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.  

✫

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.

✫

"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.

✫

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.

✫

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.

✫ 

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.

✫

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.  

✫

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.

✫

It Sucks To Be Me

To be perfectly honest, this is one day that I really didn't do much other than putter around the apartment.  I went to the local awesome bookstore and got a few things.  I got a really cheap deal on a couple of coffee mugs (two for £1.50, whereas I could have gotten just one at the store for £4!  Yay for British Goodwill!) and I now know where to get some cheap deals on a few other things, too.  In a place like this, where one £ = two $ (and some odd ¢), cheap is very, very good.

I'm accepting all donations - $ and £.  Preferably £, as I don't have to do the exchange rate.  (I'll take your €, too - for when I do those Europe trips!)

If you can detect something in this previous paragraph, it's probably true.

We also saw Avenue Q - which, by the way, is hilariously vulgar.  I didn't know quite what to think other than... hee hee.  It's a good show involving puppets and social taboos.  And, at the end, you really start feeling for those puppets.  And, all throughout the thing, you're kind of surprised at what they could get away with... just because it was puppetry.  Hilarity, puppetry, good stuff.  

I also know what the Internet's really, really great for.

✫

Lost in Chelsea (With Maps)

So, in the middle of typing up my last entry, A.A. and I got a buzz from most of the group asking us if we wanted to go to Knightsbridge.  I guess we were both bored enough to say "yes" - because off we went to Russell Square station, with L.R. picking up (I think T.F. called it "shopping"?) some things at the awesome Tesco Express across the street from the station.  And then we headed over to Knightsbridge, which I learned was a station.

Yeah, I'm really smooth.

Anyway, while we were riding the tube, L.R. was eating cheese, and somehow E.S. made the wax into some Rocky Horror-esque lips that were obnoxiously red and surprisingly life-like.  They were amusing - and continued to be amusing all throughout the excursion, as they'd make their way out at strange times.  

When we all got to Knightsbridge, we looked around on the street... and realized that we were some of the only people on the street.  I thought it was kind of creepy - but also kind of relaxing.  In the borough of Chelsea, stuff moves at its own luxurious pace.  Luxurious, though, is the right word for it - as the people that we did come across were wearing just the things that we were seeing in the shop windows.  Apparently, to go night walking in Chelsea, Armani is a must.  Or at least Prada.  I think maybe one of the girls had that covered with a handbag, so the police that came around every once in a while didn't bother us.

While walking around Chelsea, we happened across a house that Jane Austen stayed at.  It looked cool - just like all the other buildings in that neighborhood.  I think it's amazing how much the flats looked like brick castles.  Some of them had key gardens.  Others... didn't bother with sharing their garden, and just put it in the courtyard.  Needless to say - Chelsea is one heck of a high-class borough.  I think we somehow managed to make a huge circle around Harrod's - and somewhat confused ourselves. 

Somehow, from Chelsea, we worked our way over to Grosvenor Place - and from there, we got to Buckingham Palace, just in time to see the Royal Mail truck pull up to the gates of the palace.  We kind of gathered around just to watch - and I think A.A. took some pictures.  After the truck went in (having been let in by a guard that actually came out and unlocked the gate for it - things are still done the old-school way at Buckingham), we took a good look at the palace itself, and realized that a few of the lights were on for some of the windows of the palace.  We'd like to think we were being watched by the Queen - but who knows?

I broke off from the group after we got to Trafalgar Square - after realizing where I was (and how dumb I was earlier in the night) - and hey, I was tired from all that walking that prefaced our little excursion.  I took the tube back - switching lines as often as I could, for the heck of it.  Hey, when you can change lines for free... no, I think that's just a me thing.  I got to listen to some nice music in all those different stations, though - there are guys down there with freaking amplifiers and electric guitars down there - which kind of made the older guy with the copper whistle seem a bit... plain?  I think one of the guys with the guitars was playing some Led Zeppelin.  

I think Sundays are officially walking days.

