Saying Goodbye

The day started off with the boys in the kitchen and all of us eating breakfast like a family (as you can tell, we're still trying to get rid of those last little food items). The girls did the dishes, and like that we were all off on our own last-minute escapades. For Allie and I this meant an expedition to the British Library, where such treasures as the Magna Carta and the very first Guttenberg bible were kept under glass and low-light.
Some 20 or 30 people milled about like us, wandering from glass case to glass case and looking casually at the manuscripts collected and labeled. I, of course, immediately went to the section with the heading "Music." It's hard to describe to you that moment when I first set eyes on the items found in this particular grouping. All through my past three years in college I've studied and learned about these great composers and fascinating ideas ranging from the early medieval days to the current centuries, and, indeed, I had seen pictures in books of various documents. Today, however, I stood in front of a book on display that was cover-to-cover sheet music with notes written in that had been penned by Mozart, literally in his own hand with ink and quill. I saw a sketchbook of one of Beethoven's symphonies, handwritten with scribbles marking the places where he changed his mind and considered a mistake. A page marked by Edward Elgar with doodles lining the bottom five or six staves with pictures of faces showing various emotions and the words written, "Waiting for the IIIrd symphony."
Looking at these books was a little bit like transforming me into my three-year-old self and taking me to Disney world to see the characters of my favorite cartoon movies. As if that weren't mind-blowing enough, I saw real-life pages from the very original Beowulf transcription, burned at the edges from the fire that damaged it, as well as pages handwritten by Charlotte Bronte that contained the entirety of her novel Jane Eyre as she originally wrote it, before it was printed for the masses. Just so you know: Jane Eyre is one of my most favorite novels in the world, and has been since I read it my senior year in high school.
I'd say it was an early-afternoon well-spent.
2pm found us on our way to afternoon tea, literally, in the traditional British sense. We sat down and had a full tea service (those of us that opted to pay for it, that is) that included finger sandwiches, scones, French pastry deserts, as well as, naturally, the tea of our choice. As we sipped at our tea cups and made polite conversation I thought of my Aunt Carol, who would have been thrilled for the opportunity to sit down and spend the afternoon this way, and made a mental note to tell her all about it when I got back. We also made side-remarks about how funny it must be for the expensive, well-trained staff to observe our "Americanisms" and watch people who had no idea what was the proper way to go about afternoon tea. It made for a fun afternoon, though, and was a pleasant experience that I'll be sad I may never get to do to again.
Thus ensued the task of packing. It occurred to me early on that I may have to relegate myself to the fact that I would be leaving my new home in the morning (4:30am, to be precise) and in order to do so, I would have to gather together all of my belongings once more and make sure nothing important was left behind. Now, I don't know if you've ever been to a trip outside your home country, but if you have you know that what you came with is about only 3/4 of what you end up leaving with. Needless to say, I hope my parents don't mind that I'll be dragging home an extra suitcase (even though it contains mostly gift-items for various family members). Don't worry Mom and Dad! It's fairly small!
Which brings me to the evening. There were ideas tossed about concerning what we would do tonight. Most of us had some extra little pound-notes floating around and burning a hole in our pockets, so the logical conclusion was to blow them on something. And what better thing to blow them on then some high-quality English beer? Laura found and interesting place serving pints for 1.70 pounds, but we ended up at the Churchill Arms, were Ryan and Abby (our professor and his wife) had just eaten dinner. The Churchill Arms is not exactly your average pub. Out front is a menagerie of flowers all carefully tended and pruned to create a cheerful and colorful facade facing Kensington-Church Street. Going to the bathroom was like taking a walk through the Secret Garden, with plants hanging from a, literally, glass ceiling and butterfly stickers on the toilets.
It was here that we all gathered together and spent our last night in London, leaving, eventually, with a fond goodbye and well-wishes until next semester. It was then that it hit me: Tomorrow I will be hopping on a plane and returning home. I will be going back to the place I left behind to embark on this grand adventure, and I'm too attached to say goodbye. Going home again is going to feel so weird, with cars that drive on the directional right side of the road and bars that don't serve that good-tasting high-quality beer you can only find on tap in England. Home to family that I haven't been able to talk directly to for three weeks and home to a place where my cell phone gets a signal.
It has been one great, glorious adventure that I will be able to look back on with so many fond memories, but tomorrow I can guarantee that I will be reluctant to turn in my room key, a tear welling in my eye. I've learned too much from this trip to write down in one blog post, and have too many favorites to list here in one night, but when I wake up tomorrow morning at 3am I will do so as if saying "See ya later" to a very old and very dear friend that just happens to be the size of a country.

