Good Grief.

Oh... jeez.  What on earth?  I totally forgot about this thing.

(way. to. go!)

Admittedly, though, it's the longest time I've actually maintained a single blog.

I have a bad track record with these things.

You know, I might have to give some trip summaries.

Or not, and just call this blog closed. Closed, in terms of a lovely chapter in my life.  That's kind of depressing. Whatever.

In this way, my trip blog, which tries its hardest to avoid profanities and excessive drinking for my readers who didn't quite approve of it...

... will end with admissions, and real quick summaries:

1. I totally had a hangover when I did my "Hampstead Wanderings."  It was after what I can only call an epic failure to avoid bingeing.  Shit.  I mixed my drinks real bad.

That experience also branded me as "the alcoholic" in our study abroad program. 

This could also explain why most of the other people in the flats didn't feel like drinking with me, even though I never repeated the experience.  I like to think that it's because they were scared that I'd drink them under the table.

... that, and I didn't really like them that much, and I think they could tell.

2. I did end up going to Solsbury Hill and Bath by myself!  It was great, and I've got stories, fantastic pictures, etc. etc.  Found an extremely old copy of Robert Browning's poetry and definitely bought it.  It was relatively cheap!

3. We also visited Cambridge.  King's College Cathedral... was awesome.

4. I had a cannabis lolly in Amsterdam.  It wasn't that exciting, and definitely not worth my €.  The Rembrandt Museum was much better--and so was the art gallery that I visited.  Actually, I just love the Jordaan side of the city.

5. Prague is, in my mind, rather fuzzy--however, it's because I'm trying to forget something that really pissed me off.  I'm pretty sure I had a good time (apart from the cloudy windy cold) otherwise.

6. I hung out in Romania for a week, too.  It was good to see family.  It was also good to follow the Danube River to the delta.  Awesome.

7. I almost got run over by a double decker bus.

8. We visited Hampton Court.  I spent most of my time away from the group, wandering the palace greens.  Ended up hopping on the same train K.W. was taking.  Huh.

I think that's all.

Cheers.

✫

Sorry, Again

I have been neglecting this... again.

Ah, well.

Sorry 'bout that.

What I Did The Past Six Days

Sorry.  I've been terrible, neglecting my blog for the past six days. 

So... uh.  Here's what I did. If you want to really know the juicy details of what I did, just comment asking for details on such and such part of the day.

Tuesday

- went to the Camden Arts Museum for class

Wednesday

- went to the Cabinet War Rooms and the Churchill Museum

Thursday

- went to the Opera to see The Magic Flute

Friday

- saw the Inns of Court (all four of them)

- went to the Temple Church

- ate at the pub that was previously the Lord of Essex's house

Saturday

- met Moth

- heard that Camden Market caught on fire

Sunday

- walked around after fetching train tickets for tomorrow

I will have something of substance tomorrow.

My Name Isn't Simon

Okay, so we didn't go to Bath today, as the train tickets were too expensive.  So, I just happily slept in, and minded my own business when I woke up while my flatmates conspired at the breakfast table.  For a little while, I was a bit confused - but I then decided to be happily ignorant, as I figured I'd ask them what they were doing if they left.  Fortunately, it didn't get to that point, as I got in on it almost as they had decided to get their gear on - they'd decided to go to the Tower of London.  

Well, it wasn't Bath - but at least it was cheaper and interesting for all of us! 

It was a beautiful day outside - so we decided to walk all the way to the Tower - which, by the way, is a long way!  It's a good nearly four mile walk, I think.  We went down Fleet Street to St. Paul's - and somewhere along the line we hopped onto the Thames River walk.

Fun facts about Fleet Street:

1. Fleet Street used to be a small bend in the river Thames - it was filled in at some point to allow London to expand a bit more.

2. Fleet Street has a lot of clocks down it.

3. There is, indeed, a barbershop on Fleet Street.  But, for some reason, underneath the sign is a Thai Food restaurant.

Anyway, we got to the Tower just in time for the last guided tour of the day (surprisingly enough, the Tower closes at 4:00 pm.  We got there around 2:00.).  The cool bit about the guided tour is that they're led by people who actually live on the Tower Grounds: the Yeoman Warders.  And the guide we had sure acted like he lived there every day.  Hilarity ensued.  

While the tour was mostly an informative point-and-go sort of thing, the guard was incredibly funny.  And he gave us a lot of background on the entirety of the place.  He gave us the bloody details: for instance, the first person to be informally executed there was named Simon.  And the first person to be formally executed on Tower Hill near there was named Simon.  And the last person to be executed after being imprisoned in the Tower on the nearby Hill... was also named Simon.  In the words of our Yeoman, "This is not a place to go to if your name's Simon."

He also pointed out the ravens and gave us a word of advice on them: "There are two things the ravens will do if you get too close.  One - they'll just step out of your way.  Or two, they'll turn right 'round and bite you.  And when they bite your finger, you'll scream.  And when you scream, one of us will be right along - and soon we'll all be gathered 'round you, laughing our heads off.  So don't feed the ravens!"

Well, I didn't feed the ravens, but I did get to see the Crown Jewels.  And those were amazing to look at.  I mean, really - it's the epitome of sheer extravagance.  Royalty at its height.  Big, gold, elaborately fashioned maces.  Crowns loaded with jewels and lined with velvet.  Lots of shiny shiny shiny.  That sort of thing.  

I also walked along the inner tower wall connecting a lot of the towers (the "Tower" of London is a bit of a misnomer - it's quite a few towers all on one ground) together - went into the Bloody Tower where Sir Walter Raleigh was imprisoned, saw Catholic graffiti (amongst others) in the Salt Tower...  It's sort of an eerie place, really.  Especially the chapel which is also within the inner walls - the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, where many of the people who were imprisoned from the Tower and executed on the Hill were brought... well, without their heads - and buried.  

Most importantly, I saw (and used!) the long-time award-winning bathrooms within the walls!

Okay, that's not that important - but, you know.  They have a competition for "best public bathroom" in London.  Interesting.

Admittedly, Salt Tower was the most sobering place.  There's a sort of heavy air about the place - a sort of uneasiness in the small room.  Admittedly, I'm a touch claustrophobic - but I do okay in rooms smaller than that one.  I think I cracked a really bad joke in there to break the tension.  Didn't go over well.  Oh, well.  I can't really explain it - that Tower, I mean.  But, apparently, there are ghost stories associated with that particular tower.  

