Of Lloyd Webber (cont.)

Yes, I know: long time, no write. No excuse. Utter failure. Major guilt. But believe me, it wasn't out of malicious intent or rugged indifference that I have neglected to post for a while. You are constantly on my mind. Thus, now when I am celebrating the completion of a draft of the sixth of my nine papers, I turn to you, oh cyber-readers, out of joy and seeking inspiration!

Where did I leave off? Oh, yes, Phantom...

Well, let me just say that Phantom of the Opera is one of the most visually stunning of any musical. From the illumination and raising of the shattered chandelier to the darkened shadows of the Phantom's dungeon, the play's visual artistry is only matched by the innate power of the music. Even sitting in the audience quoting every line of every song, I still felt chills when the Phantom's organ theme began and cringed in fear when we "passed the Point of No Return." Utterly incomparable.

The actors, unfortunately, were not. Christine had a nasally, childish tone throughout much of her performance, but her mastery of some songs like "Phantom of the Opera" completely stupefied me by contrast. Raoul was okay, but, frankly, not good-looking enough. :) The diva was also disappointing. I was exceedingly surprised to learn that she actually came from an opera background, because her technique often seemed stifled and inconsistent, while her voice lacked the power usually concomitant with extensive vocal training.

Nevertheless, the play was amazing. I'm sure Andrew, sitting next to me, got tired of my clutching his arm at my anticipation of my favorite parts. And I may actually have gotten converted to "Masquerade" (I never liked that song on the CD). Thank you, Mom and Dad; it was the most amazing birthday present ever.

The only thing, in fact, that could make it better was...Indian food! I had previously visited my friend Karen at Oxford, so she came down that Saturday for our first excursion to Brick Lane, that most hallowed of all London culinary localities. Karen, Julie, Valeria, Gauri (friend from Singapore), Sophie (friend from Northwestern), and I loaded up our Oyster cards, prepared our stomachs, and set off for Aldgate East tube stop.

Brick Lane is quite a cultural experience--a whole street of curry houses, each trying to entice groups into its particular establishment. To get the best deal, you have to bargain. As a group of six, we were in high demand, so whenever we walked past a restaurant an employee would accost us, offering us "deals" ranging from 25% off to a low-cost, multi-course set menu. As one of the most bold of the group (as well as one of the most miserly and most addicted to Indian food), I assumed the role of barterer extraordinaire. Don't be fooled; I hate to bargain, and I'm not very good at it, but I wasn't about to get ripped off on my birthday celebration. The conversations typically went like this:

Indian guy (imagine strong Indian accent): You looking for good curry? I'll make you a deal: 25% off. Any item on the menu, including king prawn. Really good deal; go ahead, look at the menu.

(we gaze, trying not to let our growling stomachs show themselves on our faces while appearing completely indifferent and unconvinced)

Me: Well, it looks good, but do you have a set menu?

Indian guy: You want set menu? I give you one round of drinks, 3-course meal, 10 pounds. That's any starter, any main dish, including king prawn, and rice or nan, 10 pounds. Really good deal. And I'll throw in papadam [spelling?].

Me: Well, you can't have eat a meal without rice. How about rice and nan?

Indian guy: Rice and nan? Okay, I'll give you one round of drink, any starter, any main dish, including king prawn, rice, and nan.

Me: Well....

Indian guy: And no service charge. Really good deal.

Me: I don't know... (still trying not to look hungry)

Indian guy: You like wine? I'll throw in 2 bottles for the whole table. That's two bottles of wine, or any drink, any starter, any main dish, including king prawn, rice, and nan. 10 pounds. Really good deal.

(I look at my compatriots, who are beginning to look at me rapturously--out of hunger or out of anticipation, I'm not sure)

Me: What do you guys think?

Compatriots: It's up to you. It looks fine with me (and variations)

At this point, one of two things will happen. Either I will say, "Well, it is a good deal; I'm not sure. We may be back," leaving a very indignant Indian guy shaking his head in a manner that suggests YOU were not worthy of HIS notice anyway (I guess they've figured out that people don't typically come back after all), or I will say, "Okay, looks good," with me and my very happy compatriots filing through a door held by a very smiley (yet still superior) Indian guy. After all, YOU came to HIM and asked to be fed.

There are a few things to take away from this. One--there is something about the king prawn. I've yet to try it, or even see someone order it. Two--they know you are hungry; you can't fool them. And three--never go to a place with a neon sign. The last two times I have taken people to Brick Lane (Katie Rodriguez and Jon the first time, and Katie Hay and Lena the second) and fallen for really good deals from places with neon signs, the food just, well, wasn't up to par. We made the cruel, ironic mistake of choosing a fantastic place the first time, when we were celebrating my birthday. The nan was cooked to absolute perfection, utterly devoid of brown, overly-cooked bubbles and yielding to the touch like Bill Clinton to a White House invite. The sweet-spicy combination of my dish was good, but I liked others' better, so I more than willingly sampled my friends' dishes and proceeded to accuse those with small appetites of a lack of appreciation for Indian cuisine.