✫

Lost in Westminster

With nothing much to do on a Sunday afternoon, I decided to get some fresh air in.  I took my camera with me this time (because I regretted not having it before) and set a course south, toward the river.  About halfway through the walk, though, I thought to myself, "You know, I'm really bored."  So, I looked up, found that I was on Oxford Street, and decided to head west.  While walking down Oxford Street, I found a huge (by that, I mean that it had four floors in a good-sized building) store by the name of Zavvi.  And Zavvi is the British version of FYE.  And if you know me, you know that I'm drawn to those kinds of stores.  Needless to say, I spent about thirty minutes gawking at everything and going up and down the escalators.  I was highly amused by two things in particular: 1. The classical music had its own little room, and it was nice and closed off from everything.  It was nice, I suppose, for the classical music enthusiasts who can't stand the music those young kids are listening to these days.  2. The Phil Collins CDs were going for less than Peter Gabriel's CDs.  Therefore, Peter Gabriel is of higher value.  Therefore, Peter Gabriel rocks.  End of story.

After getting out of Zavvi, I continued on down Oxford Street until I got to the fringe of Oxford Square.  I decided it would probably be a good time to start trying to find the Strand, so I turned in the direction that I thought was south.  A few streets down Regent Street, which was what I turned onto, I panicked a little.  And if you were in my shoes, you might have too.  Here's what I realized: a. I'm a girl (it's nice to assert your gender sometimes); b. I'm traveling alone (which isn't bad in London); and c. I hadn't done my research on these streets before I went on them - so I had no idea where I was going.  To ease my mind, I didn't ask for directions.  Rather, I walked to those bus stop canopies and analyzed the bus route maps to figure out where I was.  Unfortunately, those are rather vague and confusing, so I kind of gave up after a little while.  I then decided that I was tired of the crowded Regent Street and thought, "You know, I'm in Westminster.  That's all I need to know - and if I wander out of the borough, I'll know where I am."  

I think it's nice to lie when you're trying to reassure yourself.

Anyway, I wandered down a friendly-looking, less-crowded street (Glasshouse Street - an amusing name, with a complimentary Glassblower's Pub that I didn't visit) until I, completely unexpectedly, walked into Piccadilly Circus.  It hit me like a four foot wide glowstick - and I wasn't quite prepared for it.  I mean, you're walking down a really quiet back street, and then all of a sudden you see this enormous video screen.  I sort of wandered around a bit dazed before I got my bearings back - well, sort of.  I'd been to Piccadilly Circus while on the bus tour - but I was definitely out of commission on the bus tour.  I absorbed the sights and moved on - and I don't quite know why I chose the route I did.  It's probably because I noticed a "Trafalgar Square" bus coming down a not so crowded street, and I, not liking crowds, opted to go down this mysterious street to another familiarly named place.  Looking at a map now, I think I took Haymarket Street.  I saw no hay markets, so I can't say.  However, some of the statues looked eerily familiar.  It was weird - because I'd never been to London before now.  I felt some extreme deja vu until... I realized we had gone this way on the bus tour.  I ended up in front of the National Gallery fairly soon, and just went along with the sights.  A group of kids had gathered up and were shouting at each other to go jump in the fountain.  I thought, "Maybe I should watch this..." and found some stairs that took me to the twin fountains in Trafalgar Square.  There was no fountain jumping.  I was somewhat disappointed, and decided to point myself in the direction of Westminster Abbey - because somehow I'd managed to find another bus, or maybe I saw Big Ben.  Looking back, I could have hopped on the Strand - which was what I was looking for earlier - right then at the square... but I somehow ended up on Whitehall Road, I think.  (I say the names with certainty because now I have a map.)

