Picture Imperfect

Most of the really amazing historical places in London don't let you take pictures inside.  Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral, all the palaces, Shakespeare's birthplace, and countless others have a very strict no picture policy.  This greatly distressed me at first.  I found myself taking as many pictures as possible of the exterior to try and make up for it, taking final snapshots through the doorway until the guards start giving me dirty looks.

But today my class went on a tour of Parliament.  We met underneath Big Ben (which is actually the name of the bell inside the tower, not the clock or the tower itself, which is actually called The London Tower) and had to go through security checks more severe than those at an airport.  They lead you into Westminster Hall, which is the oldest part of the building dating all the way back to the early 1300's, and this is the last place they allow you to take pictures.  Once again I begrudgingly put away my little camera, I didn't even bring my nice one because I know the rules by now, and followed the tour guide out of the hall.  

The next room quite literally took my breath away.  It was the House of Lords, and was gilded from top to bottom.  At one end was an elaborately carved alcove for the even more elaborate throne where the queen gives her yearly address.  The carving on the walls was equally ornate, and painted either bright, royal red, or covered in glittering gold leaf.  This outstanding room was followed by another, then another, then another.  We walked through hall after hall of gorgeous statues, and uber bright paintings, while hearing our tour guide tell us all about the histories of the room and what they are used for.  

As we progressed deeper and deeper into England's Capitol, I thought about the camera in my bag, and did not have the slightest desire to try and take a picture.  There is just no way that the lens of that machine could reproduce the effect of those rooms.  They couldn't catch the shimmer of the gold leaf, or the way the light comes through the stained glass.  The intensity of the faces in the paintings and on the statues would just looked washed out in most photos and there would be absolutely no point in trying to describe the feeling of knowing that you are surrounded by a building that has seen so much history that it is hard to even imagine.  

Though I love to take pictures, sometimes they just can't even begin to do justice to the real thing.  Sometimes, there is just no substitute for a memory, for the experience that simply couldn't be translated to film.         

London Weather

The weather in London certainly takes some getting used to.  Let's just take today for example.  I woke up this morning to a freezing mist that encirled me the second I walked out the door.  It was so cold as I walked the block and a half to the tube station that I seriously considered turning around and getting another jacket.  All that changed however the moment I walked into the station.  The chill abated, and I made it down the lifts and onto my train in comfort.  After about five minutes on the train though, I start getting a little too warm.  First the scarf went, then the gloves, then the jacket, and even after peeling off as many layers as was possible without causing a scandal, I was still sweating by the time I reached my destination.  After the lift ride to the exit, I was positively on fire.  Not for long though, because once I swiped my oyster card, and was swept by the torrent of people back outside, I was frozen in a matter of seconds.  I re-applied all of my layers for the five minute walk to school.

Now, by the time I got to our campus, my blood started pumping and off came the scarf again.  I sat outside for a moment, letting my temperature regulate a bit, and then set off to class.  I took the stairs to my classroom on the third floor, which is my normal custom, and by the time I got to the top I was so blasted hot that I had to go into the bathroom and take off my undershirt.  The classrooms are pretty stable in regards to temperature, and once seated I was quite comfortable again.

Now this routine is to be expected everyday here.  The tricky part however, is that there is no way to really know how cold it is outside without actually going and standing out there for a minute.  Some days it's rainy, and still as you walk down the street there is no way that anyone could call it cold.  While other days the sky is a clear crystal blue, the sun shining, and the air is bitingly cold. 

So while here, I have adopted the boy scout motto; Be prepared.  Layering is definitely best, and with all those layers best to add a layer of patience as well.  There is no point getting frustrated, because then you will literally always feel that way here.  So... just suck it up, wear your hair so that the sweat won't ruin you, and slap on a smile, because in London, and anywhere else for that matter, it is insanity to expect perfect weather.   

Those Rare Moments

So last night I actually went out to a club for the first time since coming to England.  Clubs really aren't my favorite places, and this club was quite a doozie.  The temperature was about thirty degrees hotter than anyone in their right mind would desire and by the time you walk out the front door you feel like you are covered in other people's sweat.  Gross.  Though there was a moment last night that made the entire excursion worth while and naturally took place before we even entered the club.  

So all of us met up in the apartment lobby to take the tube together.  So there we were, a group of 20+ really loud Americans, most of whom were already drunk, walking down the quiet streets of London.  We got everyone onto a packed tube car, and took the train to the appropriate stop.  As we emerged into the main part of the station, there was a guy paying guitar as all the people made their way up the escalators.  