By the time we left the restaurant, our sinuses were clear, our stomachs were bursting, and our breath was horrible--all the signs of a quality Indian food experience. I have taken all my London guests to Brick Lane (don't worry, Mom and Dad; these make up almost all of the instances of my eating out), and have yet to meet one who doesn't treasure the experience. Even Katie Rodriguez, former Indian food detester, has been converted, even at a place Michelle and I deemed less than extraordinary. Our palates are certainly becoming refined; I am interested to go home and see if my favorite Indian restaurants are as good as I recall, now that I have experienced the complete magic that is a Brick Lane London experience.

Of Lloyd Webber

I'm sorry. Yes, I apologize. I have left my cyber-readers wandering in utter weightlessness out in the middle of the vast internet galaxy for over a week. It is excusable. Perhaps I will have lost some of you completely, the lifeline cut by other-worldly distractions, pulled away by more pressing, more engaged bodies. If so, I am sorry. I will endeavor in my next, hopefully more regular, posts to recover your interest. I plunge now into that galaxy, speeding forward, hoping to collect the odd and weary reader along the way.

We here in America are rather snobbish about our theatre. We take a whole genre of music, comprising works by Brits, Australians, Frenchies, Americans, and others and label it "Broadway." Your local Barnes and Nobles may call them "showtunes," but in everyday life no one else does. For us, Phantom, Joseph, Avenue Q, Les Mis, Jersey Boys, the odd Disney-movie-turned-musical--they're all synonymous with our musical capital of the world.

But let me tell you, New York does not hold a monopoly on musical theatre. On the contrary, West End theatre has every right to compare itself to Broadway, even if its theatres are not designated by their proximity to a particular street.

Case in point: Phantom of the Opera. My parents wanted me to celebrate my 21st birthday in a manner commensurate with the combination of its importance and the compensation for being absent from my friends and family while celebrating it. So, they asked me what I would like to do; I asked for Phantom.

It has always been one of my favorite musicals, if not the first. I was hooked ever since I first heard Michael Crawford sing that stunning rendition of "Music of the Night" on my Ultimate Broadway compilation CD. The musical's power to entrance surpasses the level of hypoticism present in the characters themselves, as the organ recalls an aura of simultaneous mystery and intimidation. It is utterly incomparable, to the point that even if the actors themselves are merely acceptable, the overall experience is still inimitable (side note: I have heard people criticize Sarah Brightman's lack of vocal technique in her performance; they are right, in many respects, but as the original and paradigm for Christine Daae, she can't be matched for her interpretative qualities in the role).

Such was the case on my birthday. I went with four of my friends from Ramsay Hall. Two of them are also avid Broadway (smile) fans--you should hear Andrew's, Julie's, and my renditions of Wicked when we are procrastinating from school work--so there were no better people to act as companions. After having surprised me earlier in the day with flowers, a beautiful card, and a "seriously chocolate" (Sainsbury's!!) cake, Julie, Andrew, and Michelle joined Valeria and me in sixth row orchestra seats!!! (Michelle and I had stood out in the cold in Leicester Square at 10am to get discount tickets).

Oh, off to church. Will continue...

Of Lecturers and Longitude

Greetings all! Look, I'm doing better: only 5 days in between posts! In my defense, even my English tutor was marveling at the amount of paper-writing I have to do this semester; it wouldn't be all that bad, really, except for the fact that the semester is squeezed into 10 weeks. Once you figure in the few weeks lost to orientation, introductory classes, and, umm, procrastination, any academically-minded student starts to dream in printer reams.

I must say, though, that I absolutely LOVE my classes here. How often does one often get to visit the London wall or the Roman amphitheatre with the man who actually excavated them? Or how often does the proximity to Shakepeare's Globe facilitate an English department inviting its students on a private tour of the theatre? How frequently does one read about the spread of the Black Plague in London in 1665--and then walk down the streets which Defoe described as reeking of disease and death? It's pretty amazing.

Plus, the quality of the teaching itself is superb. UCL is ranked the 7th-best university in the world, and this shows in its staff (note: to avoid utter academic embarrassment and cultural labeling, know that the word "faculty" does not mean professors in England; that would be a course of study). I walked out of my first Shakespeare lecture, for example, feeling like I'd just drunk two cases of Red Bull and been dunked in the Colonial oatmeal pool. Spit flying from his lips, Professor Rene Weis has the ability to make the very air molecules quiver with awe at a Shakespearean couplet. As he held his dilapidated, thirty-year-old copy of The Riverside Shakespeare aloft, I couldn't help thinking of an acropolistic statue, his face aglow and hair standing on end (he has a habit of running his fingers through his longish-yet-still-conservative locks when he gets excited). In a way, I'm glad he doesn't teach every lecture; I would be too exhausted from the expenditure of emotional energy.