While making my way towards Westminster Abbey, which I could slowly see more and more clearly, I came across the Horse Guards post, and saw a guy decked out in spiffy red gear, an awesome looking poncho dealie, and, to top it off, a large, golden helmet with a white fluff on top.  I approached him with a great deal of curiosity - realized where I was, and was terribly amused at what I saw next.  The guard was smiling.  I think Americans are awfully aware that you can do just about anything in front of the Royal Guard and they won't crack a smile - but this guy was.  I think I would have too, if I was in his situation.  Why?  About a foot in front of him, a large group of Asian tourists were all huddled, laughing rather excitedly at someone's camera.  I swear, they knew how to pull off the tourist thing like it was no one's business.  I went past the guard, went about my business, and was slowly becoming aware that I really wasn't that far from the Thames.  In fact, the London Eye was getting to be right in front of me - that is, if I turned that way.  So, I came to a decision - I was going to cross the street, cut through this small mews (ha ha) and get over to the river so I could at least find Waterloo Bridge and make my way back to the flat.

The great part was that the mews that I'd chosen was not very much a mews.  It was the side entrance to the Ministry of Defense.  And I had a very distinct feeling that I was being watched.  You would, too, if there were all these cameras pointed in every direction.  Needless to say, I moved along very quickly.  I backtracked a bit, hopped onto a footbridge, got some awesome pictures of Westminster Abbey and Big Ben (the bridge happened to be even closer to the Abbey, and I got a better shot.  Sweet!) - and somehow managed to get to the Waterloo Bridge, and back to my flat.

I think I just might do that again - but I need some sort of landmark to gain my bearings at.  Maybe somewhere along the Thames - I don't know.  

✫

Heathrow, We Need Clearance

Saturdays are known for their "lazy-day" nature.

However, it's been about a week, and that means it's about time I figured out how to solve the mystery of... our washer/dryer.  So that means... work and waiting.

Last night, the flatmates, in order to prepare for their spontaneous trip to Brussels, decided that they needed to solve this mystery immediately - so I got to watch.  To sum the whole thing up: for about forty minutes, it goes through a rather inane process of turning the clothes from side to side, stopping for about five seconds each turn.  It's an awful lot like watching a little kid be rather amused with turning a crank one way, and then turning it another.  Then, I guess it gets bored of doing that (or maybe it grows up), so it speeds up every once in a while, making loud slurpy noises and filling up alternately. And then, the best part - it decides to put the nitrous on or something and pretends to be a jet engine for about thirty minutes.  Somewhere along the line it attempts to dry the clothes in it.

Needless to say, the whole jet engine bit is a little... unsettling.  Actually, "unsettling" is really an understatement.  It's scary and hilarious all at the same time.  We were all wondering when it would just pick up and fly away.  After all, we are on the Piccadilly Line - which means we're right in line with Heathrow.  So maybe it just might make it to Heathrow, with just a bit of a push in some direction.  Maybe I can go down to the tube station and find out.

Unfortunately, for all that jet-powered action, it still leaves us with damp clothes.  You'd think with all that power spinning it would actually dry our clothes with just that.  But no, it doesn't quite want to work that way.

I think I have some dishes that need to be spared from the power of the jet engine, as they're in rather precarious placements right above the washer/dryer.  I now have three things I miss about America (compared to the hundreds of things that I don't): 1. Things are cheap in America, 2. You get a lot for being cheap in America, and 3. The dryers in America actually dry your clothes.

This may just have to be a pajama day - as all my clothes are in need of some washing/not really drying.

✫

Not Night Clubbing

Night clubbing, we're night clubbing - we're walking through town.

Night clubbing, we're night clubbing - we walk like a ghost. 

- Iggy Pop/David Bowie

You know, I've never been night clubbing (as I said earlier) - but every time I walk through town at night, I get this song in my head somehow.  I suppose I deserve it for listening to The Idiot - but, oh well.  At least I'm not Ian Curtis.

Maybe it's the "walking through town" and "walk like a ghost" lines that get me thinking about the song.  The rest of the song, I don't know about.  Enough with speculating - on to the interesting walk.

On this particular walk, I decided to go a little farther down than I usually go.  Thanks to the St. Paul's visit, I now can walk twice as far as I usually go and not feel much of a thing.  So, I decided to walk from Russell Square to the Waterloo Bridge... that is, I walked about two miles one way - and in twenty minutes.  Not too shabby for a leisurely walk, I think.  Needless to say, next time I walk all that way, I'm bringing a camera.  The view was spectacular - you can see Big Ben and Westminster Abbey clear across, and it looks real nice all lit up in orange at night.  You can also see the London Eye - but it looks kind of trashy in comparison to the mellow lighting of Big Ben and the Abbey.  It's like looking at a candle across from a neon light - what's going to look better in the end?  Anyway, it just goes to show that I really need to bring my camera to more places.