Suddenly a very familiar tune filled the air, the beginning bass line for the song "Stand By Me."  A few of us started to kind of hum the tune of the song as the guitarist played on, and then, one of the more intoxicated members of our party, started to really belt out the song with true gusto.  Instead of getting irritated looks, a whole bunch of British guys on the escalator next to us thought singing was a great idea, and started to join in.  Within seconds, the entire station was echoing with the voices of most everyone in the room singing a song that transcended time and countries.  It was amazing, like one of those scenes you see in a movie.  The kind of moment that makes you feel like every person in the vicinity had the same inspiration at the same moment.  It was a beautiful thing.

We all got off the escalator, and went out of the station with the residual voices lingering in the background.  We all kind of looked at each other, and no one had to say a word because we all knew how awesome that just was.  

So today when I woke up, slightly queasy, kind of achy, I ran over the previous night in my head.  Though maybe I wasn't really into the club, or the taking care of drunk people afterward, I got to experience one of those divine moments.  The kind that remind me of God because it just feels like everything and everyone is in sync.  So although I'm sure God would not look down at that club, appropriately named The Zoo Bar by the way, and be happy with what he saw.  I know that he was with us last night, in that moment of perfect unity in a tube station.              

Communication Skills

The British people are much more silent in nature than Americans.  Whether on the tube, or walking down the street, or even sitting with a friend in the park, they tend to not make nearly as much noise.  This even carries over into the way that they show their frustrations.  If you are standing in their way, or taking longer to move then they think is right, they will simply stand very close to you and sort of glare until you get the point.  This is the most evident when taking the tube.  

There is an unspoken rule when entering or leaving a tube station that you are supposed to have your ticket / oyster card ready to go so that you can enter the station in one fluid motion.  If you hold up the entire queue because you forgot to take your card out of your bag, you will definitely receive several filthy looks, no one will actually say anything, but their glares speak a thousand words.

Well, sometimes there is just nothing to be done about holding up the line.  As you enter or exit a station, there is a row of little gates and each one has a pad to the right hand side where you tap your oyster card.  Ninety-five percent of the time, this motion goes off without a hitch, but that other five percent is the problem.  Whenever the machines are feeling particularly touchy they decide to bar you from entering and flash “Seek Assistance” in bright red letters.  One day, I was in the queue to exit, my card ready, and  low and behold I got the fateful “Seek Assistance” message.  The British man behind me let out a small grunt of irritation, and my outspoken American nature kicked in.  I turned around, looked him in the eye, and said, “Really?  Do you think I wanted this to happen?”  He stared at me blankly for a few seconds, in which I was fully expecting a searing look to be shot my way.  

But instead, he gave me one of those crooked smiles and said, “I Suppose not.  Well, carry on then.”  On the second attempt it let me through, and I emerged onto the street with my head held high.  I, the loud American, proved that sometimes verbal communication is quite beneficial and that maybe angrily tapping your foot in silent protest is just silly.   

Shoes

As I was packing for this trip I had a mental conflict over what shoes to bring.  "Boots," I thought, most Londoners must wear boots all the time since it rains here so much.  Well, now that I have been in London for over a week, I can positively say that I was absolutely wrong.  Most women in London wear heels.  Not the safe kind either, the kitten heeled varieties that are just a step up from a nice comfortable pair of flats.  Women in London wear the staggeringly high, super narrow stiletto death traps that I can barely hobble around in.  These astounding women tackle stairs, and tube cars, and cobble stoned streets with apparent ease in these tricky shoes. 

For my Women in Literature class, we are going to a huge store that has recently opened up a The Shoe Galleries.  This gallery contains over 4,000 pairs of shoes by every notable designer that you could think of.  My teacher proceeded to read an article about the new gallery, in which they were describing this seasons hottest pair of shoes.  They were a very edgy looking pair of heels, that cost roughly about £1500.  I guess they have been just flying off of the shelves. 

As my teacher told us about these shoes, he explained why it is he was taking us to these galleries.  His theory is that women buy shoes like these, not because they want to attract men, but actually because they want to assert their dominance over other women.  As he was saying this I looked down at my feet, and encountered my simple pair of leather moccasins, that literally not even an hour before had made me applaud myself because they were so comfortable. 

What does my choice of shoes say about me I wonder?  Is that why all the women of London were these terrifying looking heels?  Is it a statement of their power and dominance? 

They longer I pontificated over this point, I realized that regardless of what it says about me, I would much rather be wearing these moccasins than a pair of heels that would surely make my feet bleed from all the walking that is demanded in this city.  So maybe, on just this one topic at least, I have an edge over the Brits.  Because when push comes to shove, I certainly don't need a pair of heels to prove that I am intelligent, and strong, and can kick pretty much any of these lady's asses.  If I do wear a pair of heels, I hope it's simply because I like them.  