But when the emotional energy is exhausted, what can one do but...travel! Yes, our latest London excursion involved a trip to Greenwich village, the site of the prime meridian. Of course, being cheapskates, we decided to take the bus.

Bad idea.

Let's just say that pretending to race your friends from the second floor of the double-decker bus and playing foreign tour guide to formerly-unknown tourist sites can only take you so far. An hour and a half later, though, we arrived at Greenwich. The place reeks of scholarship, from the National Maritime Museum to the Royal Observatory (science nerds: try to contain yourselves). Visitors can climb up the hill (quite a hike!) to see the line. Of course, one must take the quintessential Greenwich picture: straddling the prime meridian. There is just no way around it. Even if French tourists are semi-rudely trying to decide (in French) whether to ask you to move (not knowing, of course, that you can understand what they are saying), you simply must plant your feet, throw a smile, and...check your watch (mine was almost two minutes slow!).

Of course, by the time we finished walking through the time museum and the requisite gift shop (and being sorely tempted by the stunning pocketwatches and compasses, not so much by the "I straddled the prime meridian" t-shirts), there was little daylight left. We browsed quickly through the National Maritime Museum, then got on a bus to head back to Ramsay Hall to meet friends for dinner.

Did I say before the bus was a bad idea? It still was. After spending nearly forty-five minutes in dead-stopped traffic (going a whole two blocks!), we gave up and forked out the extra money for the tube. What did we buy those Oyster cards for anyway? By this time, of course, the new plan was just to meet the friends in Brick Lane, famous for its Indian curry. That will have to wait, though, because I got a migraine and had to skip.

But Indian food may yet be in my future. Because in two days it will be October 16. And you know what that means....


MY BIRTHDAY!!!!

(Stay tuned for more details; sorry this was such a boring post.)

...and Liturgies

Sorry, blogosphere readers; I have been recalcitrant. Yes, I have let a whole 9 days pass between my blog posts. Nine whole days, over a week. The entire earth was created in a week! (Catch the 1776 allusion?) I virtually bow in abject apology.

The tower marking the west end of the medieval city

Let me see, where did I leave off? Oh, yes, Canterbury! For many people, the first thing they think of upon hearing of this city is Paul Bettany sitting naked along a roadside in A Knight's Tale.

Okay, maybe that's only my generation.

But even for those who immediately associate Canterbury with the collection of Middle English tales written by Geoffrey Chaucer, there is way more to the city than its famous literary tradition.* Of course, there is the compulsory wax figure museum giving a quick run-down of the stories of the Wife of Bath, the friar, the knight, the miller, and the nun (TOTALLY not worth the six and a half pounds! Don't bother going there unless you have absolutely NO idea who Chaucer is), but the area is absolutely steeped in history. The Romans surrounded the city entirely with a wall to keep out the barbarians; it was on this wall's foundations that inhabitants built a more fortified stone one in the Middle Ages. You can still climb the circuitous path to the top of a mysteriously-constructed hill and then marvel at the smoothness in the flint that makes up the adjoining wall.

No one seems to know why this hill was built...
The purpose of the wall, though, is a little more straightforward.

Of course, a standing castle is even cooler. Michelle (exchange student from Wash U), Julie (Wellesley), and I followed the wall around to the southernmost tip of the city, where a Norman castle replaced a motte-and-bailey one in the early 12th century. It was bizarre to stand in the crumbling ruins of a magnificent keep utterly separated from the sounds of city traffic combing what was once the edge of an ancient city. You can even climb the sole remaining stairway and gaze out the window as a medieval longbowman would have done. I tried to take a beautiful piece of stone with me that had fallen loose from the walls of the castle, but my friends persuaded me, against my will, that it wasn't a good idea. The ol' "what if everyone who came here took a stone?" query from my childhood came back to haunt me. Plus, it was a little heavy to take on the plane.

Sad: they wouldn't let me take a rock!

I would have had the coolest paperweight ever on my desk when I become a professor, though.

We also happened to go to Canterbury on the weekend of the Euro Fair and Kent Food and Drink festival! What timing! We paid due homage, therefore, to hearty British cuisine in our lunchtime choices: meat pies, spinach pie, fudge (the different colors created a "Bernie Bott's Every Flavor Beans"-type experience), apple tart, and Belgian pancakes (okay, that's not British; the combination of chocolate, powdered sugar, and mini-pancakes just looked good). This was all consumed to the strains of a collared shirt-and-tie-bedecked British band playing "Jailhouse Rock" and other songs neither Kentish nor European (they did have their sleeves rolled up and wore funkily-patterned fedora hats, though).