I think I was more intrigued by all the petitions along the wall - summoning to mind Christ's suffering in the midst of their own - that is, the image of a wounded foot.  And this was one of those permanent calls - not just something painted over quickly or scribbled out.  I don't know - there's just something about this need to remember the divine in the midst of trial that really calls out to me.  I realize that there's a lot of easy responses - you know, the obvious "of course that's what you should be doing" - but seeing a deep (in the literal and figurative sense) cry like that is such a physical reminder... well.  It's not something you forget that easily, and it's not something to brush off, either.

Well, at the end of the day, I took some sweet pictures of the Tower Bridge, as well as a few other spots along the Tower.  I also got some ice cream, and promptly made milk shakes.

Tomorrow is Pancake Day!  Guess what I'm going to be making...?

✫

Reprise

The thing about clubs is that there's often a lot of people there.

And I don't like a lot of people.

I like them a bit more with a few drinks, though.  Oh well.

Interestingly enough, I decided to go to a club again - I was just feeling like going out.  Apparently, I wasn't feeling like going to a club.  Ah, well.  At least I got the interesting concoction of Red Bull and three shots of vodka in me- and somehow I ended up dancing with a Brazilian girl in the Carnival celebration that was going on in the bottom of the club.  She was friends with another guy who was getting to be friends with L.M. - and he was a wonderful gentleman for someone who didn't speak that much English.  

I also happened to have an exchange with an AP photographer when I went upstairs in TigerTiger.  I gave him props for liking his job - and we did a high-five just because.  K.D. managed to get his business card (apparently she was talking with him before?  Surprise!) - so I'm looking forward to trying to chat with him again.  I mean, he was a nice guy.  And I'm intrigued by the prospect of being a photographer.

What, you didn't know I liked photography?  It's a nice hobby.  And I take pretty good pictures.

Anyway, the report:

• No scandalous dances went down - but there was a lot of jumping.  I think I pulled a running man.  Hilarity ensued.
  
• I saw two cute boys on the way home.  One I actually talked to for a little bit.  
• I don't quite know how I feel about this particular club.   
• A fight almost broke out between a bouncer and a bunch of black guys in front of us.  They got turned away for not having IDs and they accused the bouncer of being racist.  Phew!
• I did nothing much earlier today - except wade through the crowds at Primark.  It's like the gentrified Wal-Mart of Britain.  Lovely!

And there you have it.

✫

Museum and Sushi

Today was a nice Saturday.  I slept late last night, and decided to sleep in.  For some reason, I woke up at ten - which I decided wasn't right.  So, I went back to bed, and slept in until around half past two.  That's more like it.

So, I was milling around, chilling on the couch, and K.D. proposed that we should go to the Victoria and Albert Museum, since that was on our list for the London Experience thing that we get to do on our own this week.  I agreed to it, as I thought it might be a cool idea, so we went after eating our lunch-breakfast meal.  Fortunately, there was no changing of lines on the Tube or anything like that - it's a straight (long) shot from here to the station closest to the museum.  

When we got to the station, we noticed that there was a "subway" to the museum.  We thought that would be convenient, so we went.  Turns out, the "subway" is a sub-way: there were no trains or whatever to take us there.  Not that we'd need it - it wasn't that much of a walk.  K.D. made the fine bet that we wouldn't go outside at all today - save for our trip to the station from our flat. 

The museum in and of itself is amazing.  I mean, we popped in from the subway - and immediately we got distracted by this section called "England 1600-1800".  I think it was something shiny that caught my eye down there.  Anyway, almost immediately we were kind of in awe, looking around with sort of open mouths about the place.  There were intricately carved furniture, cups made from enormous sea shells - even a really decorated clavichord!  And then we wandered to the next room, where we saw busts of popes, cardinals, and a bishop, as well as more cool furniture and statues.  All in all, we kept thinking (rather out loud) about how on earth could all this be done back in those days - the detail work, the painstaking care put into something like a spoon.  People probably spent their lives pounding carefully away at silver, gold, and stone just to have someone else eat and drink off of it.  It's a bit humbling, when I think about it.

We left that area and went up a level - and we were greeted by a Rodin piece in an almost palatial room.  Granted, Rodin wasn't the only one showcased there - but they had a lot of his sculptures there.  Rodin is an interesting sculptor - and really stands out when you see his sculptures in a room full of other sculptures.  I mean, in said room, there were several really contorted, unusually-formed pieces amongst some tranquil statues of people looking rather natural and calm.  And the weird ones were Rodin's doing.  I really like Rodin - just because he's willing to go out on a limb and make his sculptures' limbs, well - rather interesting.  For instance, he'll put some really masculine, muscular looking arms and legs on a female body.  And, in a world of art where boobs on sculptures are pretty prominent - Rodin will emphasize other things - like hands, arms, legs, and feet.  He makes the torso and the genitals diminutive in respect.  When he chooses to sculpt the head (which he sometimes doesn't bother with),  it's usually well worth looking at - as it's usually caught in some sort of desperate emotional state.  

We moved on to see the paintings of the Renaissance, and were once again in awe of the gold and silver fineries.  What was interesting to note was that there seemed to be a tendency to include more and more detail once the Renaissance got underway.  Two-dimensional art changed dramatically - becoming more real-to-life rather than somewhat symbolic.  Paintings started looking like photographs.  Carvings started looking more and more like sculptures.  And sculptures started looking more and more like what they were aiming to represent.  This, I suppose, reflected the movement going on in the Renaissance.  As learning went more and more into detail, art reflected that, too.

We then wandered around, cutting through the cafe and stealing a few sugar cubes from the tables (I can't help that I've got a sweet tooth!) - sort of distracted by the fact that every room looks like it could belong in a palace.  I mean - there were chandeliers in a museum's dining place!  I'm not sure if it was casual - as it looked pretty formal - but it seemed awfully out of place in a museum.

Somehow, we wandered down a hallway to discover something amazing.  We just happened to peek into a room filled with old plaster casts of rather notoriously famous things from around the globe.  There was the front of a cathedral in Spain, there were monuments of Templar Knights' tombs - and, the big one: Trajan's Column - which had to be cut in half just to fit in the space.  I mean, they didn't even have a sculpture of Trajan at the top - this thing was huge on its own!  K.D. and I were stuck wondering what it was at first - and I read the description and could pretty much say what it was at the title.  I know my Roman history - and I know that Trajan was the guy that invaded (and conquered) Dacia.  And Dacia is in modern-day Romania.  Go figure - I'd find the one thing that represented my home country's history in a British museum.