A Moment of Peace

Before I left for London I was seriously anxious that I would spend the next two and a half months as a total loner.  I figured I would be way older than most people in the program, which is sort of true, and that I would have a hard time making friends.  On the contrary however, I can't seem to get a moment of peace around here.  Not that I'm seriously upset about having made friends, I'm actually relieved to have a more active social life.  But I was just expecting to have more time to read, maybe play a little ukulele, perhaps wander around the city unaccompanied.  Instead of alone time though I have been constantly surrounded by people.  At school I literally can't sit for more than a minute in silence without someone coming up and talking my ear off.  I get a continuous stream of text message invitations to various activities ranging from going to the pub, to joining the Harry Potter Club (which yes, actually exists). 

On Saturday I made up my mind to go to Knotting Hill by myself for at least a couple hours in the morning.  As I was sneaking out the front door, I was caught by the entire apartment full of guys on the first floor whose window overlooks the street.  Completely dumbfounded as to why I would want to go to a street fair alone rather than spend the morning drinking beer in their apartment, one of them convinced me to meet him later to walk around Buckingham Palace.  I accepted graciously, though secretly a little bitter to have yet another demand on my time.  That morning is when I met Lane in the antique market who told me all about the skeleton keys.  I also had the most lovely walk through the entirety of Kensington and Hyde Parks.  After I spent the afternoon meandering around and taking pictures, I met up with my friend outside of the tube station for Buckingham Palace.

That was when the coolest thing happened.  As we approached the courtyard in front of the Palace, we noticed an unusually large gathering of people.  After inquiring about the crowd from some very pleasant   Bobbies, we learnt that in just about a half an hour the Pope was scheduled to drive by there on his way to make a speech in Hyde Park.  Though there was already a very sizable crowd lining the streets, apparently none of them noticed the vacant stone column behind them.  So we climbed up on top of it, and had a perfect view of the street beyond where the Pope was expected to drive by.  We sat and chatted away the half hour, and finally got to see the Pope drive by in his bullet proof vehicle dubbed "the pope-mobile".  How fortunate I felt as I sat on top of that stone wall taking pictures of the pope-mobile.  The night ended with a few pints at the pub with some of my new friends, and I went to bed happy, and slightly tipsy.

When I woke up the next morning I was so glad that I hadn't blown off meeting my friend at Buckingham Palace.  I was also glad that I took the morning for myself, and had the most amazing time in the process.  I guess it all comes down to balance.  Making friends, while spending time with myself as well is healthy.  I never want to be the kind of person that fears being alone, but even more than that, I really never want to be the person who doesn't have any friends.  So, every time I get frustrated with the constant texting, or the incessant talking during my breaks, I will just try to remember that without friends I would have never seen the Pope, and that was pretty damn cool.  

Keys

Yesterday I went to Notting Hill to check out the famous street fair that takes place there every Saturday.  The streets were packed with people of every nationality, and there were countless stores and stalls selling every kind of antique.  I went up to this one stall to inquire about a particular key that caught my eye.  It was amazing.  It had these ornate swirls at the top, and was only about three inches in length and the kind of metal that reminds you that it has been places.  When I asked the man behind the counter what it's price was, he smiled and said, "Well it's a bit more expensive then your average key."  At this point he started telling me about the key, and pointing out characteristics that my untrained eye had missed altogether.  He finally told me that this particular key was priced at about two hundred and fifty pounds.  At this I laughed and admitted that that was just a bit out of my price range.  Now at this point, he could have stopped talking to me.  Realizing that he definitely wasn't going to make a sale, he could have just told me to have a nice day and I would have left.  But instead, he started pulling out all of his most valuable keys, and telling me about them.  He showed me a medieval key that someone had found preserved in the mud of the Thames.  An elaborate French key that probably belonged to a church.  He told me the difference between just an old key, and a skeleton key and what they were each used for.  This man, whose name is Lane, spent at least fifteen minutes just giving me information for no other reason than that he knew that I was interested.  Once he had shown me all of his best treasures, I picked up the little key which had first drawn my attention, and which I now knew was an Italian made key from sometime in the late 1600's, and looked at is carefully one more time.  When I set it down he said to me, "Ah yes.  I completely understand.  Keys are very provocative, especially when you have no way of knowing what it is they were made to open."  I simply nodded, asked if he was there every weekend, thanked him, and walked away holding his card in my hand.  It was just one of those chance encounters that I'll never forget.  He wasn't particularly handsome, or charismatic.  He was just a lovely man who saw how interested this young girl was in something that he was interested in too.  As I walked back down the street towards the subway station, I swore that if I happen to have two hundred and fifty extra pounds by the end of my trip, I'm going back for that key.  Even though it's unlikely that it will ever belong to me, I will never forget that little Italian key that opens something mysterious, and how a man named Lane completely understood, and was able to put into words, what it is that I have always loved about keys.  