In a very happy stroke of web surfer's luck, we decided to take a historical river tour through Canterbury. The river itself is rather pathetic--more of a canal, actually. But even over its very short course, the camera-happy tourist (of which we were three!) can find more than enough opportunities to take pictures. You access the boats through a building which once housed French-speaking Huguenots fleeing the Spanish Netherlands. After clambering into the boat piloted by a notoriously-cheery college-age student, you can coast by a 14th-century Dominican monastery, duck under Blackfriar's bridge (don't think about how long those timbers have been there!), and cringe at the thought of sitting in the "dunking stool" hanging above the water (women suspected of being witches were lowered into the river; you can guess what the inevitable outcome was).
Pretty, old river houses

Since it was a Sunday, we decided to go to afternoon services at Canterbury Cathedral itself. And I thought St. Paul's was impressive! There is nothing quite like listening to boys' and men's voices echo off stone walls pieced together over the course of centuries tracing themselves all the way back to St. Augustine. Scriptural passages lauding God's magnificence gained a whole new significance in the light of such poor men's attempts to render homage to Him. As the choir sang "Amen" in canonical streams, and when the organ exploded in unbridled raptures, I felt myself joining humanity's attempt to say to God, "Yes, I believe!"

Canterbury Cathedral from the river

Canterbury also has the oldest parish church in England still in use, built in the age of the Saxon kings (think weird 6th-century names like Ethelred and Bertha. Evidently, though, the congregation isn't especially faithful; we arrived for the 6:30 service and found the church door barricaded with a nice sign explaining that it is absolutely useless to depend upon the church's published opening hours.
St. Martin's Church: yes, still closed!

Yet, we still were able to wander among the moss-covered, dilapidated graves in the churchyard. We climbed to the top of the hill, from which we gazed out across the valley at the twilighting Canterbury. It was one of those moments when absolute stillness creates an illusion of utter timelessness. The gothic spires of Canterbury Cathedral, arising from the thick boughs of the cemetery trees, pierced the rose-rimmed sky in glorious celebration of God's magnificence. There we were, modern-day pilgrims newly-come from the cathedral, seven hundred years after Chaucer penned his Canterbury tribute.

At this point, we were exhausted, but completely fulfilled. Interestingly, all three of us realized that we all pointed to a different site as our favorite. That's when you know you've had a good trip! And what better to finish it off a historic British experience than with...Indian food? :) Yes, it was lovely.

Then, back to the bus, London, and the 21st century.

And now, I must go back to work, from which I welcome diversions. Of course, I am nowhere near up to the present day in this blog, but Roman London calls. Cool scholastic experience: my "London before the Great Fire of 1666" course (every class a field trip!) is taught by a professor who worked for 30 years as an archaeologist for the Museum of London. Keep in mind that a HUGE percentage of archaeological excavations in the city have taken place over the last twenty or so years; my professor was actually part of the team that uncovered the Roman amphitheatre! He is actually cited in almost every scholarly book dealing with Roman London! And he happens to be the most humble, hilarious tour guide you've ever seen. He's so cute! If only he wasn't making us write essays....


*For those who have never read The Canterbury Tales: the tales are a collection of stories told by pilgrims on their way to the shrine of Thomas à Becket at Canterbury Cathedral. Becket, both a Catholic and Anglican saint, was assassinated 1170 by followers of the English king Henry II in the cathedral itself, of which he was archbishop. He had angered the king for excommunicating those involved in Henry's coronation, which was a breach of Canterbury's privilege of coronation (Evidently, Henry's knights interpreted his "Who will rid me of this meddlesome priest" a little too literally.).

After meeting at an inn, the pilgrims' host proposes that they pass the time on the road in a story-telling contest, of which he will be the judge. Each person in the eclectic assemblage, representative of all levels of era's stratified English society, then proceeds to tell a tale.

Of Legacies...

Let me just say it's a good thing that classes have finally started; these past two weeks have been filled with so much blog-worthy touring and sight-seeing that I feel hopelessly behind already! Well, I will endeavor to make some of that time up. Never fear, though: I have to begin work on my gi-normous number of essays, so this is merely a study break. :)

There is one thing I forgot to write about in my last post of "unexpected occurrences," however, which more than deserves mentioning. Many of you who know me well understand that I have a near-familial familiarity with William Pitt the Elder, Earl of Chatham. I spent my entire senior year in high school researching him, crafting both an individual dramatic performance and a paper (published twice!) for History Day about his heroic stand during the Stamp Act Crisis. Pitt had been Prime Minister of England during the French and Indian War, and the lending of his weighty support to the revolutionaries' cause gave them the parliamentary and moral support necessary to continue their burgeoning cause for independence.

Well, my friends and I were walking back from Piccadilly Market the other day when I saw a plaque on the side of a building in between Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament. I stepped closer to the wrought-iron fence; afixed on the clean white paint of the exterior was a blue plate with these words:

Here lived three Prime Ministers

WILLIAM PITT

1707-1778

etc.