JD

Blitz First, Snog Later

We started the day with an afternoon tour of the east end, in particular the area that was the main target of German bombers during WWII: St. Paul's Cathedral. Being spoiled by the sheer awesomeness of one of our earlier tour guides, Steve, I was a bit skeptical when the petite, jeans-clad middle-aged woman in pink raised her "London Walks" brochures in the air. The result, however, was a really fascinating story about the war and the people who took part in its unfolding. She seemed to really know what she was talking about and told it in a very straightforward way, adding a small flourish or sentimental story here and there.
Needless to say by 4pm when it was finished I was still quite exhausted and made my way home for an early-evening nap.
Later, Tristan cooked pasta and, as we're all attempting to empty out our food stores before the long trip back home, there was plenty for everyone to have a plate. It was a charming family-esque scene that played out with us enjoying our food and maintaining a light conversation before going our separate ways for the night.
For Allie and I this meant a trip to Camden, the reputed underbelly of London, with its great music scene and market where you're likely to be asked if you'd like to buy some drugs. When we got off the tube station the first thing I noticed were the fiber-optic anemone-like decorations that were attached to every light post. The second thing I noticed were the cops stationed conveniently every few blocks or so.
Having said that, we arrived at about 9:30pm and the place seemed relatively quiet. It occurred to me that this was a place for true night owls, and the business probably wouldn't pick up for another two hours or so. We wandered a few blocks and eventually decided to go into a friendly-looking pub called The World's End. Aptly so, it had a pirate ship on the ocean on its hanging front sign.
Inside was quite charming, really. It had a rustic, Victorian home feel to it with book shelves on the top of the bar in one room and a small fireplace in the corner (though I don't know if it was a working fireplace). The walls were painted a faded yellow and the red carpet had gold paisley-like designs scattered across. The ceiling was an ornate reddish tile that had similar pattern to that of the floor. On one wall was a four-case hanging bug collection with each flat cabinet having species of bugs from a different part of the world. Walking through a small hallway we found ourselves in a much larger room with another bar in the center and plenty of open space. A small alcove receded down a half-flight of stairs where a sign posted, "Dining Area for Diners Only." An upstairs loft overlooked the main floor and posters of bands and atmospheric pub announcements decorated the walls. Heavy metal music played loudly from the radio.
We stayed long enough to have a drink or two, then made our way back to South Kensington where I had my first taste of Snog Frozen Yogurt. In the three weeks we've been here, the one thing I wanted and to do and hadn't yet was get yogurt from this cute-looking little yogurt shop near the tube stop. Allie and I went inside and ordered our yogurt. I got mine with coconut and brownie bits (the latter of which make it what is called a Naughty Snog) and prepared for my first taste of the stuff.
It was delicious. I've never been one for eating plain, unflavored yogurts, but this one really hit the spot. It had a sweet taste, but wasn't really too overpowering, which I think is the problem with most frozen yogurts. This was good, though. Especially the brownie bits, which had a crumbly exterior and a fantastically moist interior.
Yay, Snog! Oh, yeah! And no one in Camden offered me drugs.

