably dining at a pub and working on journals then, there's not a great deal on the agenda tonight.
Oh, before I leave you all, I suppose that I should explain the title of this post. While we were walking through Speaker's Corner, Dwight and Zack heard an Afro-Carribean gentleman discussing the issue of racial violence. When the man was requested to provide an example by one of his audience members, he began to state, "Well, let's say if I was walking around and I was mugged by a Nigerian man..." Enter a very tall, very dark man from Nigeria. "What's going on?" He said (according to Zack and Dwight). The original man, of course, reiterated his main contention and then proceeded to resume his example of the Nigerian mugger. "I'm a Nigerian man," the newly arrived man interrupted soberly, "and I would stab your mother, but I definitely wouldn't mug you." Priceless. Absolutely priceless.
Today was probably the least uneventful day in the United Kingdom, relatively speaking. I rose early, and for only the second time in two weeks, I went to breakfast. Although the food wasn't anything too spectacular or too awful, it was pleasant to sit with Dwight and Ben and enjoy a meal together. Afterwards, I returned to my room, showered, trawled the Internet, and then Zack and I went to Subway for lunch. I know, I know that I'm in the United Kingdom and I should therefore spend my lunches at a English pub munching on bangers and mash, washing down the potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and Cumberland sausage with a pint of good English ale. Generally, I would be in agreement with you; and most days, I would greatly prefer such a repast. However, since today is a Sunday, most of the smaller local establishments are closed for the day.
Returning for a short while to the Arran House, Zack and I headed to Covent Garden where one of tour groups--in this case, our "politics and theatre" group which consisted of Meghan Blickman, Julieta, and Katie--was assembling before they began their tour. Their itinerary, I daresay, wasn't as ambitious as ours was yesterday; they stopped at five locations--the Royal Opera House, Drury Lane Theatre, Leicester Square, the Haymarket Theatre, and Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park--and for the first half, I think it safe to say that I really wasn't that impressed. Before the fourth (and penultimate) stop, the Haymarket Theatre, I was fully preparing to drop the hammer squarely on their skull. They tended to pause too long at their stops. They really didn't seem to divide the workload evenly among themselves. Julieta and Meghan dominated the conversation, and Katie seemed to accept whatever crumbs of "air time" she could get. I was irritated more than anything, feverishly scrawling notes in my moleskine just to make the time pass. It's definitely a weakness of mine, but if you don't impress me, I can't help it; I want to eviscerate you.
Fortunately, Meghan, Julieta, and Katie avoided such an unhappy fate, because at their final two stops, they really rallied together and seemed to address almost every grievance I had begun to nourish. The stops were not too long. They related things back to the topic matter with a greater degree of focus and clarity. Julieta and Meghan did not talk less than they had on the previous occasions, but Katie certainly contributed more to the dialogue. And of course, it didn't hurt that the final stop was Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park.
For the benefit of the uninitiated, the Speaker's Corner is an area at the northeastern corner of Hyde Park. It is near to the old site of the infamous "Tyburn Triangle," the site of hangings in London until the eighteenth century; and since 1855, it has been a place where practically any person may set up their soapbox--or their metal step ladder, as the case most commonly is nowadays--and declaim on any subject that they consider of importance. People of every creed, stripe, color, and political affiliation are represented. Walking from one end of the Corner to the other, you can hear the impassioned rhetoric of socialists, environmentalists, vegetarians, racists, Christian evangelicals, radical Muslims, secular humanists, conservatives, classical liberals, survivalists, anyone you can imagine.
Yet, it's remarkable not simply for the variety you see in the orators; as an American, it's fascinating because it is far more rough-and-tumble than your average cable news broadcast. Most speeches are punctuated with angry shouts of condemnation, feverish waving of the arms and hands, and profanity. Lots and lots of profanity. Audience members also will not hesitate to criticise anything to which they might take exception. For instance, we passed an elderly woman dressed rather like an Iowa housewife and with skin as white as the full moon who was declaring that God had accorded every race its respective homeland and that "useless foreigners" were risking His fiery judgment by coming to England, which, according to her, was reserved exclusively for the English nation. There was an extensive crowd standing before her, and most of them did not hesitate to lambaste every statement. I have to admit that I felt rather sorry for her, because most of her critics weren't interested in refuting her ideas--I presume, because they thought them so patently ridiculous--and were content to hurl insults at her. The old racialist tried to give as good as she got, but I'm ultimately glad to say that she met with limited success. The whole situation was far more confrontational in nature than we Americans are used to. It was far more direct, blunt, and visceral.
I have to own that it was also fascinating walking through Speaker's Corner and observing how many of the orators were Christian evangelicals. With the Scriptures raised aloft in their left hand, they were gesticulating as wildly and speaking as furiously as the Black Muslims to their left or the racist septugenarian across the way, declaring that the judgement of the Lord was drawing nigh. (Indeed, their rhetoric was so fierce and uncompromising that it would make John the Baptist, Savonarola, or even Jerry Falwell proud.) I say it was fascinating because it differed so radically from what I've seen of religion in the United Kingdom, which tends to far more sedate, intellectualised, and concerned with the crimes and outrages of the present life. Like a great hand had plucked them from the backhills of Tennessee, here they were foaming and frothing about Heaven and Hell, Christ the Everlasting Lord and Saviour, Judgement Day, and the evils of Islam. I don't want to say that it was something of a homecoming, because to do so would be to discredit so many men and women of faith whom I know also to be men and women of humanity; but it served to remind me that even in the midst of a profoundly secular society, there still was room for religious fanaticism.
Needless to say, I loved it and ending the tour there was a masterful stroke on the part of Julieta, Meghan, and Katie. I told them so after the fact, and I plan on repeating the compliment when I complete the evaluation form that Professor Rudalevige distributed at the beginning of the tour. Afterwards, I milled around the place with Dwight and Zack for a while before heading back to the Arran House. Dwight and I stopped along the way at the Sainsbury's Central on Tottenham Court Road where I bought a microwaveable dinner, two cans of Diet Coke, and a baton for three-pounds-forty-nine. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to congratulate myself on my thrift for too long because when we arrived back at the Hotel, Tamlyn informed us that due to the filthy condition of the kitchen this morning, our cooking privileges have been rescinded, which wouldn't be too tragic since we have a mere four days to go in London. But I'd hate it if I had to eat my money instead of the chilli con carne and rice I purchased tonight. Oh, well. There is hope, of course, as Tamlyn notified us that if we handed over the responsible parties, that would result in the restoration everybody else's privileges. We shall see if any of us can play stool pidgeon. Besides probably dining at a pub and working on journals then, there's not a great deal on the agenda tonight.