That inscription, and the "Chatham House" figuring the lintel made my day.

But that was not the only place where the eminent Earl of Chatham made his appearance in my London experience. On Friday morning a friend and I made an absolutely amazing trip to the Houses of Parliament. We have been blessed to be living in London at the absolute perfect time: the summer hours and events at tourist sites are still happening, but at a much less tourist-populated scale. In the case of the Houses of Parliament, overseas visitors can only get tours during these months. Otherwise, they are limited to sitting in on the sessions, which I plan to do, but which is not quite as wonderful as seeing Westminster from the inside out.

Big Ben!

And what a beautiful inside it is! The oldest part of the complex, Westminster Hall, is over 900 years old, erected in 1097 by Richard II. The hall's high, wood beam-supported ceiling and vast space, illuminated by the natural light of enormous glass windows, gave me feeling that I had only just missed a glorious medieval banquet. I could almost see the scarlet and gold tapestries covering the cold block walls and the colors from the stained-glass windows glinting off the golden crowns of 12th-century kings.

Westminster Hall

From there, our guide lead us to the newer part of the palace constructed under Queen Victoria. In 1834, a horrible fire had burned down almost the entire complex; in a heart-breaking, but necessary, moment of decision, Westminster Hall was chosen to be the center of firemen's efforts, and the rest of palace was destroyed. Prince Albert, however, made it his personal quest to rebuild the palace in a way that would constantly remind his wife of the majesty of her British history. Today, when Queen Elizabeth II comes to open the parliamentary sessions, she enters a room surrounded by carvings telling the tale of King Arthur and sits on a medieval-style throne, its fabric worn down from years of Victoria's occupancy. Then she processes, wearing the official state crown, into a room whose walls are covered with giant portraits of the Tudor dynasty, complete with all six of the wives of Henry VIII. From there, an Elizabethan motif, and magnificent frescoes showing the defeat of Napoleon.

Of course, the Queen eventually enters the House of Lords and sits on an unbelievable golden throne, while White Rod signals to Black Rod to bring in members of the House of Commons. As is tradition, Black Rod, who is at the other end of the parliamentary corridor, gets the door to the Commons slammed in his face. He bangs his rod on the door, which bears the mark of over a hundred years' worth of beatings. Then the door opens, and MPs walk slowly, defiantly, to the House of Lords to see the queen. They, after all, are beholden only to the people themselves.

The House of Lords (courtesy of wikipedia, since you are not allowed to take pictures)

The sense of tradition in these halls is, as you can see, overwhelming. Even in the House of Commons (where visitors daren't sit--they haven't been elected!), which was rebuilt after the Blitz of World War II, one can't escape an admiration for the grandeur of eight hundred years of England's conception of democracy. The ideals of Magna Carta ring out in every hall, from the wooden arch in the Commons to which the speaker is dragged (recalling the position's original, inherent danger with the consequences of angering the monarch), to the built-in microphones of the maroon cushions on which sit the twenty-first century peers: people foremost in the fields of science, art, theatre, even sport. William Pitt, the fearless orator and defender of personal liberty and commerce (albeit, to a degree), whose statue is passed by every visitor entering the central lobby, would be proud.

Of Lavishness and Laughter

So, the wonderful thing about big cities: wandering around in them leads to all sorts of exciting, unexpected adventures. Cliche? I think not. Just listen to my day today...

Jacket potatoes and paninis!

So, this morning started out pretty tame. Classes for me really haven't yet started yet for, but today was the "Freshers' Fayre", when all the UCL world's clubs' most earnest desire is to flood your inbox with enough spam to coat Mt. Rushmore. Like any activities fair, there was free stuff galore: candy, planners (or "diaries" to the British), chocolate rice krispies treats (courtesy of the Chocolate Club), stuffed animals, cans of baked beans (Christian Union), even rosaries (Catholic Club). Some of the clubs, though, would definitely not be found at a table in Dillon Gym. Take the Socialist Club, at whose table my evidently-too-trained-capitalistic-self was shocked to see so many legitimate potential participants, or the Karting Club (that's go-karts, yo), or Snooker and Pool (still not quite sure what that is), or the Jane Austen Book Club (oh yeah, you better believe I put my name on that list!). I also spent ten solid seconds screaming my head off for the chance to win a trip to someplace associated with MTV; it was rather cathartic, actually, though I have no illusions about winning. UCL bouncers made sure that you followed the "queue" and didn't try to double back to partake of more club-gazing than you should. But other than the fact that such incredible organization is utterly foreign to Americans, not all that different from good ol' U.S. of A.