JD

A Little Night Music

London at 4am is a lot different than London at 4pm. The changes can be subtle, like a shadow sneaking across the ground when the sun is behind a cloud, but they make a world of difference. In this case, the place is Leicester Square. During the day it is booming with tourists and theatre-goers cramming in lines to buy tacky souvenirs and get discount theatre tickets. At night the young of the town gather together: Music blares from venues on every corner and men in sharp suits stand in the street and try to coerce passer-bys to enter their club and buy their bar's drinks.
If you're not careful you could roped into a line longer than the square and an obscene cover charge before you have a chance to get your bearings.
So you find a joint that suits your mood (in our case a little rave called Walkabout with a colorfully lit dance floor, a pretty good DJ and 1.50-pound drinks for students on Wednesdays), you go to the bar and get a drink (maybe a few rounds of shots with your friends), find a spot on the dance floor and groove the morning away until your feet are sore and the place is closing for the night. You wander happily into the street, sometimes with some new friends and sometimes not, and it's then that you start to see the changes.
Everything is quiet. Light traffic makes its way down the streets, taking care to not hit a stumbling drunk, and groups of people chatter quietly. The square itself is now eerily empty. A girl is violently drunk and takes a swing at two police officers. One grabs her in a headlock and pins her to the ground, while the second (after telling her friend, quite forcefully, to step back) pins down her legs to keep her from kicking. There is a shout and a rhythmic clack of shoes against the pavement as drunk spectaters circle around to watch the event unfold, no doubt not quite ready to retire for the night and looking for one last adventure.
The only people out right now are young adults, like ourselves; police officers; taxi and bus drivers; a lone hot dog street vendor here and there; and bikers trying to earn a wage carrying people to and fro in the carriages they tow. We make our way to Picadilly Circus where the giant TV adverts (reminescent of Times Square in Manhattan) are still blazing forth their silent beacons, impervious to the passing of day to night. The bronze horses prance forth from the gentle rumbling of the fountain they make and a sound cuts through the silence. It is smooth and golden, flowing through the night like silk on the wind, the tone warm like the center of a new loaf of bread. It is a solo saxophonist, playing his blues into the night, maybe hoping for a pound or two from a passing stranger.
This is the song we're left with as we hop onto the night bus and home to our beds.

JD

The Quiet After the Storm

So for as crazy as Monday was, yesterday was a lot more tame. We started with class at noon in which we leisurely made our way through Kensington to Holland Park, a little gem of green space that wasn't too overcrowded. It was a peaceful sunny day and I felt at home among the trees and playful screams of children playing soccer (or football as it's called here).
We eventually made our way to a sunny clearing where we all sat in a circle and just had discussions about things like what the last few things we'd like to do in London are, as well as some of the logistical speculations behind the future of the journalism department at IC. We sat back and soaked in the sun; Laura rolled a cigarette. It began to settle in on me that we were going to be leaving soon; that this fantastic pseudo-vacation (as I like to call it) will be coming to an end and it will be time for me to return to the states and pick up my life exactly where it left off. I almost feel like this trip was just long enough for me to fall in love with London, and now I'll have to leave it; Like having a really good dream in which everything goes right and is just the way things should be, then waking up to realize that it's Monday and you have to go to work and everything is, in fact, not perfect.
It's been a fantastic journey, though, and I'm happy for that. I've gained experiences these past few weeks that are never going to leave me.
Anway, by about 2:30 we picked up and headed back to our separate ways. Allie and I made a path to the London Aquarium where we could see all fish from around the world that had been gathered. On more than one occasion I was so intent in my gazing and into the atmosphere that a particularly scaring-looking fish (or shark) would swim right into my view from behind the wall and I'd jump back, quelling the urge to squeak in fear. It was a really nice little aquarium and I got a very pretty glitter tatoo on my arm that I'll be sad to see fade away.
Wandering more, we found an EXCELLENT arcade that was in the upstairs area of the same building. It was everything fantastic that an arcade should be, plus it had bowling, billiards and a bar. We looked around and played a few games and decided that we're going to bring the whole group with us next time to make use of the giant bumper car ring in the middle of the labyrinthine complex.
After that we had enough of flashing lights and loud noises we headed back to the South Bank where we walked along, stopping occasionally to stare out at the Thames, which, to me, flows and ripples more like satin than water. As we walked the familiar chords of the song "Hallelujah" (most famously known by Rufus Wainwright) struck our ears and we stopped to enjoy the playing. The voice belonged to a Slovakian man named Peter Strakos who put such feeling into his music that by the time he was finished playing for the day (we certainly stuck around and listened) I had tears in my eyes. Allie and I each bought a CD and wished him the best of luck with his future as a musician.
We met up with Tristan at the Embankment station after having a nice conversation with a man from India and Pakistan who was trying to break into the buisness of script-writing. We had an enjoyable evening of pubbing, where a group of men a few tables over serenaded the entire restaurant with rousing choruses of Bon Jovi and other rock artists popular in the states and called it a night with a few rounds of the "IMDB Game."