Oh, before I leave you all, I suppose that I should explain the title of this post. While we were walking through Speaker's Corner, Dwight and Zack heard an Afro-Carribean gentleman discussing the issue of racial violence. When the man was requested to provide an example by one of his audience members, he began to state, "Well, let's say if I was walking around and I was mugged by a Nigerian man..." Enter a very tall, very dark man from Nigeria. "What's going on?" He said (according to Zack and Dwight). The original man, of course, reiterated his main contention and then proceeded to resume his example of the Nigerian mugger. "I'm a Nigerian man," the newly arrived man interrupted soberly, "and I would stab your mother, but I definitely wouldn't mug you." Priceless. Absolutely priceless.
More from the Twelfth
12 September 2008
You know how I said that for the last few days, there wasn't anything that had excited me so much that I didn't feel compelled to report it? Well, I think it's safe to say that that is no longer the case.
I ate dinner last night with Ben, Greg, Rob, Sara Verhalen, and Annie, and while I can't complain about the price--dinner cost me only two-pounds-twenty--the meal, perhaps for the first time while I've been here, was something of a disappointment. Greg, Ben, and Rob tried making hamburgers, but they ultimately turned into enormous, greasy, roughly circular hunks of beef; they didn't taste particularly good or bad, but I'd pretty certain that doesn't qualify even as a compliment.
To be honest, though, the food wasn't what bothered me the most. For those of you who have also been following Shannyn's blog, you may be aware of the practical joke that Ben, Greg, Rob, Annie, Liza, Sara Verhalen, and Sarah Salisbury perpetrated on Shannyn, Lauren Martin, Deitz, Leah, and the rest. I realise that it's ultimately a matter of small concern, but since it happened, I've experienced no small measure of conflicted emotions because while I've had many great times with Ben, Greg, Rob, and everyone else, their routine has been starting to wear. I don't approve of what they did--it was stupid, purposeless, and childish--and each minute I spend with them, whether it's at the dinner table, the pubs, or in our room, I feel as though I am condoning it. And what's more, I worry that in spending so much time with them, I am foreclosing any opportunity I may possess to grow closer to Leah, Deitz, Zack Garlitos, Meghan Blickman, or any of the other phenomenal people in our group. It's a difficult situation, partially because I am making it such because of my social over-sensitivity and my (sometimes overbearing) sense of obligation, but also because I do need to decide what I ultimately want this experience be. A year-long vacation in Europe, with classes punctuating extended episodes of drinking, clubbing, and general tomfoolery? Or a genuine opportunity for social, intellectual, and spiritual enlightenment?
All right. Enough self-indulgent angst and public introspection. Now we resume our story...
After dinner, Sara, Annie, and I cleaned the dishes and then I headed to Goodge Street where I hopped on to the Underground and headed toward Embankment. I ran into quite the party on the platform at Goodge Street--Shannyn, Chris Castillo, Leah, Jen, Katie, Meghan Blickman, Emma Healy, Lauren Martin, Alana, Lauren Deitz, and Julieta. Zack would have been there, except that he had forgotten his Oyster Card and had to dash back to the Arran House. The gang really was all there. It was really great riding on the Underground in the company of people who understood that the British don't really talk on the train. They may carry on a whispered conversation with the man or woman seated immediately next to, or across from, them. But otherwise, mum truly is the word.
Once we arrived at Embankment, though--oh, dear tidal wave of chaos and calamity! Last night was the Thames Festival. However, the Waterloo Underground Station was closed, presumably either for weekend maintenance or because the Metropolitan Police have the craziest notions about crowd control; consequently, everyone disembarked from the train, choking the platforms, escalators, and stairwells like cooked pasta in a garbage disposal. Underground employees were trying to disentangle everything, shouting instructions over loudspeakers and motioning with brightly colored batons what route people should follow to exit the station, but with no success. The primordial ember inside of each of our chests compelled us to follow the herd up the escalator, through the labrinyth of tunnels, and up to the surface. Instructions to the contrary be damned.
It was madness. So many people going in so many different directions at widely varying speeds. Most people went at a pretty lazy pace, pausing wherever or whenever they fancied, even if it was in the middle of the sidewalk or on the stairs leading to the Jubilee Bridge. No warning. No indication. Just stop. Perhaps even strike up a conversation to their friend who had stopped next to them. Or they would maybe even kiss their girlfriend on the forehead. Mostly as a result of the inconsistent flow of traffic, our happy party was divided into several smaller companies that each consisted perhaps of two or three people ducking and dodging their way through the crowd like a halfback running for daylight. (Emma and Leah were in my little grouping.) It was all very frustrating, particularly as everyone in our group understood that we were running out of time to reach the theatre.
At length, we reached the National Theatre, and ascending the steps to reach our seats, we discovered that the doors were closed. That's right. We rushed through the crowd and had managed even to arrive at the theatre ten minutes in advance of the play's begnning. We were out-of-breath, sweaty, and exhausted. And the doors hadn't opened yet. Let me say that again just to make everythig perfectly clear. The doors hadn't opened yet. The doors hadn't opened yet. It might not surprise you that I didn't have too many gentle words to spare after that. I wanted to punch an infant. I know that is incredibly harsh, but it is the truth.
Fortunately, once we were ushered into the auditorium, it proved to be worth it all. We watched two one-act plays by Harold Pinter--A Slight Ache and Landscape--and while I found them rather difficult at moments, I relished the whole experience. It was my first exposure to Pinter, and I was delighted by his wordplay and clever use of language. I also was impressed with his effective use of silence to propel things forward. As I reflect over it, I cannot help but think of such songs as Simon & Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence" or Allison Krauss' "You Say It Best When You Say Nothing At All," songs about the rhetorical power of silence in different situations. There truly are moments when you can accomplish more without uttering a sound. I just wished that I had that ability. It also made me wish that I was an English major and that I could make my career unpacking such plays, but alas! the Registrar's Office wasn't exactly near to hand.
I'll admit that I enjoyed the former play a great deal more than the second, but that was largely because I found Landscape to be more opaque. The actors were seated, facing in opposite directions from each other with a great long kitchen table positioned in between. They never rose from their chairs for the entirety of the play, and they never actually addressed one another directly. Once I got back to the Arran House, I looked it up on the Internet, and apparently, the actors were supposed to be a married couple reminiscing over points in their relationship: the wife, who was dressed plainly in a nightgown with a blanket over her lap, was concentrating on its Romantic beginnings; her husband was nervously fiddling with a coffee cup that was resting on the tabletop and describing the shape of things in recent years. Unfortunately, by the time I realised that neither player was rising from their chair, I had lost track of what they were saying--the true meat of the play--and thus became irrevocably lost.
