Chazzle-Dazzle

3 September 2008

It is late, so I will try to make this entry as complete as I can. Apologies in advance, if I neglect anything that might be of interest to you. I can't help it that I am so sleepy that I am in fact using contractions in my writing like a normal, far less pretentious person would. Hurrah.

Anyway, I didn't go to breakfast for the second consecutive day; to be honest, I didn't really see the point, since I wanted to sleep a while longer before we rushed to meet Lord Leslie Griffiths, the Baron of Burry-Port and as such a member of the House of Lords, outside the Palace of Westminster. As I have already documented, I have been running low on clothes, and I was more than a little uneasy about encountering a member of the British aristocracy in a rumpled, half-dirty polo shirt; fortunately, Dwight loaned me one of his shirts. It fit perfectly. That man is the salt of the earth. I have been so fortunate in my roommates.

Once I was dressed, a troop of us marched to the Underground station at Tottenham Court Road, ploughing through hundreds on hundreds of Londoners to catch the train to Embankment, where we then hopped on a train to the Westminster Station. I have seen pretty crowded conditions on the Underground before, and truthfully, today weren't the worst, either. For some barely articulable reason, however, it bothered me more today, perhaps because I am beginning to realise how large of a city London truly is. I can certainly comprehend how so many poets and authors over the years have complained about feeling alienated or even isolated from everyone around them. When you are riding on the Underground, you can be surrounded on all sides by people of every race, creed, class, and orientation; you can see their faces and (possibly) surmise what's on their mind at the moment. And some of those faces might belong to people whom, if the circumstances were favourable, you might be good friends with. Like Thomas Hardy wonders in his poem The Man He Killed:

Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin! (Lines 1-4).*

You can never be certain, of course; and realistically, in a metropolis of more than eight million souls, you can't hope ever to know even a third of the people you meet. But that doesn't make your sense of anonymity and insignificance any easier to bear.

Anyway, when we arrived at the Westminster Station, we headed for the Palace and after a brief introduction to Lord Griffiths in the shadow of the Victoria Tower, we were ushered through the security checkpoint and into the Palace. The interior of the Palace was remarkable in the level of ornamentation and decoration, with golds, navys, scarlets, and silvers everywhere. Most of the walls were covered with elaborate paintings depicting some of the more famous moments in British history, including the victory at Waterloo, the death of Admiral Lord Nelson in the Battle of Trafalgar, and Charles I's ill-fated intrusion into the precincts of the House of Commons. So much history in every wooden panel, stitch of carpeting, and stroke of paint. My taste in architecture tends to run more toward buildings from the Neoclassical period, but the ominpresent sense of history that I encountered within the Palace was more than sufficient to make me forget how ghastly some of the decor really was.

I suppose that I should say before continuing with my narrative, that I nearly wept when we stepped into the House of Commons. Winston Churchill called it one of his favourite places in the world, actually twice refusing a dukedom and a seat in the House of Lords because he didn't wish to leave the Commons. Compared to the House of Lords, it is far less ornate and, in certain regards, far less impressive; there is no golden throne for the Queen at the head of the chamber. Neither are the seats of the Commons upholstered in scarlet fabric or fringed with golden leaf. But there is something about the comparatively unadorned woodwork and the forest-green cushions that provokes a profound sense of respect and admiration. Oh, it was so wonderful! To be standing in the pulsating heart of one of the world's oldest continuously meeting legislatures, a body whose procedures still influence our Congress and who have counted the likes of William Wilberforce and Winston Churchill among its cherished sons!

After we were finished with our tour of the Palace of Westminster, we followed Lord Griffiths across Westminster Bridge and began to meander along the Thames' South Bank until we reached the Millenium Bridge--or the "Wibbly Wobbly Bridge" as Londoners call it. Along the way, we paused, of course, for a brief repast at a pleasant, though somewhat expensive, restaurant not too far from the Globe Theatre. There I had the chance to chat with Lauren, Leah, Dan, and Duncan for a while while I first enjoyed a plate of pasta and then a pint of Bombardier, which is a British bitter beer that I've come to enjoy tremendously. I was a little irritated when the bartender carded me, since I happen to be one of the oldest members of the group; through a perverse twist of fate, I just happen to look like I'm fourteen.