The Diary of a Quasi-Fan-Girl at the European Premiere of The Dark Knight

I'd like to think that I'm not a fan-girl. In fact, being a journalism major who hopes to possibly go into entertainment broadcast, it's more professional for me to not be a fan-girl. Today, I went to the European Premiere of The Dark Knight, and was very very close to being a fan-girl. I will never ever line the red carpet and scream a celebrity's name for attention, though. That's just low.
As a journalist, however, I feel that it's important to experience something from every angle. This includes a film premiere. Today for my blog, I will present The Diary of a Quasi-Fan-Girl at the European premiere of The Dark Knight.
11am
Allie and I arrived at the Odeon Cinema in Leicester Square in London to the sounds of hammers and the hum of cherry-picker trucks. We are excited and anticipating the stars of our future. We discover, with slight dismay, that we should have come two hours earlier. The place is packed. We do, however manage to find a nice spot at the front of the masses and not too far from the cinema entrance. We take our seats among some fellow fans and wait patiently for the rest of our day to pass by.
12pm
We've been sitting on the cold ground for an hour now and time seems to be trickling by like molasses in a sand-timer. We discuss who we think will show up and express our hunger. I decide to do a volunteer run to _____ ____ (due to the nature of certain limitations put upon ourselves at the start of this trip, there will be no mentioning of the establishment that provided our lunch) and come back with some hearty food to fill our stomachs. At this point, however, there are two ungracious brunettes in mini-skirts and black tights who've decided (an hour and a half after we've staked our claim on prize territory) that they're just going to stand directly in front of us and pretend they were there first. I quell the temptation to kick them in the backs of their knees.
1pm
There is mass chaos as the patrons and workers of the theatre begin to get down to the nitty-gritty. It's time to set up the fan barricades, and we've picked the wrong place to stake. Everyone is going to have to move back and over to make space for the aerial camera and the lining of the red carpet. Allie and I obey, being considerate quasi-fan-girls who don't want to start trouble. As we listen and everyone else does not, we are shoved from our prime stalking postions straight to the back (and I literally mean the back) of the chaotic hordes. It's now that the crowd's true viciousness is emerging. People all around us are quick to take offense where none is meant, as well as offend with little regard for whom they may be speaking. In particular are three girls crowding faithfully to stand in the front. An Italian woman is getting to her feet and they begin to treat her like a three-year-old, attempting to take the charge bestowed upon the officials as a duty of their own.
"She doesn't understand you!" one says to the guard without bothering to help the 40-year-old woman to her feet, and apologizing on behalf of a woman she ahs never spoken to.
"I understand them just fine!" she returns as she struggles to gain ground against the throbbing herd of bodies.
They went on like this for some time, the three girls in the front trying to seem concerned but just giving off a general I'm-better-than-you-because-I'm-in-the-front-and-you're-not-and-I-speak-fluent-english-and-you-don't-and-my-life-is-so-miserable-I-spend-every-free-moment-coming-to-these-things-and-stalking-celebrities-because-I-can attitude. The next hour I proceed to shoot vicious glares in their direction and comment on the hidden cattiness oozing from every consonant and vowel that seeps from their lips. These are fan-girls in their purest and most natural state: Snarky and selfish.
2pm
The waiting is killer. Time is, at least, going by faster now and I'm amused with cataloguing the massive amounts of work that go into getting a cinema ready for a premiere. Then it hits me: I'm going to see Christian Bale. More than that, I am going to see all of these celebrities as they walk by, mere feet from where I'm standing. Hollywood has a bit of an enchanting effect in which we are brainwashed into forgetting that these actors and actresses are, in fact, real flesh-covered, blood-pumping human beings. It's so strange to think that these people I've watched from the other side of a screen for so long are going to soon be breathing the same air as me. Then I'm excited. I'm giddy and elated and can't hide the fact that I'm completely stoked to be exactly where I am right now.