Interestingly enough, I didn't see a representation of a triumph - or maybe I didn't look hard enough.  I don't know - it was so big, you'd kind of have to have stood there for ten minutes just to see what was on both sides.  Unfortunately, with the museum thirty minutes away from closing by the time we made it down there, we didn't really have time to spend.  But it was kind of cool actually seeing what's actually on those columns.  I mean, I'd been familiar with it - the columns represent important battles, expeditions, and the return of the army and so forth - but seeing it in person kind of blows those pictures I'd seen in text books away.  I think it's supposed to be that big -  it's meant to be marveled at and contemplated.  It's a showcase of the emperor's work - which, back in the day, he really wanted people to know about.

We managed to get a quick glimpse of Victorian fashion on our way out, by the way.  They have a room devoted to the clothing of the times - and, needless to say, I would not be caught dead wearing some of the things that they made ladies wear.  Corsets are not my thing.  Neither are big, poofy dresses - and being restricted to only wearing those big poofy dresses.  I think I'll probably go back to see more later.  Maybe I'll give women's fashion in the Victorian era a chance.

Maybe I'll be tempted to burn it.

Um.  Anyway, we basically got herded out of the museum, which was a real shame.  Oh, well. 

I got some sushi to go at YO! Sushi and was pretty much AMAZED by how good it was.

And, the best part?

They've got the for serious wasabi here.  None of this green-tinted horseradish crap they've got in the States.  The stuff burns your nose in small doses!  Good grief!

I had some sashimi, a crispy shrimp and avocado roll, some shrimp on a rice ball, and a few cucumber rolls, among other things.  To top it off, I had a crispy duck hand roll.

Mill on that for a little bit.

It was pretty good, though.  Nice and crispy.  And the sauce inside was freaking awesome.

Needless to say, when I feel like sushi, I know where to go to get the best stuff ever - just down the street.

So, the plan, I think, is to go to Bath on Monday.  We've had news of really bad weather outside of London, so we're waiting until things get cleared out in the country before heading out there.

Also, I'm going to go to the markets on Sunday to get some cheap produce.  Yum.

✫

Christian Clubbing

So, this Friday, we didn't have an official "London experience" to go about doing with the group.

Well, we figured out something to do during the day.

I slept in.

Interestingly enough, I slept hard - which I don't usually do.  Probably because I ended up sleeping around five in the morning last night (morning?).  Unfortunately, even when I'm dead tired, I don't sleep quickly when there's lights on and movement going around - which is what my roommate was doing.  Blah.  

I slept in - and woke up around lunch time, which was nice.  L.M. and K.D. were looking for some sweet fish and chip place - so we all went - got some really good (and reasonably priced) fish and chips.  

Just so you know - there is something greasier than Bojangles.  And that is... good fish and chips.  

And then I did nothing but veg out the rest of the day.

That is, until around nine o' clock.  That's when I reviewed everything I needed to know about where I was going.  It was take the tube, switch lines, hop off at the end of the line and walk two blocks and a half until I got to a little place that seemed like a hole in the wall from the outside.  I got there around ten (I left the flat about twenty minutes after nine, I think.), and got terribly confused at the front desk - because I had no idea what to do.  I mean, I almost gave my cover charge to the bouncer - I was so confused.  That's the thing about not going to clubs prior to this: I don't know what to do when I actually get there.

After a little guest list mixup (not entirely my fault, but I certainly didn't help), I walked in, being informed that a few people from the group I was with were already there.  Unfortunately, I didn't know what they looked like - so this didn't help a bit.  However, I found out that they had made their way to the back, if I wanted to join them.  Of course, I did, so I wandered to the back - and found the rest of the club.  There was a nice dance space past the bar, and then a little lounge area with a foosball table.  No luck there at first glance.

I'm usually a shy person, but I know how to manipulate myself into talking with other people.  And one of the fast ways to do that, for me, is to get a few drinks in.  Sorry.

I got myself a piña colada and guzzled it down.  Pretty weak drink - but good nonetheless.  Definitely not worth almost £5, though.  I stuck to cheaper drinks after that.  Letting the drink kind of settle in, I was approached by a scruffy looking guy who looked maybe like Daniel Radcliffe if he had the right light accompanying him.  He didn't.  He danced with me a bit, we made introductions - and I sort of broke off from him after a while.  I felt kind of awkward being around him - mainly because he kept making signs to his buddies.  And really, I don't dig signs to buddies when I don't know what they mean.  I kind of laughed at him and walked away to the bathroom.

Hey, I don't have to be taught how to get away from a troublesome boy.

Anyway, I was feeling a bit fuzzier than sober, so I decided to wander back there again, and ask if anyone had seen Bruce - the guy that was sort of organizing everything.  And the first person I asked just happened to be the right person to ask.  Her name was Abby - and she was cool, even sticking with me for our really awkward exchange.  The two other girls that she was sitting with, sometime in the middle of our conversation, went off to dance - and we eventually joined them.  After a good ten minutes of ear-busting dance music, Abby gave a nod - saying that Bruce had come.

Bruce ended up being a really nice guy - I wasn't expecting anything otherwise, really.  He was nice in the sort of hipster sense that seems to be going around these days (that I really like).  It was pretty sweet.  Bruce introduced me to Tim (who was cute - but I'm sure that doesn't matter except for those of you interested in my love interests) who I ended up talking to on occasion.  Tim said that I had to meet Lisa - and I did after a little bit.  Interestingly enough, Lisa is an American who, after studying abroad, decided to live here.  And she's engaged to a cute British guy named James (who I also talked to).

I spent a good deal of time chatting (well, screaming at - you can't chat in a club) with Lisa and Bruce.  I found out that this was more of a social event - sort of catching up with each other.  I also learned about the boiler room (that is, prayer room) in the area, and both Lisa and Bruce said they'd recommend churches in the area.  I was thrilled.  So, after a bit, I went out on the dance floor, and ended up really grooving it down with... a dude.  What was great was that we had a bit of a circle around us, and we were just jamming away - and then at the break, Abby told me, "That was an awesome dance with that guy."