From there, though, two friends from my dorm (also international students from the U.S.) and I went to Buckingham Palace. Yes, you may recall that I was planning on going there in my previous entry. Indeed, we did, and even paid the 14 pounds to get inside the special summer exhibition of the formal state rooms. I had no idea of the sumptuousity of the place! It was originally built in 1703 for the Duke of Buckingham, but it was acquired by the monarchy in 1761. Since it was built so late, relatively speaking, it benefits from all the advancements of architecture, technology, and the arts. Glorious chandeliers hang from ceilings adorned with the British royal rose as well as the emblems of England, Scotland, and Wales. I saw paintings of British monarchs over which I have poured since childhood hanging on tapestried, manicured walls in drawing rooms meticulously decorated to match such appellations as "The Green Room", "The White Room", and the "The Blue Room." George III was literally looking at me!

We have an appointment with the queen!

But these are no mean pieces in a country estate. Nothing could be farther from it! The portrait gallery houses paintings from Rembrandt, van Dyck, Rubens, and Vermeer, some of which are recognizable to the average visitor (or at least to me). Even the gold on the gates to the palace entrance are coated in 24 karat gold! And then there is the formal dining room! It was set up as it would be for a formal state dinner--each of the six glasses per place setting exactly in line, thousands of pieces of cutlery glinting underneath golden candelabras, rose blooms cascading from three-foot vases, footmen in formal red attire attending the queen's place. Each setting is even complete with gold figurines which hold salt, pepper, and condiments; the princess' set looks like a crab clinging delicately to a spiral shell, the opening of which holds the spices. Just the plate (silverware and dishes) cost Queen Victoria 80,000 pounds. My mind starts spinning when I think of the equivalent cost today; just one set or two from the 2,000 pieces of silverware could probably pay my tuition!

Even the smallest details are attended to, even now when the rooms are only occupied by visitors. When you walk into the room, you can smell the rich perfume of real lilies in the giant urns. The staff to undertake such an endeavor is enormous. It takes two days of preparation to get everything ready, and fifteen people just to wash the dishes! This is all in order, of course, that the guests, from the time they enter the room to the time they are ushered out to the strains of bagpipes, are utterly impressed with the formality and majesty of the British people and their royalty. With such incredible splendor, I don't know how they could not be.

More Buckingham (rather ominous-looking, actually)

But anyway, yes, today we went back, because we hadn't been able to see everything before we had to leave to get back to the dorm for our evening meal. Thankfully, if you have the palace staff stamp your ticket, you can come back an unlimited amount of times for one year. Alas, when we arrived this afternoon, the line for tickets was enormous. So, we decided to change our plans and head to Piccadilly Market, known for its world crafts and antiques, which we had passed on a previous day's outing.

On the way, though, who should we meet at the massive monument outside the palace but a Channel 5 camera crew! A blond woman and her entourage assailed us, pointed a microphone in my face, and said, "Hi, we're from the Wright Stuff on channel 5. Do you mind if we ask you a quick question?"

Of course, I said yes.

It was at this point that I started thanking my lucky stars that I had parents who had sought to give me such gifts as a deck of playing cards with all the British monarchs on them (this started a lifelong monarchial anglophilia, which culminated in my taking HIS 369: British history from 1688-1815). Linda Colley's teaching did not go unremembered, as the woman asked me what I thought about the prospect of a changing in the rules of dynastic succession enabling the eldest child, whether male OR female, to inherit the crown.

After recovering from a momentary stupor, I responded with something about how such a practice would have prevented many parliamentary and dynastic power struggles throughout British history, concluding with the fact that I thought the 21st century had taught us that women fully have the capacity to govern. "Good answer," the woman responded (I think sincerely), while the other blonde shoved a consent form into my hands.

So, it looks like I'm going to be on TV tomorrow morning. Who would have guessed?

Me conquering the world outside Buckingham

From there, we continued our march to Piccadilly Market, during which we stopped to try to discompose the impervious mushroom-headed palace guards. They are supposed to neither smile nor speak nor even look anywhere but straight ahead, but I had promised Katie Rodriguez that I would try and would take a picture.

Success! Not only did the guy's eyes definitely NOT stay on his compatriot, but he even said "Sure" and "You're welcome"! This is probably a case where being a young, female, and American group doesn't hurt.

From there we finally got to Piccadilly Market, where legitimate and quality jewelry, pottery, paintings, clothing, purses, and other items (including magic beans!) flowed from stall after stall in a staggering array of colors. I goggled at several items, such as Israeli pottery (we have the exact same pieces at home!!) and handmade glass jewelry, but got hopelessly entangled by a purveyer of London antiques. Mom, I found the genuine, beautiful, and working old-fashioned telephone you have been searching since we moved into our house, if you are willing to pay 95 pounds. Other items, though, were definitely more realistic price-wise, but with no less quality. Early twentieth-century compasses, astrolabes, and spyglasses imprinted with their London makers furnished more entertainment than the stall owner was feign to watch (evidently, we didn't look like street thieves).

