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.