My now-influenced-by-vodka-and-coca-cola brain suddenly went, "What?"

Nobody knew who this guy was - but he was bouncing around everywhere being really cool (and somewhat drunk).  He was a pretty noisy dude - I'd usually think he was obnoxious, but I tolerate a bit more when I've had a few drinks.  And he kept bouncing back and dancing with me - and laughing when I'd dance with him.  He was like, "This is great - you're great - I love you!"  After breaking off with him a few times and bumping into him again, he gave me a good bit of white wine (which I've now learned I really don't like - but I drank it anyway)  and we did some intense dancing.  And by intense, I mean we were actively grooving for fifteen minutes.  I got a bit dizzy at the end (guess the wine got to me?) and I excused myself to the bathroom for a bit of peace and quiet.

I danced with Tim, James, Lisa, Bruce, and a few others from the group a bit - and we were joined by the DJ, Dave.  It was pretty sweet.  I gave Dave a high-five, just 'cause.  And then the guy bumped into our group and danced with us, too.

Eventually, the guy bought me a drink, and we had a good chat.  I learned that 1. his name was Naz, and 2. he wasn't from around here.  The good news was, neither was I.  I gave him just my last name, knowing that he'd be amused at hearing it and probably forget it (and it's a common Romanian last name, if he did remember it).

I guess I was impressed by him because he said that it was "a fact" that I was beautiful and "(insert expletive here) those bimbos who say otherwise".  He also said he wanted me to enjoy myself - and I said that I was - because I was.  I was especially amused when he asked some random guy if he knew who T.S. Eliot was - and when the guy answered that he didn't know, he essentially responded, "well, (insert same expletive here) him!"  and then asked me what he wrote.  Ah, irony.

Don't worry, I didn't spend all my time with Naz - but I was terribly amused by him.

Bruce caught up with me after I sort of hung out with Naz, and I asked him, "So, this is pretty much how it goes?"  And basically, he said, "Yeah - but usually we get together beforehand and pray, and then we do a bit more praying on the floor, and we approach more people and chat with them."  

Needless to say, I liked it - at least, the casual club.

I made my farewells to everyone a bit early, because I knew I had an hour's worth of walking ahead of me.  What sucks is that the tube doesn't run all day - it stops running at around midnight.  I wasn't up to finding out where the night buses were coming and going from, so, I figured, walking would do me good.

Walking did do me good.  I regained my sense of hearing along the way.

Unfortunately, I almost exploded from really needing to use the bathroom.  I was lucky enough to run into a club in the area, and casually slip in to use their bathroom.  I kind of gave a head-jerk at the DJ on my way out, just to kind of act cool, and act like I belonged here, I guess.  I dunno.  I was feeling sociable.

When I got home, I called my mom and wished her a happy birthday.  That felt right.  Didn't tell her about the clubbing.  Ah, well.

Maybe I'll tell her when I do the official Club-and-Pray.

✫ 

Indian Food, British Television

Today, we watched Don't Look Now in British Cinema.  I don't recommend it, really.  The redeeming part of the movie was the red-cloaked dwarf.

I am still confused as to what the "Welsh stereotype" is.  My professor's indirect answer of my asking is not helpful when I'm trying to write a paper trying to figure out how Notting Hill is representing a bit of British society.

Well.

Afterwards, I chilled out at the flat until a group decided that they were going to go eat Indian food.  Everyone else at the flat already ate... except me.  So, I grabbed some cash, and went out.

Here's the thing.

All of a sudden, it's gotten really cold.  Like, really windy and cold.  It's a bit of a jolt when you're used to 50-degree weather, and it's perfectly fine to go outside in your flip flops.  Or... well.  It's fine for me.  I like flip flops and cold weather.  Anyway - we walked a long time in the cold windy night until we got to this place that's off of some side streets.

Three words, though: so worth it.

The food was good.  The food was cheap.  I got some Saag Gosht (I think that's what it's called?) with some Naan for £5.  And the service was great - pitchers of water kept coming to our poor American mouths.  Indian food: great, but spicy as all get-out.  Personally, I don't really like spicy food lingering in my mouth - so I followed my lovely food with some coconut ice cream.  And the stuff got served in half a coconut shell.  Awesome.

Needless to say, I'm going back.  If anything, I'm going back for the ice cream.  And then I'm going to find the castle where they filmed Monty Python and The Holy Grail with my coconut shells.  Maybe I'll bring other people, too.

Afterwards, we wandered off to a pub humorously called "The Hope."  It was warm, it was close, and the drinks were cheap.  The bartender was cute.  Yeah, I'm sure y'all wanted to know that.  If anything, I'm going back there, because the bartender was really nice, too.

And no, I didn't get his number.

And no, he didn't ask for my number.

So, after a couple of drinks, I decided I was at my limit (I wanted to get home safely, without stumbling, swerving, whatever.) and I went back to my flat.  

I've discovered, from that trip, that 1. alcohol does wonders in warming you up, and 2. Indian food and alcohol should be mixed together only under rare circumstances.  What they do to your system separately is awful - but when they team up?  Dang.  

I survived, though, and that's what matters.

I came back to my flat, and L.M. and K.D. were watching television.  They had it turned to the music video channel - which is amusing, I guess.  Most of these music videos aren't entertaining anymore.  I mean, what happened to Peter Gabriel's masterpieces?  (I know, it's cheesy claymation - but it was incredibly innovative for its time!)  What happened to having a little story line in the video?

I guess those videos exist somewhere still.  But they're kind of boring these days.

However, I'm still watching them.  I'm not really watching them for the video, though.  You see, one of the innovations that the British might have succeeded with in regular programming is the idea of what to do with the music video channel when you've got deaf people watching television, too.  They don't do closed captioning here, as far as I know.  Or, at least, they don't do closed captioning for this channel.  No, what they do instead is something that seems really awkward at first, but it's really fascinating to watch.  You see, they've got this team of interpreters - a dude and a woman, in this case - that are green-screened against the video.  And what they do is a fancified ESL with the video going on in the background.  