A cool shopping place we found near Piccadilly

From there, it was back to UCL for a meeting with my English department tutor. They have a much different educational system than the U.S. does, or even, my tutor informed me, most other British universities. Instead of having each professor from every class read students' essays for their respective classes, only one professor will read all of the student's work, enabling the student to really hone a relationship with the tutor and develop individually as a writer and thinker. For me, this won't be as signficant, since I'm only here three months, which means only two meetings. Yet, I will get the opportunity to discuss each essay with the tutor after completion. Imagine: real-time, honest feedback! This is something that often is lacking at Princeton.

As of now, I have yet to have a single English class; after my meeting today, though, I already have the due date and topic for my first essay! I am going to be writing about the mature, old love in The Merry Wives of Windsor, perhaps as a parody of the young, romantic love in Romeo and Juliet.

Why this, you may ask? Well, I neglected to tell you about some of the other adventures I've been having here in London! You see, last week I waited in line with friends at the Globe Theatre--yes, SHAKESPEARE'S GLOBE THEATRE!!! (reconstructed, of course)--for five pound tickets to see what was the most amazing theatrical experience, perhaps, of my life! We decided to go "the authentic way"--i.e. standing in the yard with all the rest of the poor unfortunates.

This was by no means, though, a bad position! We were able to stand right next to the stage, enabling us to literally count the sweat drops on Mr. Ford's face as he went into paroxysms over the alleged unfaithfulness of his wife (don't worry, he was just overly insecure). Plus, there were ramps that extended the stage out into the yard around us, hemming us right into the middle of the action of the play! When Anne Page has her awkward garden interlude with Mr. Slender, we were right there, staring at the muscles in his green stockings tightening in tense anxiety and inquietude. Then we turned 180 degrees to see Mr. Fenton coming onto the scene, a much more practiced and earnest lover. It was amazing! The acting was absolutely superb! When the deserved kicking of Falstaff inside a laundry basket by the unwitting Mr. Ford is covered up by a delayed, if awkward cough from Mistress Ford, I thought the audience would never recover. The timing on the comedy was perfection itself!

And then there was the theatre! It was much more gilded and bejeweled than I had imagined, with painted flours curving up Corinthian columns and period musicians playing unfamiliar instruments from a balcony bounded by an intricate, carved wooden railing. It was perfectly round, open to the night sky but shielded from what can be biting London breezes by the height of its seated balconies. It was an experience I will never forget.

But we couldn't let our Shakespeare experiences end there! Oh no! On Tuesday we took a bus to Stratford-upon-Avon, where we gazed upon the bard's grave, enshrined in the back of a beautiful brick church surrounded by gravestones hundreds of years old.

Shakespeare's burial site in Stratford-upon-Avon

That's him!!!

We didn't succeed in getting returned tickets to the Royal Shakespeare Company's production of Hamlet, but we didn't complain, for there were plenty of other things to do. We bought a pass that enabled us to see all three of the town houses associated with Shakespeare: his birthplace, the home of his son-in-law John Hall, and that of his granddaughter. I actually stood in the room where Shakespeare was born and listened to a guide describe what life would have been like for a seven-year-old son of a glover! It was completely surreal.

The garden of Hall's Croft, the home of Shakespeare's daughter and son-in-law

A beautiful street in Elizabethan Stratford

We had also long desired to partake of the English institution of afternoon tea, so what better place to try that than at Benson's, rated one of the top 50 places in the UK! There we ordered a "cream tea"--scones served fluffy and light with jam, clotted cream, and a pot of the house English breakfast tea. Let me tell you, whenever I next go to Panera and see on of its "scones", I will laugh in utter contempt (Interesting trivia tidbit: there is a perpetual debate in England, I was told at dinner last night, over the correct pronounciation of the word "scone"; should the "o" be pronounced as a long "o" or closer to a short "u" sound? Something to ponder...).

Cream Tea! Panera, eat your heart out!

We finished off the day with a sunset 1.75 mile walk to a 19th-century Victorian mansion, the location of a YHA hostel. It was really nice, but we didn't have much time to enjoy it, as we got in at 7:30, ate dinner, planned our next British adventures, and went to bed. Then, it was up at 5 to grab our packed breakfasts (included in the cheap hostel fee!) and walk back to the bus station in order to get to London in time for our afternoon classes.

On the way to the hostel...

Thus, my fascination with Shakespeare, and the reason for my choice of essay topic. Sorry this was such a long post! There are other things I did in this past week that will have to wait for the next post (man, I can never seem to get ahead, can I?), but I don't want to be the cause of undue carpal tunnel or back-a-la-Quasimodo, so this will have to do for now.

Oh, wondering exactly what "British adventure" we were planning at the hostel? I'll give you a hint: Chaucer would be proud.

Of Lords and Lagers

Ahh...my first blog from back across the "big blue wet thing"; it feels so familiar, somehow. The action of blogging, that is, not the city. London, and my experience in it, is completely different than Paris. Worker v. student, hostel/renter v. dorm, croissants v. the traditional English breakfast--all very different.