Once the play concluded, we bade good-bye to Professor Qualls who was returning to the States Sunday morning. Then a troop of us--Lauren Deitz, Zack, Meghan, Emma, Tristan, and I--followed Professor Rudalevige to "The Coal Hole," a pleasant little pub located somewhere between Westminster and the City. Emma and Meghan were pretty animated over the whole production, which means to say that they loathed it. As Emma told Professor Rudalevige, "Did your mind wander at all? Because during the second one, mine was. I was trying to think of where to start burning down the stage." But we managed to have a delightful conversation over a round of drinks--I had a pint of bitter from Thomas Taylor Landlord. Not my favourite alcoholic beverage, but I wasn't in the mood for Strongbow and I am never drinking Stella Artois. So help me God.
We arrived at the right time, because the bartenders issued last call not twenty minutes after our shadows darkened the door. Dispatching the last of our respective drinks, we then sauntered back to the Hotel. It was a great opportunity for us to become better acquainted with Professor Rudalevige, and we didn't waste it. And between Zack's hurdling over bicycle racks and Emma's impression of Rocky Balboa, I'm pretty certain that we kept him well entertained. All and all, it was a deligthful evening. And I was ultimately well satisfied when I crawled beneath my comforter a little after one in the morning.
You know how I said that for the last few days, there wasn't anything that had excited me so much that I didn't feel compelled to report it? Well, I think it's safe to say that that is no longer the case.
I ate dinner last night with Ben, Greg, Rob, Sara Verhalen, and Annie, and while I can't complain about the price--dinner cost me only two-pounds-twenty--the meal, perhaps for the first time while I've been here, was something of a disappointment. Greg, Ben, and Rob tried making hamburgers, but they ultimately turned into enormous, greasy, roughly circular hunks of beef; they didn't taste particularly good or bad, but I'd pretty certain that doesn't qualify even as a compliment.
To be honest, though, the food wasn't what bothered me the most. For those of you who have also been following Shannyn's blog, you may be aware of the practical joke that Ben, Greg, Rob, Annie, Liza, Sara Verhalen, and Sarah Salisbury perpetrated on Shannyn, Lauren Martin, Deitz, Leah, and the rest. I realise that it's ultimately a matter of small concern, but since it happened, I've experienced no small measure of conflicted emotions because while I've had many great times with Ben, Greg, Rob, and everyone else, their routine has been starting to wear. I don't approve of what they did--it was stupid, purposeless, and childish--and each minute I spend with them, whether it's at the dinner table, the pubs, or in our room, I feel as though I am condoning it. And what's more, I worry that in spending so much time with them, I am foreclosing any opportunity I may possess to grow closer to Leah, Deitz, Zack Garlitos, Meghan Blickman, or any of the other phenomenal people in our group. It's a difficult situation, partially because I am making it such because of my social over-sensitivity and my (sometimes overbearing) sense of obligation, but also because I do need to decide what I ultimately want this experience be. A year-long vacation in Europe, with classes punctuating extended episodes of drinking, clubbing, and general tomfoolery? Or a genuine opportunity for social, intellectual, and spiritual enlightenment?
All right. Enough self-indulgent angst and public introspection. Now we resume our story...
After dinner, Sara, Annie, and I cleaned the dishes and then I headed to Goodge Street where I hopped on to the Underground and headed toward Embankment. I ran into quite the party on the platform at Goodge Street--Shannyn, Chris Castillo, Leah, Jen, Katie, Meghan Blickman, Emma Healy, Lauren Martin, Alana, Lauren Deitz, and Julieta. Zack would have been there, except that he had forgotten his Oyster Card and had to dash back to the Arran House. The gang really was all there. It was really great riding on the Underground in the company of people who understood that the British don't really talk on the train. They may carry on a whispered conversation with the man or woman seated immediately next to, or across from, them. But otherwise, mum truly is the word.
Once we arrived at Embankment, though--oh, dear tidal wave of chaos and calamity! Last night was the Thames Festival. However, the Waterloo Underground Station was closed, presumably either for weekend maintenance or because the Metropolitan Police have the craziest notions about crowd control; consequently, everyone disembarked from the train, choking the platforms, escalators, and stairwells like cooked pasta in a garbage disposal. Underground employees were trying to disentangle everything, shouting instructions over loudspeakers and motioning with brightly colored batons what route people should follow to exit the station, but with no success. The primordial ember inside of each of our chests compelled us to follow the herd up the escalator, through the labrinyth of tunnels, and up to the surface. Instructions to the contrary be damned.
It was madness. So many people going in so many different directions at widely varying speeds. Most people went at a pretty lazy pace, pausing wherever or whenever they fancied, even if it was in the middle of the sidewalk or on the stairs leading to the Jubilee Bridge. No warning. No indication. Just stop. Perhaps even strike up a conversation to their friend who had stopped next to them. Or they would maybe even kiss their girlfriend on the forehead. Mostly as a result of the inconsistent flow of traffic, our happy party was divided into several smaller companies that each consisted perhaps of two or three people ducking and dodging their way through the crowd like a halfback running for daylight. (Emma and Leah were in my little grouping.) It was all very frustrating, particularly as everyone in our group understood that we were running out of time to reach the theatre.
At length, we reached the National Theatre, and ascending the steps to reach our seats, we discovered that the doors were closed. That's right. We rushed through the crowd and had managed even to arrive at the theatre ten minutes in advance of the play's begnning. We were out-of-breath, sweaty, and exhausted. And the doors hadn't opened yet. Let me say that again just to make everythig perfectly clear. The doors hadn't opened yet. The doors hadn't opened yet. It might not surprise you that I didn't have too many gentle words to spare after that. I wanted to punch an infant. I know that is incredibly harsh, but it is the truth.
Fortunately, once we were ushered into the auditorium, it proved to be worth it all. We watched two one-act plays by Harold Pinter--A Slight Ache and Landscape--and while I found them rather difficult at moments, I relished the whole experience. It was my first exposure to Pinter, and I was delighted by his wordplay and clever use of language. I also was impressed with his effective use of silence to propel things forward. As I reflect over it, I cannot help but think of such songs as Simon & Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence" or Allison Krauss' "You Say It Best When You Say Nothing At All," songs about the rhetorical power of silence in different situations. There truly are moments when you can accomplish more without uttering a sound. I just wished that I had that ability. It also made me wish that I was an English major and that I could make my career unpacking such plays, but alas! the Registrar's Office wasn't exactly near to hand.