Now, this kind of blows my not-entirely-sober mind.  I mean, at first, I'm sort of looking at the television, feeling really warm and fuzzy (by the way, young folk, you haven't felt "warm and fuzzy" until you've had a comfortable amount of drinks - it's a "warm and fuzzy" that you can actually enjoy.  Overdo it, and you're in for a load of trouble, underdo it, and you get your "warm". Back to the sentence.), and then I notice: "Wait.  There's someone on the screen that shouldn't be there."  And then I notice that said person is moving around.  And then I notice that how they're moving around goes with the video going.

AND THEN I COULD UNDERSTAND THEM.

Well, not entirely.  You see, ESL is a different beast from ASL.  I learned this by watching New Order's "True Faith" video. (By the way, that video's also one of those things that's worth watching - better than the tripe that's on T.V. these days.  It's one of those weird, artsy, and completely abstract videos that's just funny to watch.)  So, basically, I can understand how these signs fit the words - but I don't really fully understand what's being said.

So, anyway.  There's an interpreter on the telly.  And I'm being sort of educated by the music video channel in a really fun, strange way.

It's not every day that you can say that you're sobering up watching someone sign on the telly.

I wonder if that's an every day thing here?

(Not the "getting drunk" part - the interpreting thing.)

Anyway, the interpreter that's on the telly now (they've got a team!  You can't sign for a ton of videos straight - that's wearisome!) is a lot more straightforward than the other two that I've seen - so I'm sort of understanding her a bit better.  I'm seeing the differences a bit better, too.  It's so cool.

By the way, British television, for the most part, sucks.

Reasons will probably be brought up in another rant later.  

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Brevity

This will be a short entry.

What I did today:

• slept in, after nearly polishing off my supply the night before
• ate breakfast
• took a shower
• went to class... with a sun setting in my face
• lingered outside the building
• laughed a lot in class, because our professor is magnificent (he cursed a lot at his computer again - and then he proceeded to give us a description of military ranks and strategy so we know who's who and why they're important in terms of WWII)
  
• played Tetris in class, with T.W. trying to give me a few hints while watching from behind
  
• had dinner with J.W. - we had some awesome Indian food

Needless to say, my day was nice.

I think I'm going to go to Bath Saturday morning, and do that clubbing thing on Friday.  Forget going out of the country - I want to go to Solsbury Hill.

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"Plinth" Is A Great Word

Yesterday, I did nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  Literally.  It was fantastic.

As for today, though, we went to the National Gallery to see the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square for our art class.  Basically, a plinth, other than being a cool word, is a pillar on which a statue stands.  There are four of these in Trafalgar Square - and three are occupied by statues.  The fourth is empty - and it's open to a changing exhibit of sculptures, concept art, you name it.  This year, it's occupied by a multi-colored "hotel" which pigeons apparently really like.  Ironically, there were no pigeons inside.  Rather, they had decided to occupy a rather bare gumball tree.  Guess they thought it needed leaves.

Anyway, the Fourth Plinth is currently having entries for next year judged.  There were a couple of ideas that they narrowed it down to: a rather interesting display of concave multicolored discs, a sculpture of a family of meercats, a rather tacky-looking post-modern light-up display about the environment and war and stuff, a bombed out car, a giant ship in a bottle, and, interestingly enough, a safety net for an idea to have people go up there and stand on it for an hour.  I'm partial to the meercat idea, myself.  Then we got toured around by one of the museum's curators who organized an exhibit on the guy with the ship in the bottle's work.  And that was interesting in a number of ways: firstly, the guy's work was amazing.  It's very multicultural in its display of what appears to be on the surface very "African".  Secondly, the curator was hilarious - giving us history lessons in slang and so on.  It helps that he was younger - so I guess that allows him the excuse.  And, thirdly, the curator actually knew a lot of stuff that was interesting concerning the history of what was currently there and what used to be there in that exhibit.  Curating is an interesting form of art in and of itself.

After that, we went to the National Theater to see Women of Troy - which was displayed in a relatively modern sense.  It was awesome - I mean, I like the play in the original sense to begin with - but putting it in a modern context really made for some interesting interpretations on an old Greek text.  It didn't seem at all unnatural that it was in the context that it was.  War's a really current issue.  As for the prophetess Cassandra, she got the most fun treatment out of all the characters.  I guess the modern prophetess is a crazed pyromaniac who is prone to taking off her clothes while she's in hysterics.  I don't think I've seen a stage that on fire.  I also don't think I've ever seen that many pyrotechnical things involved in a play.  The explosion at the end gave me a headache!  Anyway, in and of itself, the play was a frenzy at some times, and desperately reflective at others.  It felt sort of cultish - which is an interesting carryover from the Greek tragedy.  Also amusing to note: Menelaus, the Spartan... was portrayed as Scottish.  If you know your history... you'll laugh with me.  If you don't, you should.

There were no plinths in the play.

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Vend Hopping

I sort of stumbled out of bed in the morning, took a shower, and dashed out the door.

Why would I do that?  It's Sunday.  Well, since I check my e-mail religiously, I decided to take J.W. on her offer to take us to the Brick Yard and Spitalfields.  I figured it would be interesting.

So, I popped out of my flat right as J.W. was walking by.  Quite convenient.  We sort of lingered around outside to see if anyone would join us - timing ourselves by my pastry eating (which was awesome).  Hey, no one else showed up - which made it easy for us two to wander around the markets.  I think I just might've gotten lost otherwise, actually - those markets are crowded!

European markets are amusingly noisy places - and London's are no exception to that.  Both are sort of the cross between the flea market and the farmer's market - and it's a happy medium.  The Brick Yard seems to be more of the "flea market" variety - while the Spitalfields is more of the farmer's market.  I saw some interesting things.  I saw tasty things.  I chatted it up with J.W..  It was good times.

I got an e-mail from a guy that does a "club and pray" thing around London.  Might as well make my first clubbing experience an edifying one.  We'll see how it goes... and if I can go.

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Hampstead Wanderings

Today, I had a bit of a headache going on, so I wasn't up to heading out to Harrod's or the market with the rest of the group.  I wasn't up for the latter because crowds make me a bit uncomfortable, and I wasn't up for the former because I have to be in a good mood to window shop, and headaches tend to put me in... well, not so much of a good mood.  I tried to sleep in, but the weather outside looked so nice - so I decided that I was just going to arm myself with a camera, an Oyster Card (which lets me freely, but not for free, ride the transportation around here), and some cash and decide where I was going to go for the day.  I walked around for a little bit over ground - went to Tottenham Court road and couldn't find a place to eat... I mean, really.  I'm not paying eight dollars for a little patty cake of a burger.  It's sad what passes for a "burger" around here, really.  Anyway, I went down to the Underground and a name popped up: Hampstead.