For one thing, though these cities share the value of an incredibly rich cultural and social history, London seems to have transcended its ties to this legacy and moved forward at a much more rapid pace than its continental counterpart. The city itself is much larger than Paris. Whereas wikipedia (insert heavenly awe music here) informs me that London is about 1500 square kilometers with a population of seven and a half million, Paris is only eighty-seven square kilometers, with a population of over two million. The result is that London feels much more urban, much more modern, than its French equivalent. Banks are on every street corner, chain restaurants abound (especially Subway and Pret-a-Manger, which means "ready to eat" and caters to the busy, price-conscious population), and tourists feel mothballs swarming in their pockets practically as soon as they leave Heathrow airport. Even the British Museum's (which is really close to University College London!!) ultra modern internal design doesn't seem to have caused nearly the controversy of I.M. Pei's Louvre pyramid, which really, by contrast, is quite subdued. Even the mode of shopping is different. Whereas in Paris local markets dominate the culinary scene in every arrondissement (19 of them) at least two or three times a week at various sites, there are only two to three markets selling fresh food products in all of London! The pace of life here is too fast for these to become a staple of the economy.

So what do they have instead? Pubs! These British establishments permeate every block in every area of the city. Most of them serve only drinks after a certain hour; the Jeremy Bentham, for example, which is named for the UCL professor who ordered himself embalmed so he can still be taken to philosophy department meetings (yes, weird I know!), only serves food until 3. After this, people come for the beer and the socializing. Only last night I went to some pubs in Camden with some people from my hall. This area is known for its trendy culture. Let me tell you, though, the post-9 o'clock culture could stand to be de-trended, if you ask me. While the majority of the people in the pubs drink responsibly and bouncers check anyone who even looks under 21 for ID upon entering a pub, the culture is one of pathetic drinking and drug usage (using pathetic in its literal sense). I saw one girl so strung out that she couldn't walk properly from the curb to the bus door, forcing her to lean on her boyfriend (I hope) for support; she couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen. Then there were women of 40+ years who made geisha look demurely made-up and were dressed in skin-tight see-though shirts and ultra-mini mini-skirts. That is not even mentioning the guys who came up to the guys in our group and asked them if they wanted some coke (and not the liquid kind). I never felt unsafe, and the peer pressure to get into the British drinking culture (i.e. drink to feel a buzz or to get drunk) was easily refused, but I couldn't help thinking of what these people were making of their lives. Would they regret these Kroenenburg-filled hours? Would they wake up one morning and realize the fruitlessness of such an existence?

Let me reiterate the fact that pubs, being such an essential part of British culture, are much more wholesome (using the word loosely) than American bars. In London, they are conduits of social interaction; thus, the obviously-intoxicated are few and far between. Plus, the eight pound daily fee for driving in the city means that DUIs bow to tube usage. Yet, the reliance upon a type of beverage whose very definition involves a change of the mental and physical faculties seems wrong simply in principle.

But I must give London its fair share. It is gorgeous! The first two days I was here, prior to orientation, a fellow Ramsay Hall-mate from Washington University in St. Louis and I walked all around the city. No sense of schedule, no sense of pressure. One of our favorite stumbling places was Covent Garden, a rich medley of shops, and stalls interspersed with local entertainment. A juggler, for example, demonstrating acrobatic feats on the cobblestones right outside the London Transport museum, while a string quartet challenged passers-by to keep pace with a rowdy jig. We loved it on the first day we saw it, so we decided to return the second day as well for lunch. We stuck to distinctively British fare--pasties, anyone? They're similar to a calzone, stuffed with such hearty staples as steak, potatoes, and cheese.

We also wandered into Soho, the heart of the Chinese district, where Chinese lanterns perpetually drape the city streets in a red and gold oriental aura. Like Chinatown in the US, the signs suddenly burst into characters, with noodles and rice appearing on every menu.

We also visited Westminster Abbey. I was completely dumbfounded by the sheer history of the place. Literally every stone is etched with it, as one treads across the graves of English nobles on the way to the coffins of Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots, Mary I, Edward the Confessor, and other British monarchs. Even Chaucer is here, his grave nestled amidst memorials to other English playwrights and poets after his brilliance was discovered long after his death. The church is enormous, but doesn't feel so due to the incredible utilisation of space employed in recognizing what seems to have been every lord and lady in the history of the British empire. I only regret not being able to hear the Westminster Choir, made up of men and boys from the Westminster school. The selection on the audioguide wasn't enough to sate my desire to hear more of the near-celestial music.

Bored yet? I hope not--because there are almost three months to go! :) Today we're off to take a look at Buckingham Palace, though perhaps not pay the enormous amount to actually go inside (in a later post I will discuss such economic issues).

Until next time, cheerio!