3pm
They begin to play with the pyrotechnics and the audience is astounded into a chorus of "ooohs" and "aaahs." Allie and I discuss the fact that we've been hanging out here for about 4 hours now, and I begin to present my hypotheses of "If I were a celebrity." To fill you in, If I were a celebrity I would:
- Go to the official premiere of my next movie at 11am wearing jeans and a sweat-shirt and my hair in a ponytail and no make-up and hang out in the crowd as if I were one of the fans, just to see who'd notice. I would then leave at whatever point I had to in order to get ready in time
- , In the event I were a pop star, stand in line to get into the venue, going so far as to buy MAGNIFICENT tickets to my own show, then give them away to whomever I felt was most deserving
- Tactfully avoid, while walking down the red carpet, anyone who, upon mingling with the crowd, I found particularly snarky or vicious
- Bring a camera with me on the red carpet and proceed to take pictures of people in the crowd taking pictures of me
I also came to the astute conclusion that if I were a celebrity my publicist would hate me.
4pm
Little to report. That general excitement returned again as the music from these particular brand of Batman movies begins to play over the surround-sound system set up to immerse the area we are standing. It's a short buzz, though, and we proceed to chat about this and that (and complain about the snarky bitches up front some more) and share in our disappointment that we've lost our spots at the front. I comment how my day would be made if I simply got a chance to make eye contact with Christian Bale. They begin unrolling the red carpet and the crowd cheers. It is, in fact, a magnificent red carpet. There is a bat in the middle.
5pm
The fatigue is settling in. We've been out here for 6 hours and we're just ready for the celebrities to come, as we hoped they'd be by now. Anchors and their camera-people pace the carpet patiently, waiting for the moment that everyone's assembled for. To keep spirits up they get pan shots of the crowd, which results in massive cheers and screaming for attention. By 5:45 I'm sick of their attempts, as it only gets my hopes up that the stars are coming, only to find that some stupid camera was pandering to a mindless audience.
6 and 7pm
The fun begins. An announcer welcomes us to the premiere of The Dark Knight and an engine revs. In Smoke and flames a 2.5-ton Batmobile makes it's way down the red carpet and pulls straight up to the doors of the cinema, where it does a three-point turn and heads back the other way. The crowd cheers and screams and many pictures are taken. For the next half hour shouts and screams greet celebrities (I'm assuming) whose faces I don't recognize in the least. There is little of importance among them.
The groups in front begin chanting "Aaron! Aaron! Aaron!" and I begin to wonder who they might be talking about. There is a man being interviewed at the end of the carpet and my mind starts reeling: What Aaron could they be cheering about? I know that Aaron Eckhart is in this movie, but I didn't hear screams as he came down the carpet to get here, granted I can't really see much of anything, but... I guess from the back his head kind of looks like Aaron Eckhart, but his haircut could be anyone's haircut. His hair isn't really his most distinguish - He turns his head to the side - OH MY GOD, IT'S AARON ECKHART!!!!!! I turn to Allie and the people standing next to us whom we were chatting with. "It's Aaron Eckhart! Oh, my God! It's Aaron Eckhart!" There is a mob as the chanting comes to an apex and he begins to go down the row signing autographs. I snap a picture and get a fantastic shot. He looks up.
Now, I've seen Aaron Eckhart in a few movies, and in various pictures and on film covers and I've always thought that he's a decent looking guy. Pleasant to spend a few hours with. Good actor. He looked up, eye contact was made for a second as he asked someone their name for the autograph and conversed with the crowd, and my heart stopped. Aaron Eckhart is a fantastically gorgeous specimen of the male as a gender. While on-screen I was dully pleased by his features, as he stood some three feet away from me I got shivers and my heart began to beat faster and my hands started shaking. From the dimple in his chin to his square-cut jawline, Aaron Eckhart is probably one of the most handsome men I've ever seen in real-life and for a moment, I am in love.