To tell the truth, first I wanted to go to Camden Town, but then I had a change of heart - namely because Camden Town has a bit of a bad rap and I wasn't going to risk it with a headache.  Hampstead seemed like a more quiet choice.  So off I was - on a tube to Hampstead.

The thing about Hampstead - especially having been to Canterbury - is that it's definitely got a very small-town feel, even though it's in London.  It's almost bizarre, really.  When I hopped out of the station, I expected to find groups of people swarming around - but instead, I saw a few families walking around, just enjoying the weather like I was.  There was a lot of space to just be by myself - and in that vein, a lot of space to just be myself.  There weren't any tourists around, there weren't flashy signs or very many things to do all at once - this was just Hampstead.  Quite nice.

And then there was the Heath - which I sort of stumbled onto.  After sort of wandering around, finding that it's a bit hillier there than the borough I live in, I found my way back to Heath Street, and shortly after that, in front of a large wooded area - with a bunch of little trails zigzagging all over the place.  A little map near a fenced entrance told me that I was at the Heath (which took me by surprise, since I was expecting less trees - but there you go) and kindly pointed out for me the main trails and so on.  I'm not really a main trail kind of girl, though, so I sort of made my way into the woods.  It felt like I was hiking again - and I suppose I was.  I saw a cute older couple with little walking poles that they could get their bearings with.  But most of the people that I spotted (which, once again, wasn't very many) were out walking their labs, retrievers, and hounds.  Granted, I hadn't seen dogs of that size in London until this point - but here they were.  And they were obnoxiously cute.

After wandering through the woods for a little while (which I later discovered was actually "the bog" - I was wondering why there was so much mud and squishy things about) I came to a park on the heath.  It was huge.  Kids were running around playing (the proper form of) football, there was a (rein)deer enclosure... granted, I think I happened across the kid's park - but whatever.  I'm a kid, too.  I hung around the bird pond for a while before deciding that I might start heading back, since the sun was getting to a lower point in the sky.

Hampstead is amazing, really.  A bit of peace, quiet, and unspoiled nature in the middle of a bustling city - who would've thought?  I started to wonder which was stranger - having this in the city or having a city built around this. I paid my respects at the monument that honored the various community members who kept the Heath from being developed like everything else - it really is a little treasure.  Not too bad of a place to work off a headache.

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The Pope's Tale

I managed to be in the mood and mind to pop out of bed when the alarm went off at six in the morning – but of course I didn’t.  You don’t do that when you can help it.  And I certainly could – so in bed I stayed for about fifteen minutes before stumbling around.  Surprisingly enough, I was ready to go early – so into the dawn-daylight I went.

Today, we were pilgrimaging to Canterbury.
Or, at least, paying it a visit.

We took the bus to the station – which was surprisingly comfortable on account of a covered cushion that I embraced on the way.  I hugged it the whole trip. (I’m starting to think I’m missing a certain teddy bear... poor Remington.)  Snagging a double-shot of espresso, it was to the train (getting more and more awake as I went along – good grief) and off to Canterbury.
The train ride wasn’t remarkable – save for the sheep on the English fields.  But, after a while, sheep are sheep, so I got to reading.  Anyway – it’s still unremarkable, so I’ll stop my remarks.

When we pulled up to the station, I had a good feeling about the place.  It definitely looked different from London. There’s something along the line of a cosy, old feeling about the town.  Even though it plunged into poverty – I feel that the poverty of Canterbury is what kept its old charm.  It’s like meeting a has-been in a coffee shop or on the street – or, in this case, out in the middle of a sheep field.
Our first destination was the centre of town – where the great cathedral was.  And it’s a great cathedral – in every sense of the word.  It’s big.   It’s beautiful – especially if you’re into a subtly eclectic mixture of Norman and Gothic architecture and big windows.   I know I am.   Anyway – we toured the grounds, saw where Thomas Becket got martyred – got to see the memorials of Henry IV and the Black Prince.
The tour guide took great pains, I think, to stress how busy the cathedral used to be.  And, in the empty spaces, I sort of imagined them there – the monks doing their business, the pilgrims coming through, praying at different relic sites...  After a while, it felt like a beautifully solemn place – but I think that was on account of the fact that my imagination was on mute.  I have a bit of a feeling that it was more of a crowded, noisy place – the sacred clashing harshly with the profane, the two clanging around like brash duellists.  When we got to the highest room in the cathedral – we were informed of something that I had only been slightly aware of: the cathedral itself is shaped like a crucifix – and the top, the “corona”, is tilted slightly to the right – rather like the figure on the crucifix.  Interesting – in a time where symbolism was the only way to get things across to the uneducated masses, the cathedral itself was a symbol – a way to make the cathedral all the more sacred - and perhaps all the more accessible.  The cathedral really does act as a consecrated "come all you who are weary" place.  It now stands as a testament to that meaning – a testament of the time.   Cool.

After our tour of the cathedral was over, I broke off from the group almost immediately and took the pictures that I wasn’t able to on the tour of the cathedral.  I figured that I might as well – and I didn’t mind having time to absorb everything.  A bit of a side note: there aren’t quite as many memorials to national heroes in this cathedral – but the cathedral wasn’t focused on memorialising the human realm.  The cathedral is an embodiment of a lesson on the spiritual – exalting saints and spirits rather than housing bones.  Granted, there are some well-known people buried and memorialised there – but they don’t really populate the whole cathedral.

Upon exiting the cathedral grounds, I wandered around trying to find a good place to eat – surprisingly difficult, actually.  Though there were nice old buildings – there were a large amount of coffee shops with kind of lame sandwiches.   I managed to stumble into an old pub, though – and still... ordered a sandwich.   But it came with chips.  And it was on thickly sliced bread.  Awesome. 

Anyway, while waiting for my sandwich, I chatted a bit with the bartender – and found out that I was lamely mimicking an accent. The bartender wanted to know what was wrong with me, since I was nice and slumpy as I kind of floated from a table to the bar after ordering - letting out long sighs and making tired faces.  I just said the truth – I was tired.  Soon after, she asked what part of America I was from, found that I was making an idiot of myself, and laughed it off.   I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m an idiot.   I don’t quite mind – I think I’m a good idiot, myself.

