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!