Our moment is shattered, however, by the next chorus of screams and as Aaron Eckhart disappears Michael Caine walks into my eyesight, and I have the shivers again. He walks over to be interviewed and I stare intently at the back of his head, waiting for him to turn around and come close so I can snap a great shot. It's this moment that my camera decides to die. I try furiously to resucitate it, but it has simply had enough and will not come back to life. Not even for Sir Michael Caine.
I have little time to mourn this, however, as Michael heads the other way down the carpet to visit another anchor and Maggie Gyllenhaal makes her way towards us. Screams and chanting beckon her to where we are and she turns, her movement fluid, and mouths "Just a minute." while putting her finger in the air to signal us to wait. She walks over, is interviewed and returns to us to sign autographs and again, I am struck. The thing about Maggie Gyllenhaal is that she has such an unassuming grace and air about her, from the turn of her head and the sincereity of her smile to her very posture and presence on the red carpet. Maggie is a woman of true beauty and I find myself amazed by the simplicity of her prettiness.
Michael has returned now and I reliquish myself to the vastness of how great he is. There's one thing I notice, though, and that is that Michael Caine is old. His hair is as white as fine sugar powder and, while make-up on screen make him look so young and spry, he just carries with him this aura of wisdom and age. I look at him and seem to see him as more of a grandfather than a movie star.
Louder screams and the moment we've been waiting for is upon us. Allie's camera is still working and she looks to me to know who is coming next. I look up and spot a gel-spiked line of hair. "It's Christian," I say excitedly, urging her to go forward and get a picture. This is my moment: The moment in which I will look up to the face of Christian Bale and attempt to make eye-contact; The one prize for all the good karma I've collected over the years and have just waited 8 hours for. But it seems that everyone else heard me, too. Before I can turn back and gaze at the face of the man I've waited all this time to see I am shoved backwards and sideways and a mass of bodies, heads and camera-clad hands block my entire line of vision to the red carpet. Autographs are signed and Christian is gone in barely a minute. I guess he's a get-in, get-out kind of guy. He stops for his interview (I presume, since I can't really see a thing at this point) and the next moment I am watching the back of his head as he heads into the theatre and away from me without a glance back.
My feet are numb and my camera is dead and my shoulders and back are aching and I'm tired and my moment, my one shining moment of anticipation, has been stolen away by jackals and thieves with little more consideration for others than what they would feel toward an ant or a flea. All this excitement and preparation I put in, only to be defeated at the final moment of my glory. Tears prick at my eyelids and I pout, trying to hold my image of Aaron Eckhart in my mind, hoping that it will counter the devastation I feel at this exact moment. Was it all for naught? What was the use of coming here from the safe-haven of my flat and waiting 8 hours if I don't even get a glimpse of the Hero of the story?
I turn to Allie and motion that we make another attempt at exiting this mad house (the police have dutifully secured us in a cage of barriers) and she nods, feeling the exhaustion of the day (and no doubt the disappointment) as well. We make our way to a new crowd, one that is just as obnoxious, but in a different way. The policeman tells us that he can let us out only if we go straight across the red carpet and out of Leicester Square; NOT towards the cinema. Allie and I have no desire greater than a good meal and a pint of beer, but apparently everyone else hears this as well and suddenly Allie and I are shoved and jerked around once more as people press forward to be released and a girl in the front shoves herself backwards because someone leaned against her. Now the policeman is angry and threatens to keep us all locked in if we keep shoving, but eventually we make it into the single-file line out of chaos and on to our freedom.
Was it worth it? Yeah. I have to say it was. I didn't get me moment with Christian Bale, but at least I got an unexpected encounter with another celebrity who surprised me with his handsome facade. Would I do it again? Only when I'm camera-woman with a legitimate news crew and am up close and personal on the red carpet.