I rushed over to the main cathedral gate just in time to catch the rest of the group before the tour got underway. All together – we took a short, guided tour – and I happily took pictures, uploading my pictures to my laptop when I ran out of space on my camera when the group stopped and our guide explained stuff.  What I learned is that the King’s School is an awful lot like the town of Cary, buying up random buildings in town and seeing what new use they can make of it.  Go figure.  We got shown around to a lot of really old buildings – older than what I’ve ever seen in the States.  Older than what we even have in the States.  It’s interesting.  Interestingly beautiful.

When we got to split up again (the Roman Museum shall remain unmentioned save this once), I wandered to a place where some of the group had lunch and ate a fried Mars bar and lived to tell about it.   Awesome.
I then got around to wandering by myself – keen on seeing the oldest thing in town.   I wandered around on the street, trying to follow a few signs... and after a while, gave up and decided to aim myself toward the St. Augustine’s Abbey.  I found it right when sunset got really nice – and also couldn’t find the entrance.   So, I peeked in and admired it from the outside.  It really doesn’t seem that much – it’s a ruined cluster of buildings.  The only thing left, really, is a few piles of stones that have the semblance of walls.  But there’s history there – the starts of Christianity in England.   And it was sort of Romantic (not the kissy-kissy sort, you people who don't know what the Romantic movement is), coming across it at sunset.  I could put forward a lot of symbolism to the whole coming upon ruins at sunset bit... but why should I explain?   Besides, what the ruins is a symbol of hasn’t fallen – not yet, at least.
It made a nice picture, though.

Speaking of, that’s really what I carried away from Canterbury at the end: it made a nice picture.  I’m not sure how I feel about it – I’m charmed and a bit disappointed.  But you know, it wasn’t bad.  I just imagined it another way.

I suppose there’s no place for my dreamworld England.

Or maybe there is - and it was just spoiled by the prep school kids.

✫

The Drink Theory

Well, that was a nice day.  It went by very slowly - and I really thought that I should have gone out on a walk to the East End somewhere, but I didn't.  The weather was really nice, and I really could've done it, but I didn't.  I promise this will be all made up tomorrow when the group takes an excursion to Canterbury, which is something I've been looking forward to.  Ah, well.  The slowest days come before the busiest, in my opinion - and such is the case.  This was a slow day.  Tomorrow promises much.  

Oh, and I also went to the pub at the corner by myself for dinner, hoping to meet some locals.  I was rather disappointed with who came to my table.  They were a very serious couple - not interested in talking to each other, much less talking with me.  So there I was, all mellow with a pint of Leffe, being bored out of my mind by the couple.  I tried to make some small talk - but none was to be made.  I think the problem with the two was the fact that they got completely different drinks.  He had a gin and tonic.  She had some white wine.  I had my Leffe.  While I think I would've maybe struck a somewhat decent conversation with the gin and tonic guy, he was so stricken by white wine girl that he just stared at her.  If he had some wine - or she had gin and tonic, I think there might have been some sort of conversation between the two.

See, here's something I've come to notice: to get a conversation going in a pub, you have to have a drink in common.  Case in point: a charming older couple was sitting behind me, having an adorable romantic dinner in the pub.  Granted, I didn't realize that you can do that at a pub, but there you go.  The two were cuddled up with each other, enjoying some sort of pudding - and drinking wine together.  The thing is: they had the same drink - they had a great conversation.  Sure, it helps that they were married, but one doesn't have to be married to have this phenomenon happen.  Take another case: the group sitting at a table nearby was all drinking Guinness.  Heck, when I went to the pub by myself the first time, the people that sat with me all had beers.  

I think it's because, when you're at a pub, you're indeed at a public house - and when you're alone, you're looking for something in common with the next guy.  So why not your beverage?  You hook up, share beverages, have delightful conversations, return, gather more people - and soon you've got a group going to the pub all drinking the same thing.  And, what's more, you make happy conversations, and you're not stuck staring at the person across the table from you.

This could just be bollocks.  But, after getting my food, I shoved off pretty quickly, shoveling both fish, chips, and Leffe down my throat, chasing it with peas - just so I could get the heck out of the radius of this stare.  Granted, drinking the Leffe so fast was probably a bad thing to do - as it needs time to settle a bit so I won't get dizzy (thank you, antidepressants), but there you go.  I ended up being dizzy, but comfortable back at the flat.  After getting my bearings back together, we conveniently got word that the other flat was watching a movie.  We joined.  It wasn't too bad - but it was still... a chick flick.  At least it was a decent one.

I went to Tesco afterwards and bought some fruit for munching on tomorrow.  While in the queue, I came to a realization that I could just be going here every day and compulsively buying things.  But as I pondered this and the Vodka Blue hiding behind the curtain (they don't allow you to get it after 23:30 - alas), I came to another realization: I hate loose change, and I had a bunch of pence.  So, I'd keep coming as long as I had pence lying around.  Good news is: I have brought the pence down.  No more cheap grocery shopping until next week!

And that means no Vodka Blue, either.

Maybe I should start making gin and tonics...

Maybe I should start thinking of cocktails...

Maybe I should be a bartender when I get back...

nah.

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We Used To Be Sort-of Fascists

I think Wednesdays are lazier than Saturdays - especially when my first class happens to be at 4:30pm.  This simply means for me... that I get to sleep in.  And sleep in I did!  I know, it seems like a waste of a day - but when you're feeling under the weather, you just want some sleep.  When I felt like waking up, I literally watched the sun make its way across the sky - just relaxing for the day, puttering about on the computer, stuff like that.  I went into action about forty minutes before class - cooking a bit of lunch because I was starved.  Literally dumping my lunch into a bit of Tupperware, I practically chased my flatmate outside the door to get to class.

Interestingly enough, our professor was late to class, too.  I got halfway done with lunch before he came in.  He entered seeming very nonchalantly... disorganized?  There's a certain air to people when they're disorganized - and that feeling swept the room as he popped in the doorway, dropped his shoulders, and said, "Well, then."  It really was quite the greeting - perhaps even more amusing if one were present.  Alas, I can't just do the "well, you should've been there" because... well, it's my blog.  Anyway, I was terribly amused watching him set up and curse at technology - cursing the British way, of course, with "sod it all" and "bloody computer" and stuff like that.  

