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.