I'll admit that I enjoyed the former play a great deal more than the second, but that was largely because I found Landscape to be more opaque. The actors were seated, facing in opposite directions from each other with a great long kitchen table positioned in between. They never rose from their chairs for the entirety of the play, and they never actually addressed one another directly. Once I got back to the Arran House, I looked it up on the Internet, and apparently, the actors were supposed to be a married couple reminiscing over points in their relationship: the wife, who was dressed plainly in a nightgown with a blanket over her lap, was concentrating on its Romantic beginnings; her husband was nervously fiddling with a coffee cup that was resting on the tabletop and describing the shape of things in recent years. Unfortunately, by the time I realised that neither player was rising from their chair, I had lost track of what they were saying--the true meat of the play--and thus became irrevocably lost.
Once the play concluded, we bade good-bye to Professor Qualls who was returning to the States Sunday morning. Then a troop of us--Lauren Deitz, Zack, Meghan, Emma, Tristan, and I--followed Professor Rudalevige to "The Coal Hole," a pleasant little pub located somewhere between Westminster and the City. Emma and Meghan were pretty animated over the whole production, which means to say that they loathed it. As Emma told Professor Rudalevige, "Did your mind wander at all? Because during the second one, mine was. I was trying to think of where to start burning down the stage." But we managed to have a delightful conversation over a round of drinks--I had a pint of bitter from Thomas Taylor Landlord. Not my favourite alcoholic beverage, but I wasn't in the mood for Strongbow and I am never drinking Stella Artois. So help me God.
We arrived at the right time, because the bartenders issued last call not twenty minutes after our shadows darkened the door. Dispatching the last of our respective drinks, we then sauntered back to the Hotel. It was a great opportunity for us to become better acquainted with Professor Rudalevige, and we didn't waste it. And between Zack's hurdling over bicycle racks and Emma's impression of Rocky Balboa, I'm pretty certain that we kept him well entertained. All and all, it was a deligthful evening. And I was ultimately well satisfied when I crawled beneath my comforter a little after one in the morning.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Touring the East End
12 September 2008
Today, Dwight, Zack, and I led several members of our group, including Professors Rudalevige and Qualls, on a tour around Spitalfields and Whitechapel in East London. If I had to say it in as few words as possible, the topic of our tour was immigration into the UK. Stated in more extensive terms, our tour was meant to discuss how different groups of immigrants from the French Huguenots in the seventeenth century to the Bangladhesis in the present have related to each other and to broader British society. I'm not terribly certain that we accomplished that aim. In fact, I'm not particularly sure that you would hear an identical or even a roughly identical response if you asked Dwight and Zack about the topic of our tour. But I thought it was interesting.
We began at Old Spitalfields Market, which is located just on the border between the City of London and the East End. From there, we proceeded by sundry backlanes and roads to Brick Lane, pausing for a moment to reflect over Christ Church, Spitalfields, a majestic Baroque church designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor in the early eighteenth century to minister to the spiritual needs of the burgeoning population of the East End as well as impress the power and grandeur of the Church of England on the dissenting French Huguenots. We then headed south on Brick Lane to Whitechapel Road, which we followed eastwards until we reached the East London Mosque and the Fieldgate Street Great Synagogue. From there, we continued south passing a few more sites related to East London's now-extinct Jewish community and finishing up at St. Katherine's Docks and the Pool of London. It was really fascinating because so many of these sites had been used for widely varying purposes by the different groups that have settled in the East End; for instance, there was a mosque we passed on Brick Lane which been a Huguenot church, a Methodist chapel, and a Jewish synagogue at different points in its existence before finally becoming a house of worship to thousands of Bangladhesi Muslims in 1976. It's simply remarkable to be in a city that is supersaturated with history. And what a variety, too! Whether your pallet favours the raw, semi-civilised earthiness of Anglo-Saxons, the Elizabethan courtier with all his dainty pretensions, the sympathetic hypocrisy of the Victorian middle class, or even a plate of sweltering hot Chicken Madras, there's something for you in London.
After our tour concluded, which was around eleven-thirty in the morning, I returned to the Arran House where I slept and diddled on my computer for much of the afternoon. For those of you who have expressed interest in my imaginary country last year, you might be happy to know that I am flirting with writing a brief history of it. Whether it turns into a satire or a work of serious imagination, I have yet to determine. Other than the preceding, there hasn't been anything that has proven so compelling that I want to report here. On Wednesday, we attended Mayor's Question Time and visited with John Biggs, a member of the Greater London Assembly (GLA); and yesterday, we visited the East London Mosque where we shown around the place by a rather attractive young woman from Georgia who converted to Islam while she was in college because she found its many rituals and rules of behaviour to be "inspiring." I know that that sounded really unkind of me, but based on the discussion in a classroom session we had after the fact, I think everyone experienced no small measure of difficulty coming to terms with the facts (a) that this woman was an American, (b) that she had freely converted to Islam, and (c) that she seemed to embrace its tenets without any sign or token of internal conflict. Ask around. I'm not alone in this.
I'll probably write more later. I may even write a more complete account of the previous two or three days if I feel sufficiently ambitious. Anyway, we're attending a show at the National Theatre tonight, and later this week, we're going to see Billy Eliot. Only five more days in London. It's so hard for me to imagine.
Today, Dwight, Zack, and I led several members of our group, including Professors Rudalevige and Qualls, on a tour around Spitalfields and Whitechapel in East London. If I had to say it in as few words as possible, the topic of our tour was immigration into the UK. Stated in more extensive terms, our tour was meant to discuss how different groups of immigrants from the French Huguenots in the seventeenth century to the Bangladhesis in the present have related to each other and to broader British society. I'm not terribly certain that we accomplished that aim. In fact, I'm not particularly sure that you would hear an identical or even a roughly identical response if you asked Dwight and Zack about the topic of our tour. But I thought it was interesting.