I think one can really tell how much he actually knows by how much he's able to ramble somewhat off-topic around the subject.  To be perfectly honest, I've never seen a professor like him before - but I'm really pleased that I'm dealing with a professor creature like him.  It seems like professors here are just quirkier brands of what we have in the States - but even then, the quirks could be perfectly normal to British standards.

Anyway, we've got a few nationalities in the class - most of us are Americans, but as you all know, I'm directly from Romania.  We also have a Canadian and a Briton in the class.  I make this point because our professor likes to make this relevant to the class.  Apparently, at the onset of World War 2, Romania was "sort of fascist."  He also made a nod in my direction when drawing crude maps on the whiteboard - as he was drawing up the country borders prior to World War 1.  He got around to drawing Hungary, and he's like, "Romania's over there -" and sort of motioned in that direction.  I quipped back a "Hungary should be bigger - it had Transylvania at the time, too!" and he basically said, "Yeah, thank God for World War 1."

The rest of the class was filled with what our professor called "really bad pictures" - and interesting revelations such as he's a distant relative of Woodrow Wilson and that his wife's pregnant and we're going to get a chance to see if it's a boy or a girl.  Apparently he sympathizes a bit with Wilson.

Wait, didn't Wilson have an advisor with the last name of House?

My goodness, why haven't I seen Hugh Laurie yet?  Does he spend his time in the States these days?  If so, that's rather depressing.

I can ramble, too.

You know, speaking of Fascism - I wonder if I'm more of a fascist or a communist?  Probably neither - as the communists oppressed Romania, and fascists are no fun.  Maybe I should just try to be Pope, if the Catholics will let me.

In other news that will be a comfort to some of you: I haven't been to the pub in a week.  

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It Stopped Making Sense

Stop making sense, stop making sense...

And nothing is better than this.

(is it?)

- Talking Heads

Today, I did the whole class thing - which is always fun.  Today, for our art class, we went to the Tate Modern - where all the modern art is (obviously).  The journey there was a bit interesting, as we all hadn't been there before.  I traveled with my flatmates, who moved way too fast for me - especially since I seem to have come down with something and it's congesting up my system to the point that I can barely breathe out of my nose.  It really sucks - as it got really bad after the pharmacy had closed.  Anyway, I managed to keep up with them down Southampton Row all the way to Fleet Street.  Actually, I managed to keep them within range until I got in front of the St. Paul's cathedral - and then I lost them.  I decided quickly to make my way to the river, as the Tate Modern is just on the river, and I got in just at the nick of time.  Quite nice.

After we all got together, we went to the top to see the view - and our teacher pointed out random stuff about London and the building we were in.  Apparently, the Tate Modern is a converted power plant.  In the bottom floor, there used to be huge turbine engines.  Now, it temporarily has a crack in it - no fault of the builders of the building, of course, but an artist by the name of Doris Salcedo.  And she has called it Shibboleth.  I was glad that I knew where the name came from.  In the case that you don't, you should Wikipedia it, and spend a good thirty minutes reading the extra links of cultural shibboleths.  At least I found it interesting...  

The one thing about Shibboleth is... well.  It's a large crack.  Apparently, it's supposed to have a really deep meaning about borders and shibboleths, and how we can't seem to understand each other and thus we separate each other because we can't understand each other - but a crack is a crack.  If I carved a crack into the wall right now, I'd probably be fined for it, not paid for it.  Apparently, that's another thing that we should keep in mind: the fact that these things are in an exhibition, and thus are meant to be looked at, not thought of as being practical.  Consideration - but no purpose.

A few other exhibits were equally as strange - things are contorted out of purpose, things repeat upon each other so they become surreal... after a while, I kind of got lost.  It's definitely thought-provoking, though, and definitely worth looking at - but the lack of direction that the exhibits tend to provide (rather than the overcompensating directions in the last exhibit)  makes our thoughts on the pieces a bit less... well.  To sum it up: some of us are looking more for the practical nature of things.  A picture is a picture.  A sculpture is a sculpture.  But what do you say to a wardrobe full of concrete with a chair hanging to it?  When I'm feeling less like appreciating modern art, I guess, sometimes exhibits like the Tate Modern end up being over-glorified rubbish dumps.  If you bang together enough things and call it a representation of the turmoil in the world, you might just get paid for it - and even more.

However, there is something to be said about the modernist movement.  Contorting the ordinary to aim for the extraordinary is quite an innovation.  Pieces aren't just for looking at anymore - they're symbolic in and of their own selves.  And that is something to appreciate.

The thing about symbolism, though, is that a symbol is just a symbol until you infuse it with a third party meaning.  I understand this best in the literary context - but it's the same in all art forms, I'd argue.  Take The Scarlet Letter - which is the bane of most eleventh grade high schoolers in the States (sad to say).  Good English teachers are apt to make a big fuss over the rosebush.  To most, the rosebush is a rosebush.  It's hanging out right at the prison doors - call it an odd decor of the Puritans.  But then you get interpreters wondering why the heck a rosebush is there - and they come up with things like, "it symbolizes how nature stands in the face of humanity"  or "it doesn't change while civilization does" and all this stuff - and while that's true, it's still a rose bush, chilling out in front of the prison.  (Mind the thorns.)  It takes the interpreter to give meaning to it - there's no one in the book that directly comes out and says, "Behold the rosebush yonder!  It has lasted thus long in front of the jail..."   

So, the final questions I offer to you are: Is art for aesthetic pleasure, or should it make sense?  Or both?

At the Tate Modern, some pieces weren't even aesthetically pleasing.  Rusty pipes and scattershot paintings aren't quite appealing.

And everything there had stopped making sense a long time ago.

David Byrne would be pleased.

Oh.  At the end of the day, I went back to the flat with a few of the boys heading the way - and we got a bit lost.  It wasn't too bad - as I got to pass by King's College and get acquainted with a few more of the back streets of Holborn.  K.D. decided to bake a butter tart pie, and I decided that I was feeling up to cooking for everyone, too - so I made chips.  Good times, good fun - ended up really wishing I had Sudafed at the end of the night, but the pharmacy was closed by the time I really needed it.  And to top it off: the pie was awesome and the chips were awesome, too.  Awesome.

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