Stop for a Pint

In the British culture it is quite normal to drink before 5pm.  Actually I think it's quite normal to drink pretty much anytime of the day.  After my first class today I decided to get some fish and chips because I really hadn't eaten out since I got here.  As I walked into the school's cafeteria/cafe, I was surprised to see the amount of alcohol being consumed before noon.  Students and teachers alike were sitting around having a pint with their lunch.  Now I figured since the school found it fitting to sell beer at this time of the day, that I should find it fitting to consume some.  I also felt that since the teachers were partaking as well, that I should just get used to the idea.  What I didn't think about, was that I had a film as literature class next where 90% of the class is conducted in the dark, watching movies.  Needless to say I was struggling with every ounce of my strength to stay awake during Laurence of Arabia, until I finally decided to give in, turn my scarf into a pillow, and take a nap.  It was just an introductory lesson so I did not miss anything vital, and I also learned a very valuable lesson.  Drinking beer at school is ok, just don't do it on Mondays or Wednesdays.

A Change of Pace

I have made a significant observation about the British people.  From what I can tell they are not nearly as uptight as we Americans.  They may not be quite as affectionate, or certainly not as loud, but they are also much less tense than people from back home.  While all of us "yanks" worry about germs, and deadly bacteria in our food, and traffic jams, and pretty much everything else in our lives, the Brits take all of this in their stride.    I mean once a country has survived a plague, multiple enormous fires, direct bombings, and every other kind of devastation, these trivial dangers are put into perspective.  There are no seat covers in the bathrooms, no obsessive use of hand sanitizer.  The milk and eggs are not pasteurized to kill all the bacteria (and consequently they tend to me much more delicious).  On the "tube" they sit and read quietly to themselves rather than curse and swear and honk their horns in frustration.  As a matter of fact, all over the subway stations there are advertisements for books and theater plastered all over the walls.  Can you imagine driving down the freeway and seeing an expensive add space taken up by a book add?  Not very likely in the good old US of A.  The most obvious example of this laid back mentality, is seen in the countless souvenirs labeled with their motto, "Keep Calm and Carry On."  From what I figure, this society, which is our senior in so many ways, has realized something that America has overlooked.  That stress is a real killer.  They have survived for thousands of years even without toilet seat covers and pasteurization, and are still going strong.  So... I've made a decision to adopt this particular British motto into my life.  "Keep Calm and Carry On."  What a beautiful little piece of advice.         

Nigel

Today I think I’ve suffered some sort of mental whiplash.  Our group was taken on a bus tour of London, led by an extremely knowledgeable man named Nigel.  He is a retired policeman who now is a certified, blue badge, tour guide.  This man has forgotten more about London’s history than I may ever learn, and the beautiful thing is that he still loves his country.  He talked with pride about all the different war heros and politicians whose memorial statues are scattered throughout the city, and entreated us to examine and appreciate the architecture of the surrounding buildings.  His zeal and excitement was absolutely contagious, and has made me even more determined to traverse this town and find all its secrets.  So... thanks Nigel!     

Upon Arrival

The last 24 hours I have spent in almost constant motion.  First the drive to the airport, then the flight, then all those moving sidewalks in the airport, then the bus ride to our apartment.  When I finally climbed the five flights of stairs up to my door, opened all the windows and stopped to look around, I felt for a second like I couldn't really be in another country.  I looked around at the thoroughly standard apartment and could have sworn I've been in an identical one back in LA.  The first time I noticed a difference was when I leaned out the window.  Instead of the normal concrete buildings, or parking lots that I'm used to encountering when looking out a fifth floor window, I saw brick buildings with so much character that they brought an involuntary smile to my lips.  THIS is why London is so special.  You can practically feel the presence of this wonderful town's immense history.  On every block, around every corner, there pops up some ancient treasure that is so steeped in history and happenings that you can feel it like a physical force.  So... I have decided to soak up as much of this ancient energy as I possibly can, and perhaps to leave my own energy lingering around foggy London town.

Countdown to Departure.

It is Tuesday afternoon, and I leave on Thursday.  It's just hitting me now that I am actually leaving.  The preparations I have left are minimal, and I am quite literally sitting and watching the clock tick away the minutes until I get on the plane.  I have an almost constant case of the butterflies as of recent, and it's not because of a boy, or a new job, it's because I get to do something amazing.  I get to go to another country, one that I love and respect, and learn hundreds of new things.  I get to have two and a half months worth of self discovery and adventure.  I just decided to start this blog so that maybe if anyone wondered what I'm up to over there, they can take a glimpse into my life through my writing.  I just want to share a few precious spots of time with anyone who would find them interesting.