The Millenium Bridge, more or less, puts one on a direct path to St. Paul's Cathedral where Lord Griffiths happens to be a canon, which I find to be rather surprising since (1) Lord Griffiths, besides a member of the House of Lords, is a practicing Methodist minister and (2) that fact, even forty or fifty years ago, would have precluded his having any authority over what remains an Anglican church. Anyway, I suspect we availed ourselves of Lord Griffiths' connections to gain access to the interior of St. Paul's for a minimum of expense, and after taking us for a brief turn around the palatial interior of marble, brass, gold, and ornate tiling, Lord Griffiths left us to explore the church on our own. We did. And I have to say that I enjoyed St. Paul's far more than I did Westminster Abbey, not the least because of my aforesaid affinity for Neoclassical architecture. I also thought that St. Paul's had succeeded in avoiding what I perceived as a problem with Westminster; namely, its walls were not covered from floor to roof in ornate monuments to this great statesman or this famous general or that significant writer. There were monuments, but they did not consume the church like a wild kudzu plant.

Everybody in the group was feeling pretty adventurous, so we all decided to ascent the steps to the topmost point of St. Paul's Dome, which is among the tallest such structures in the entire world. My knees won't forgive me for joining in the trek to the top, but I don't really care. To say the least, it was an invigorating experience to be able to stand and see the city of London unfold like a great carpet in every direction, while the wind blowing in from the Thames buffeted me on every side. At one point, the wind was so strong that Leah and I had to run in order to keep our feet underneath us.

Our journey to the top of St. Paul's took thirty minutes, and by the time we returned to earth, it was time for us to take our place in the Quire for evensong. Initially, I was excited to be able to observe evensong, since as I come from a Reformed background, such ceremonies, with their accompanying ostentation, are seen as an unseemly "Catholic" importation. My sense of anticipation, however, soon dissipated for more than a few reasons. First, since the entire service was sung by the choir, we as a congregation didn't contribute much except for the recitation of the Apostle's Creed. I don't sing particularly well--to be honest, I can't really sing at all--but there is something that I have always enjoyed by singing in church. Indeed, there have been moments when hearing the right hymn or praise song has lifted my spirits and helped me to endure in the face of adversity. I missed that. I missed it tremendously.

Second, even as I was surrounded by the beauty and ornamentation of the Cathedral, I could not help but be oppressed with a sense of emptiness and loneliness. It was like I was a teenager trying to contact my childhood imaginary friend one last time. Or like I was sitting in a haunted house listening to the cracking and groaning of the floor boards, desperately hoping that some ghost or spectre would suddenly appear. Not that this should be taken as a criticism of Anglican churches or of the Anglican liturgy, but it was as if God simply wasn't there; He wasn't present even in the place that allegedly is His temple. And I don't know for certain if it was the building or if it was just me.

After evensong concluded, I stopped at the Sainsbury's Central on Tottenham Court Road to collect a few items for dinner: a pre-made Southern Fried Chicken wrap; a can of Cream of Mushroom soup; and a bag of Basmati rice. Then returning to the Arran House, I proceeded to pull them together to form something resembling a meal. (The final product wasn't too bad, but I definitely need to practice cooking rice.) I finished the night by joining Lauren, Meghan Blickman, Dwight, Rob, Ben, Greg, and Dan for a pint and pleasant jaunt through Soho. Oh, I suppose I should end by mentioning that in addition to all the day's happenings and experiences, I received two new nicknames: "Chazzle Dazzle" and "Chauncey."

*Note: Apologies to my Writing Center friends for my improper use of MLA format. Unfortunately, the block quote function on Blogger has not been cooperating with me. Consequently, I will not be able to indent the quotation from Hardy like I should.