JD

Lost in a Department Store

I went to Harrods today. To be honest I went a little nuts in the gift store, but none of it was for myself, so I figure it's okay. People told me that Harrods was a grand place, and I'm not saying that I didn't believe them, but they were absolutely right. I didn't spend too long inside (about an hour) but I could have spent many many more just exploring and looking amusedly at all of the things I could never afford to buy.
Mostly I loved the ladies clothes department. It was separated into mini departments by style, designer and where the designer is from. Each section was split by a two-foot long, sound-barrier archway and each section was playing a different kind of music. I began to gage my progress by what I was listening to on the radio! I also started trying to associate the clothing with the music style. Why were the super discounted international items being showcased in a room playing Pavarotti and other classical masterpieces? Why was Avril Lavigne playing in the land of Ralph Lauren?
Like I said before, I like the gift store best of all. Mostly because I figured it was the best place to get gifts from London, and it was having the biggest sale of all the departments. I just hope my family doesn't mind getting gifts stamped with the logo of a department store.
Don't ask me how much I spent there.

JD

Amused and Musing by the Thames

So I went to the South Bank again today. It was BEAUTIFUL in London, and I figured that I better enjoy the nice weather while its around for me to. As usual, the South Bank was hopping with tourists, Londoners and entertainment, but my venture wasn't in the name of amusement or distraction. I find myself falling into that familiar, unquenchable feeling of lethargy and stagnation. I think: I'm in London, and what am I doing? Part of me is crippled by my hesitation to do social things after dark alone, but it's also this feeling that something isn't getting the pilot light lit in my heart. Since I find myself basically the only one on our entire floor today (everyone is out on a trip away from London) I was left with little to console these misgivings.
Here are my musings as I wrote them while soaking up sun rays in the Jubilee Gardens.

The wind blows across my face, turning the pages of my notebook where it lays in the grass by my feet. The sun is warm on my face and, whether I'm in London or Ithaca, it is the same sun. It gives me the same warmth and the same light. Even the grass seems to be the same shade of green.
So how do I know I'm in London and not Ithaca, New York? Any GPS system or map would confirm that I am, in fact, an ocean away from Ithaca, work, family, my apartment and my kitty. My cell phone has no signal, so I can neither make nor receive phone calls from familiar voices. The only people I really know around here are the handful of people associated with the trip. This is how I know I'm in London.
The same people seem to walk the same charcoal-colored streets and listen to the same popular, overly repetitive music, but as the ground beneath me trembles with the passing of a tube train, I know I am not where I've always called home. I am far away from school and work and the haven of safety I've woven for myself. I am exposed and naked, standing in front of a red-tinted light that's asking me, "What have you done?"
I came to London to run away: To escape the net of boredom and the thousands of whispered complications haunting me when my mind wanders. Now it's like there's a spirit stirring in me the desire to wake up. It's screaming for me to open my eyes and break free before I am lost to a world of disillusion. In a world where there are no more heroes and no more fairy tales, I am clawing desperately to tear down a wall of disenchantment.
I want to be thrown into a tide with a current I can't swim against and left to the mercies of fate to bring me back home safe. I want a chance to prove to the Gods and to myself that I am strong: That I am capable of moving mountains and swaying tides. I want to find my great adventure and charge forward into it without regret or hesitation, but mostly I want to wake up from this dream of safety and see London with the wonderment and splendor of a child who sees Santa Clause on Christmas Eve.
I came to London to find something beyond myself: A spark to carry with me and kindle in my heart a fire of life, glory and beauty before the chance to write my legend passes by.