We began at Old Spitalfields Market, which is located just on the border between the City of London and the East End. From there, we proceeded by sundry backlanes and roads to Brick Lane, pausing for a moment to reflect over Christ Church, Spitalfields, a majestic Baroque church designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor in the early eighteenth century to minister to the spiritual needs of the burgeoning population of the East End as well as impress the power and grandeur of the Church of England on the dissenting French Huguenots. We then headed south on Brick Lane to Whitechapel Road, which we followed eastwards until we reached the East London Mosque and the Fieldgate Street Great Synagogue. From there, we continued south passing a few more sites related to East London's now-extinct Jewish community and finishing up at St. Katherine's Docks and the Pool of London. It was really fascinating because so many of these sites had been used for widely varying purposes by the different groups that have settled in the East End; for instance, there was a mosque we passed on Brick Lane which been a Huguenot church, a Methodist chapel, and a Jewish synagogue at different points in its existence before finally becoming a house of worship to thousands of Bangladhesi Muslims in 1976. It's simply remarkable to be in a city that is supersaturated with history. And what a variety, too! Whether your pallet favours the raw, semi-civilised earthiness of Anglo-Saxons, the Elizabethan courtier with all his dainty pretensions, the sympathetic hypocrisy of the Victorian middle class, or even a plate of sweltering hot Chicken Madras, there's something for you in London.
After our tour concluded, which was around eleven-thirty in the morning, I returned to the Arran House where I slept and diddled on my computer for much of the afternoon. For those of you who have expressed interest in my imaginary country last year, you might be happy to know that I am flirting with writing a brief history of it. Whether it turns into a satire or a work of serious imagination, I have yet to determine. Other than the preceding, there hasn't been anything that has proven so compelling that I want to report here. On Wednesday, we attended Mayor's Question Time and visited with John Biggs, a member of the Greater London Assembly (GLA); and yesterday, we visited the East London Mosque where we shown around the place by a rather attractive young woman from Georgia who converted to Islam while she was in college because she found its many rituals and rules of behaviour to be "inspiring." I know that that sounded really unkind of me, but based on the discussion in a classroom session we had after the fact, I think everyone experienced no small measure of difficulty coming to terms with the facts (a) that this woman was an American, (b) that she had freely converted to Islam, and (c) that she seemed to embrace its tenets without any sign or token of internal conflict. Ask around. I'm not alone in this.
I'll probably write more later. I may even write a more complete account of the previous two or three days if I feel sufficiently ambitious. Anyway, we're attending a show at the National Theatre tonight, and later this week, we're going to see Billy Eliot. Only five more days in London. It's so hard for me to imagine.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Fundamental Fairness
9 September 2008As far as our days in England have gone, today was pretty unexceptional. In terms of scheduled activities for the program, we had a class session this morning, and tonight, we enjoyed the company of Dickinson's Almuni Club in London at a pub called "The Old Star" on Broadway near St. James' Park. On a personal level, I rose late, went to class, went to Pizza Hut where I made a pig of myself, returned to the Hotel, passed out for two hours, worked on my group project with Dwight and Zack, went to the function with the Alumni Club, returned to the Arran House for a second time, and went to bed. In a nutshell, that was my day. However, if I may, I want to take this opportunity to pause and reflect over certain portions of today's class session, so please bear with me if things start getting nasty. I'm about to indulge in my harsher, more judgmental side.
(Nota Bene: For convenience's sake, I have separated them into sections; this will help to keep me focused on the task at hand, as well as give you a handle for what I'll be discussing.)
I. The devastation of London compared to that of urban centres in Russia and Germany
For a significant portion of class, we discussed the impact of the Blitz in shaping the identity and appearance of modern London. Throughout our three weeks or so here, it's continually intruded into the conversation; for instance, at the Ragged School Museum in East London, the curator mentioned how one could tell what areas were most damaged in German air raids based on whether the site was currently occupied by some modern monstrosity of concrete and steel. Examples of such areas include Cheapside, which is within a stone's throw of St. Paul's Cathedral; Barbican, and Miles End in East London. We also encountered it in our meeting with Mr. Hannigan when one of his associates mentioned how rapidly the populace returned to using the Underground after the terrorist attacks of 7. July 2005 and how this resilence was attributed to "the Blitz spirit." The references quite simply like dandelions; they sprout up everywhere, whether you're looking for them or you aren't.
In class today, however, Professor Qualls, whose historical specialty is Russia and Germany through the mid-twentieth century, described how the devastation suffered by the British, in relative terms, paled to that of cities and towns on the Continent. He noted that whereas roughly a quarter of the structures in London were levelled by enemy fire, on average eighty percent of cities on the Continent were flattened by bombs and heavy artillery fire. And whereas Londoners, such as author Elizabeth Bowen in her essay "London 1940" were faced with empty streets "glitter[ing] with smashed glass," (217) such cities as Leningrad, which was besieged by the Wehrmact for almost two-and-a-half years, suffered from starvation, disease, and continual assault by a determined and frequently ruthless enemy (see above). Notwithstanding the rhetoric of Winston Churchill and others, the miseries of Londoners never approached this level of desperation. There was rationing of tea, sugar, cloth, and other household goods, but no-one ever had to resort to boiling down furniture, so that the glue binding it together can be mixed into something to eat. Consequently, Professor Qualls contended that the horrors of the Blitz, while certainly awful as much as we esteem every human life to be worthy of preservation, have been exaggerated considerably in order to create a national myth, which helps to give the modern British identity form.
In response to this analysis of the significance of the Blitz, Professor Rudalevige suggested something that I wish we would have had time to investigate more thoroughly in class; namely, this idea that the sense of revulsion and horror was grounded, to some extent, in the people's pre-war expectations concerning what might befall them as civilians. On a somewhat universal level, the preponderance of the civilian populations in belligerent nations, including the inhabitants of London, were shocked to find that they were, for the first time in world history, targets for bombs, artillery shells, and other weapons of war. In the past, there had been civilian deaths, but with perhaps the exception of the religious wars in the Low Countries, France, and the Holy Roman Empire during the sixteen and seventeenth centuries, it had never before been official policy to target civilians for destruction. It simply wasn't done. But with the advent of the Second World War, both sides embraced the idea that since they had been forced into war through the aggression of their opponents, they were justified in resorting to any possible tactic that might bring about the war's successful conclusion. Put more directly, for the people of such British cities as Birmingham, Coventry, and London, the populace of Berlin, Munich, and Hamburg became expendable. The necessary price for victory.