I also walked down Drury Lane.  I think we all have a friend who lives on Drury Lane, but I don't know him.  Do you?

Dang, that was bad.

... Maybe I should start putting pictures here, too.

You know, now that I'm more aware of the fact that the Russell Square station is right nearby, I can now hear and sometimes feel the Tube come through every once in a while.  Maybe I shouldn't have ridden the tube back... at least to Russell Square station, that is.

According to Wikipedia (ha ha), Russell Square station got bombed a few years ago.  I was surprised - you can't really tell.  I think the only difference between it and other stations is the fact that there are lifts that take you from the tube level to the ground level - but there aren't any blast marks or anything like that.  Just lifts, when there are usually really long escalators.  But it could be that the station's small... blah blah blah.

I'm sure that's really refined, but I'm just shooting off at the mouth now.  The good thing is, I finally feel like I'm awake during normal London times.  Hooray!

✫

Stories of a Different Kind

Today we had the pleasant honor of being somewhat rushed out of our house by our cleaning crew.  I think I'm awfully glad we have a cleaning crew - as they did a nice job - but it's still kind of awkward having someone clean up after me.  Like, Granville Towers awkward.  Anyway (forgive me for complaining about my former Chapel Hill life), I say that it's pleasant because it happened to be about the same time we had to get together outside on the mews street (the term cracks me up).  We took a really long walk down some rather cozy back streets to St. Paul's cathedral - which, by the way, is HUGE.  I mean, it better be, as it's the national cathedral.  And, we got a really nice tour of the place - learned a lot about the history, saw the different chapels (I started to wonder exactly how many chapels could there be in a place - there's even one in the crypt!), checked out all the different memorials... it was really quite fascinating.  The gilded nature of the place made me think that this was a white and incredibly enlarged version of an Eastern Orthodox church.

  

What really interested me about St. Paul's is that it is, indeed, a very national cathedral.  A good deal of people are memorialized there - many national heroes and that sort.  There are even memorials to Americans - for their involvement in defending Britain during the World Wars.  There was a pretty spiffy memorial to John Wesley - which I think is appropriately placed - outside in the garden of St. Paul's.  What I find is pretty cool is that he seems to be caught in the act of doing what he's known for doing - spreading the Gospel.  I mean, really - what a way to be remembered!  John Wesley's a cool dude - even if you aren't a Methodist - he can still be looked at as a sort of model of what one can do with one's convictions and passions... in Wesley's case, transform the way people thought about Christian doctrine.  Very cool.  There was also a monument to John Donne - a bit of a more stoic memorial for such a firebrand of a guy - which was startlingly life-like.  It's got a bit of history behind it - as the statue was made while Donne was old and dying, and the sketch for it was made as he was posed in a shroud lying in a coffin.  Creepy.  I guess it was sobering for Donne, but I don't know.  It would be for me.  Another monument that was down in the crypt (that I was actually surprised that the guide didn't point out) was one to John Wyclif (or, as it's alternately spelled, Wycliffe).  I mean, seriously, the dude's important.  He was one of the first people to attempt translating the Bible into English - and this was before it was cool to be a Reformationist.  Wycliffe was persecuted severely (there's some harsh criticism of him running around) for believing that we should read the Bible for ourselves.  I don't know about you, but I like reading the Bible for myself.

You know, maybe I'm just attracted to the heretics of Catholicism. 

So, I guess now everyone knows that I get my kicks from the Johns.  Ha ha.  Anyway, they're seriously cool guys, if you want to do your own bits of history on them.

There were other monuments there, too, obviously.  The Duke of Wellington was interred and memorialized there, as well as naval and air force war heroes.  It's interesting... I guess.  I don't quite know British history too well, so these guys didn't quite stick as much in my mind.