More parochially, the people of the United Kingdom had been raised with the confidence that though the Empire might demand their participation in conflicts in Asia, Africa, and Europe, they would remain reasonably safe from any danger on their island. Wherever the tide of war might roll, it would not be able to malign Britain itself, which William Shakespeare in Richard II had famously declared to be a "fortress built by Nature for herself/Against infection and the hands of war, [...]" And if you had looked at the history of Britain till then, you wouldn't have much reason for skepticism about such confidence, such faith in their homeland's invulnerability. Besides the might of the Royal Navy, there was the simple fact that no-one since William the Conqueror in 1066 had conquered Britain. There had been moments since the eleventh century when it had appeared as if the unthinkable might occur, whether it was the Invincible Armada in 1588 or Napoleon Bonaparte and his Grand Armee in 1805, but some happy turn in fortune, such as the "Protestant Wind" which scattered the Spanish fleet after their defeat by the smaller English navy, or timely military victory like Nelson's triumph at Trafalgar prevented it from coming to pass. When the bombs began to affect whole stretches of London from Buckingham Palace to the docks in East London, they were thus horrified--not simply because the Germans were destroying their homes and businesses, but also because they were destroying the people of London's preconceptions about their role as civilians and their vulnerability to military attack.
II. Should the British return the items they collected during the heyday of their empire to their countries of origin?
Toward the end of class, Professor Rudalevige redirected the conversation from the Blitz to whether the British should, in light of the disappearance of their empire, return such valued antiquities as the Elgin Marbles or "Cleopatra's Needle" to their respective countries of origin. On this question, the class quickly divided into two camps consisting of those who thought they should and those who thought they didn't. I think it may not surprise anyone to read that I belonged to the latter party--not necessarily because I retain a certain nostalgia for the days when a quarter of the world's surface was under the control of the Union Jack, but because I believe that it's impossible for us to atone completely for our predecessors' sins. More on my position in a moment, but I want first to describe the former group's rationale for restoring timeless artifacts to their countries of origin.
I suppose when you cut things down to their core or heart, their argument is one of "fundamental fairness." Empire-building is wrong because everyone is equal and as such has the right to live their life as they choose, without the interference from some faraway foreign power. It simply doesn't sit well with people. Since it's nearly universally recognised that a criminal should not profit from his misconduct, neither should an imperial power benefit intellectually by plundering its colonies of timeless artifacts that are crucial to the proper understanding of their history and development. As one of the people in class exclaimed pretty bluntly, "It's just not fair!"
My response to such arguments, which I will admit are logical on their face, is three-fold. First, I would remind everyone that life isn't fair. We can see this whenever we see a boy easily outpace his classmates in a foot-race across the playground, listen to speech delivered by a gifted orator, or read a beautiful book of poems. If life was indeed "fair," if each of us were truly "equal" to one another, then each of us should have an equal part of these good things; we would all be of equal ability, whether it is intellectual, physical, or even spiritual. However, that's simply not true--and God be praised for that fact, because it means that we have the opportunity to live in a world filled with all manners and types of people. There are some who can paint well, some whose voices remind one of the angels in Heaven, some who are capable of prolonged physical exertion, some who have the ability to communicate their thoughts clearly through the written word. We don't all break the tape at the same time, and that's perfectly all right.
Second, in condemning the accumulation of antiquities by the British purely on the grounds that it is "unfair," those who think the British should return such goods realistically foreclose any possibility of additional dialogue. To say that it isn't fair for the British to continue to have the Elgin Marbles in their possession is not an argument or even a premise in an argument; it is an assertion, which can never be categorically denied or proven. If it does accomplish anything, I would say that it prejudices the conversation in the favour of the one who makes it, because while in our more sober moments most of us will admit that life isn't fair, we all believe that "fairness" and "equality" are values to which we should aspire, because we all agree, I think, that it is wrong for one person to say he is better than his neighbor simply based on the fact that he's the slower man in a sprint.
Finally, I would say--and I did, in fact, say in class--that it's problematic to demand the British return the sundry antiquities they acquired during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries because of the prolonged periods of time that such goods have been in their possession; the British have incorporated themselves into the narrative behind the Elgin Marbles or Cleopatra's Needle or the Japanese armour in the Victoria and Albert Museum, perhaps as much as the people who were responsible for their creation. As Ben mentioned in class, Americans would not agree if France abruptly demanded that we return the Statue of Liberty because while the French were responsible for its construction, the Statue has become a critical component of the story of America. And certainly, on a related note, we need to consider whether it's right of us to require the contemporary generation of British men and women to surrender something that has become part of their cultural landscape simply because their ancestors stole it a few decades ago. After all, it used to be a principle in inheritance law across Europe that after the third generation, the rights of an usurper's descendants equaled and even possibly surpassed those of the original proprietors. If we must pursue a policy of fairness at all costs, I don't think it's terribly fair of us perhaps to punish the children--or should I say the great-grandchildren?--for the trespasses of their ancestors.
***
I could go on, but I won't since I realise (a) that these aren't necessarily popular viewpoints for me to express and (b) that this is very dry, very academic, and probably very boring to the majority of you. I will close, therefore, by saying that as classroom discussions go, this was certainly the best I have had since I arrived in England. I was frustrated at times, admittedly; when some said that it simply wasn't fair that the British had taken antiquities from countries across the world, I wanted to resort to physical violence out of unalloyed disgust. But I guess that the perfect discussion is somewhat akin to the perfect church or the perfect family. If there is ever a discussion that qualifies, I should probably not participate because I'll ruin it.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
The Sparkler of Albion
8 September 2008
Today was a good day for visiting museums; in the morning, we saw the exhibit on Emperor Hadrian (r. 117 - 138) at the British Museum, and in the evening, we paid a call to Charles Dickens' house at 48 Doughty Street where we were treated to wine and a dramatic reading from some of Dickens' greatest novels. But more on our time at the Dickens Museum later. Everything must be discussed in its due order: let me begin with how my day began and our visit to the British Museum.
I rose around eighty-thirty in the morning, showered, and for the fourth or fifth consecutive day, I skipped breakfast. Once everything was in place, a troop of us that included Liza Williams, Zack, Ben, Rob, Sara Verhalen, Annie, Dwight, and me marched down Gower Street until we reached Bedford Square, turning on to Great Russell Street and into the spacious courtyard of the British Museum. We assembled there, chatting casually about the previous day's performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor or the night we spent at the clubs while we waited for everybody else to arrive. When everyone in the group was present and accounted for in addition to Professor Qualls (who's here to prepare for next year when he'll assume responsibility for the Norwich Humanities program), we entered the building. The generous people at British Museum gave us coffee and tea, which was a wonderful way to begin the day.
We were then ushered into an auditorium where Thorsten Opper, the museum's curator of Greek and Roman sculpture, delivered a forty-five minute presentation on the structure and content of the Hadrian exhibit, highlighting significant objects such as a massive sculpted head of the emperor which was recently unearthed in a distant corner of Turkey. He matched my mental image of a museum curator--bespectacled, with receding brown hair, short, round, and inconspicuous like an ottoman in some old woman's sitting room. He paused frequently to reach for his glass of water or to reiterate some point he had previously mentioned, partially because I think he wanted to be certain that (a) we had heard it and (b) we understood it. As a result, his presentation, while informative, went a little too long, and I must confess that it somewhat reduced my sense of wonder when my opportunity to see the exhibit actually presented itself. (It didn't help that the room was very warm, and most conspicuously unprepared for a sunny day in my field gray turtleneck and hooded sweatshirt, I was sweating like a man before the Spanish Inquisition).
Once the presentation was over, we received our tickets and entered the exhibit, which was still pretty impressive. The contents of the collection were quite diverse, including Roman denarii bearing the visage of Hadrian or his wife Sabina, bronze and marble statues, wooden tablets, half-decayed scraps of papyrus, and photographs of the Pantheon and other structures constructed during Hadrian's lifetime. Together they painted a vivid portrait of the man himself and the empire he governed for twenty-one years; it was surprising to think, first, that no-one had before attempted such a exhibit and, second, that because of the extreme age and fragility of many of the artifacts, such an exhibit would probably not occur again in my lifetime. Oh, to think that anything, whether it's as small as supply order from Simon bar Kochba to Jewish rebels in Judaea or as large as a bronze statue of Hadrian, has persisted to the present! And that we should know anything of our past at all as much as we have lost! As a historian, I count them among life's everyday mercies.
Things inside the exhibit were certainly crowded, and I have to admit that it caused me to move through a little faster than I wanted. The curator had said that in order to do the exhibit justice, one needed about one hour and fifteen minutes; it ended up taking me about an hour, so perhaps my loss was not too grievous. Of course, I realise that whether the British Museum possesses any of these items in its collection will be a source of trouble to some within the group, but we'll have to wait and see. I'm content for the moment to go about my days like a leaf on a whirlwind--admittedly a sentimental, excessively Romantic image which has been bouncing around my skull for the past few days now.
Anyway, after we were finished with the exhibit, I returned to the Arran House where I collected, sorted, and placed my dirty shirts, pants, underwear, and socks into my green rollerboard in preparation for an afternoon foray with Greg to the laundromat. I was sick to the point of dying of throwing on clothes for the second, third, or even the forth time without washing them every morning, so I didn't care that I would have to walk three or four blocks to reach the laundromat, or part with a few pounds more than if I waited to do my laundry at the Hotel. I simply wanted to put on a clean polo shirt, its fibers still warm from the dryer. And two hours later, around four-thirty, I got my wish when I folded my last pair of clean underwear and placed it lovingly in my suitcase. It cost me only eight pounds for two loads, one of coloureds and one of whites, in the washer and a combined load in the dryer, which isn't bad at all.
We were supposed to meet at Charles Dickens' house at 48 Doughty Street at six o' clock, so I didn't have time to grab dinner after I arrived back at the Arran House. It was pretty much a case of "get back, check e-mail, change shirt, and then leave." The walk was an easy one; we retraced our steps down Gower Street, turning first on to Montague Place and then across Russell Square to Guilford Street, which we followed till the quaint Georgian apartments of Doughty Street appeared to our right. If I had to estimate how long of a walk it was, I would say it was around fifteen to twenty minutes. We waited outside until everyone in the group had arrived and then we proceeded inside, where we poked around the four or five rooms they had prepared for visitors. The house had not been restored to its exact appearance when Dickens had lived there during the 1840s. There were pieces of furnitures that had belonged to Dickens when he had lived somewhere else or that were typical of the period. There were mementos of Dickens and his family everywhere. The basement library was covered on every wall with bookcases, which contained nearly every edition of works by or about Charles Dickens. It was awesome--I know I have abused that word of late, but I don't know what else to say. It was simply awesome.
The museum provided us with several bottles of red and white wine--an act of generosity that was heartily received by many of the people in the program. It was pleasant to be able to sit in the garden, enjoy a good glass of Bordeaux (or in my case, two glasses), and relax. There was lively conversation, and some of us joined in a game called "Look Up, Look Down," which was Meghan Blickman's idea, I believe. Around eight-thirty, we retreated into the house, into the basement library of all places, where we watched an actor whose name I have sadly forgotten performed a one-man show called "The Sparkler of Albion," which was based on Dickens' dramatic readings of his works. Nameless though he remains, the man filling the role of Charles Dickens was very good, but I daresay that he could have been the worst of players, I still could have wrung some enjoyment out of the performance. He read extensively from Dickens' great novels--The Pickwick Papers (1836-1837), Dombey and Son (1846-1848), David Copperfield (1849-1850), Little Dorrit (1855-1857), Oliver Twist (1837-1839), and A Tale of Two Cities (1859)--and as the performer read, I began to relive the many, many hours of my childhood and adolescence that I had spent in the company of Dickens' novels. It was great to be able to pinpoint which novel he was quoting, even without the benefit of an introduction. During the intermission, I was absolutely giddy, so much so that I probably said some things that might not have been altogether appropriate. Don't worry, though--Shannyn and Tristan were there to keep my tongue from running away with the rest of me.
The performance ended a little before ten o' clock with a powerful interpretation of the deaths of Nancy and Bill Sykes from Oliver Twist. I then joined Ben, Rob, Greg, and Dwight--or the "Goodge Street Gang," as we jokingly refer to ourselves--for a late-night run to KFC. Never has fried chicken tasted so good. It was then home to the Arran House where I learned from Shannyn that she got her ticket for the evensong service that St. Giles Cripplegate will be conducting to honor the 400th birthday of John Milton. Let's say that she is still very, very excited. I then checked e-mail, changed into my pajamas, popped a NyQuil capsule, and went to sleep. A good day, all and all. A good day.
Today was a good day for visiting museums; in the morning, we saw the exhibit on Emperor Hadrian (r. 117 - 138) at the British Museum, and in the evening, we paid a call to Charles Dickens' house at 48 Doughty Street where we were treated to wine and a dramatic reading from some of Dickens' greatest novels. But more on our time at the Dickens Museum later. Everything must be discussed in its due order: let me begin with how my day began and our visit to the British Museum.