Enough about memorials - there's one other specific reason why St. Paul's is a national cathedral, and to get a good sense of that, all you have to do is look up when you're inside.  There are some incredible mosaics on the ceiling, all around the dome.  They're made with small squares of stained glass.  And how did they get up there?  Well, crowds of British people, from Queen Victoria to your regular guy on the streets did.  That, friends, is cool - when you consider that the royalty is all walled off with some pretty gnarly looking barbed wire in a palace.  Everybody got a chance to take part.  Plus, it was designed by an awesome British astronomer-turned-architect-because-he-felt-bored guy (Christopher Wren) - I mean, everything in that cathedral is there because the British put it there!

Not to say that it doesn't have its other influences: it looks rather Parisian, and right now they've got these really vivid paintings up compliments of a Russian artist of the birth, life, and death of Christ.  (On a note about these paintings: I was rather amused when our guide pointed out that the picture of the Nativity didn't look much like a traditional picture of it.  It didn't, really - you've got this unclothed boy Jesus going "check me out, I'm the Son of God!" and Mary's all hiding behind him sort of using him as a human shield from this crowd of pealing bells - which apparently are a symbol of celebration in Russian paintings.  It was kind of cool.  The other pictures portray Jesus as a really almost emaciated figure - as if He were spending His days wandering around, preaching and healing but not really feeding himself because no one would support Him.  It's a frighteningly vivid image of what might have been in comparison to these fleshy, bloodless images of Christ that we're all so used to.)

Anyway, my punny title doesn't refer to the fact that I don't talk about drinking for this post.  No - after our tour of the cathedral and the crypt, we decided to check out the Whispering, Stone, and Golden galleries.  And, where exactly are these galleries?  Well... over eight hundred steep, winding steps above the main cathedral.  I am proud to say that I climbed them all, and lived to tell about it.  I think the weird part was that I started to get dizzy while walking up those stairs - all the spiraling and moving gave me a headache.  There actually weren't any paintings up there (which I think we all thought there would be), but we managed to see some positively fantastic views of the city, and with the Whispering Gallery in particular, an interesting view of the main part of the cathedral... from four hundred and fifty steep, steep steps above it.  Phew!  Even though I'm a bit uneasy with heights, I ventured forth and stuck my head through (yeah, through - I was too short to get a good look through... actually, to get a good look, you probably have to be over six feet tall, because some of the others in the group had to stick their head through too) the guard rail's cusp and looked down.  There was also an amazing view of the statues around the interior dome of the cathedral from that particular gallery - they're so big!  I think I liked the Stone Gallery the best, as it was somewhat high, looking out over the city, and there was a lot of space for me to stick to the dome, then venture out to the edge when I felt comfortable.  There was also a lot of wind up there, which felt good after climbing a heck of a lot more steps.  The Golden Gallery had the best view - as it was the highest up, but perhaps my least favorite, as it was a) high up, and b) really narrow along the walk.  Eeek!  I pretty much insisted that we get down as soon as I got scared of the heights (which wasn't immediately, I'm glad of that) - and somehow the group decided that it was good to go down at around the same time.  Nice!  While up there, I discovered that, by gripping the bannister for my life, my hands were disgusting - so we all went down to the crypt, where the cafe and the bathrooms were... well.  I thought it was weird that all that was down in the crypt.  Apparently that's not too uncommon.

This post is getting a bit long, so I'll just say that I rode the tube for the first time.  It spoke in a British accent, and told me to "mind the gap" about a hundred times.  Fascinating and slightly annoying at the same time.  I'll probably be riding it again... but not often - it's remarkably fast, yes, but I want to see the city rather than my reflection interrupted by orange lights twice every second.  I see my reflection non-interrupted every day that I look in the mirror.

Amusing bit of information: after the group got down, we all noticed that our legs were shaking.  Mine was pretty obvious because I was wearing flip-flops - so my foot was jerking around.  It was rather amusing.

I also now know where I'm going to go when I feel like I really need to do some exercise.  St. Paul's tower gymnasium!

I really hope I haven't committed an act of sacrilege by saying that...

✫