I rose around eighty-thirty in the morning, showered, and for the fourth or fifth consecutive day, I skipped breakfast. Once everything was in place, a troop of us that included Liza Williams, Zack, Ben, Rob, Sara Verhalen, Annie, Dwight, and me marched down Gower Street until we reached Bedford Square, turning on to Great Russell Street and into the spacious courtyard of the British Museum. We assembled there, chatting casually about the previous day's performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor or the night we spent at the clubs while we waited for everybody else to arrive. When everyone in the group was present and accounted for in addition to Professor Qualls (who's here to prepare for next year when he'll assume responsibility for the Norwich Humanities program), we entered the building. The generous people at British Museum gave us coffee and tea, which was a wonderful way to begin the day.
We were then ushered into an auditorium where Thorsten Opper, the museum's curator of Greek and Roman sculpture, delivered a forty-five minute presentation on the structure and content of the Hadrian exhibit, highlighting significant objects such as a massive sculpted head of the emperor which was recently unearthed in a distant corner of Turkey. He matched my mental image of a museum curator--bespectacled, with receding brown hair, short, round, and inconspicuous like an ottoman in some old woman's sitting room. He paused frequently to reach for his glass of water or to reiterate some point he had previously mentioned, partially because I think he wanted to be certain that (a) we had heard it and (b) we understood it. As a result, his presentation, while informative, went a little too long, and I must confess that it somewhat reduced my sense of wonder when my opportunity to see the exhibit actually presented itself. (It didn't help that the room was very warm, and most conspicuously unprepared for a sunny day in my field gray turtleneck and hooded sweatshirt, I was sweating like a man before the Spanish Inquisition).
Once the presentation was over, we received our tickets and entered the exhibit, which was still pretty impressive. The contents of the collection were quite diverse, including Roman denarii bearing the visage of Hadrian or his wife Sabina, bronze and marble statues, wooden tablets, half-decayed scraps of papyrus, and photographs of the Pantheon and other structures constructed during Hadrian's lifetime. Together they painted a vivid portrait of the man himself and the empire he governed for twenty-one years; it was surprising to think, first, that no-one had before attempted such a exhibit and, second, that because of the extreme age and fragility of many of the artifacts, such an exhibit would probably not occur again in my lifetime. Oh, to think that anything, whether it's as small as supply order from Simon bar Kochba to Jewish rebels in Judaea or as large as a bronze statue of Hadrian, has persisted to the present! And that we should know anything of our past at all as much as we have lost! As a historian, I count them among life's everyday mercies.
Things inside the exhibit were certainly crowded, and I have to admit that it caused me to move through a little faster than I wanted. The curator had said that in order to do the exhibit justice, one needed about one hour and fifteen minutes; it ended up taking me about an hour, so perhaps my loss was not too grievous. Of course, I realise that whether the British Museum possesses any of these items in its collection will be a source of trouble to some within the group, but we'll have to wait and see. I'm content for the moment to go about my days like a leaf on a whirlwind--admittedly a sentimental, excessively Romantic image which has been bouncing around my skull for the past few days now.
Anyway, after we were finished with the exhibit, I returned to the Arran House where I collected, sorted, and placed my dirty shirts, pants, underwear, and socks into my green rollerboard in preparation for an afternoon foray with Greg to the laundromat. I was sick to the point of dying of throwing on clothes for the second, third, or even the forth time without washing them every morning, so I didn't care that I would have to walk three or four blocks to reach the laundromat, or part with a few pounds more than if I waited to do my laundry at the Hotel. I simply wanted to put on a clean polo shirt, its fibers still warm from the dryer. And two hours later, around four-thirty, I got my wish when I folded my last pair of clean underwear and placed it lovingly in my suitcase. It cost me only eight pounds for two loads, one of coloureds and one of whites, in the washer and a combined load in the dryer, which isn't bad at all.
We were supposed to meet at Charles Dickens' house at 48 Doughty Street at six o' clock, so I didn't have time to grab dinner after I arrived back at the Arran House. It was pretty much a case of "get back, check e-mail, change shirt, and then leave." The walk was an easy one; we retraced our steps down Gower Street, turning first on to Montague Place and then across Russell Square to Guilford Street, which we followed till the quaint Georgian apartments of Doughty Street appeared to our right. If I had to estimate how long of a walk it was, I would say it was around fifteen to twenty minutes. We waited outside until everyone in the group had arrived and then we proceeded inside, where we poked around the four or five rooms they had prepared for visitors. The house had not been restored to its exact appearance when Dickens had lived there during the 1840s. There were pieces of furnitures that had belonged to Dickens when he had lived somewhere else or that were typical of the period. There were mementos of Dickens and his family everywhere. The basement library was covered on every wall with bookcases, which contained nearly every edition of works by or about Charles Dickens. It was awesome--I know I have abused that word of late, but I don't know what else to say. It was simply awesome.
The museum provided us with several bottles of red and white wine--an act of generosity that was heartily received by many of the people in the program. It was pleasant to be able to sit in the garden, enjoy a good glass of Bordeaux (or in my case, two glasses), and relax. There was lively conversation, and some of us joined in a game called "Look Up, Look Down," which was Meghan Blickman's idea, I believe. Around eight-thirty, we retreated into the house, into the basement library of all places, where we watched an actor whose name I have sadly forgotten performed a one-man show called "The Sparkler of Albion," which was based on Dickens' dramatic readings of his works. Nameless though he remains, the man filling the role of Charles Dickens was very good, but I daresay that he could have been the worst of players, I still could have wrung some enjoyment out of the performance. He read extensively from Dickens' great novels--The Pickwick Papers (1836-1837), Dombey and Son (1846-1848), David Copperfield (1849-1850), Little Dorrit (1855-1857), Oliver Twist (1837-1839), and A Tale of Two Cities (1859)--and as the performer read, I began to relive the many, many hours of my childhood and adolescence that I had spent in the company of Dickens' novels. It was great to be able to pinpoint which novel he was quoting, even without the benefit of an introduction. During the intermission, I was absolutely giddy, so much so that I probably said some things that might not have been altogether appropriate. Don't worry, though--Shannyn and Tristan were there to keep my tongue from running away with the rest of me.
The performance ended a little before ten o' clock with a powerful interpretation of the deaths of Nancy and Bill Sykes from Oliver Twist. I then joined Ben, Rob, Greg, and Dwight--or the "Goodge Street Gang," as we jokingly refer to ourselves--for a late-night run to KFC. Never has fried chicken tasted so good. It was then home to the Arran House where I learned from Shannyn that she got her ticket for the evensong service that St. Giles Cripplegate will be conducting to honor the 400th birthday of John Milton. Let's say that she is still very, very excited. I then checked e-mail, changed into my pajamas, popped a NyQuil capsule, and went to sleep. A good day, all and all. A good day.
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