So those were my general thoughts today.Other than that it was kind of a lazy day for catching up on laundry and recuperating before the last week of class. Don't get me wrong, I'm having a lot of fun and getting so much out of this trip that I can hardly believe or contain. I guess I'm just having a bit of a problem jump-starting my inspiration.

JD

On a Clear Day You Can See Forever

Today brought Tristan, Allie and I to Greenwich: A particularly green patch of England with a large park and a great observatory... Oh, and the Prime Meridian. Apparently it's one of Allie's dreams to stand at exactly 0 degrees latitude, so the three of us journeyed out together to help her fulfill that dream.
Greenwich itself was beautiful. Even on a cloudy day it was nice just to walk the paths among the trees and open grass, watching people on their Friday outings, taking in the scenery and the residential feel of this peaceful port in the southwest sector of London. Walking up the hill to the observatory (which is a fair rival to the hills of Ithaca, New York) you could turn around and get a magnificent view of London from the southwest angle. Plus it was home of the Prime Meridian, which we eventually did get to walk along and straddle. Now I can someday tell my grandchildren that at one point in my life I was in both the eastern and western hemispheres at exactly the same time.

JD

And the Rest, They Say, was History

I'm a shy girl. I'll admit this openly, and anyone who knows me well will attest. Once I get to know someone, the gauntlets are off and I'm happy to be simply me, but crossing that "getting to know someone" boundary can be hard for me. Hold on to your hats.
With my character being such as it is, bar scenes tend to bore me: I'm too shy to go up to someone, strike up conversation and see where it goes from there. I sit there, secretly hoping someone will talk to me so I don't have to break the ice. Last night, Tristan, Allie and I decided that, as per an assignment given to us by our professor, we were going to go out to a pub and strike up conversation with locals and meet people. We decided on a nice-sounding joint in Waterloo, which is a little farther south than the Southbank of the Thames, and somewhere none of us had been before.
Allie clung tightly to Tristan's arm as we wandered the dimly-lit streets, buildings looming on all sides and the three of us thought, "All right... Little sketch..." At least, I did. There was a foreboding sense of silence, shops closed on all sides for the night and little in the way of wanderers such as ourselves. Once we got our bearings about us and actually found the place, however, we felt a little more comfortable, having discovered it was in a well-lit area on what appeared to be a major roadway. 45 minutes later we stood huddled in a group with only ourselves to talk to.
It was at this point I took the initiative and suggested we find another bar. The Firestation (the pub we made our way to) was closing at 11 (which was 20 minutes away) and we hadn't met anyone new. At this point I just wasn't feeling the vibes. We ended up at a bar across the street called Wellington that appeared to be attached to a hotel and made our way in through its large glass doors.
We headed through small crowds towards the back where we could scope the room and regain our senses. We trekked single-file along the bar. I glanced at the beers on tap, the bright lights on the ceilings, the man occupying a stool with a guitar case and Zildgian bag on the ground by his feet. I don't know what possessed me, but before I could think or stop myself from acting I was stepping forward.
"So... Are you in a band?"
And just like that we found ourselves chatting up two guys who were grabbing a cool-down drink after rehearsal before calling it a night. As the drummer (later to be given the name Peter) joined us and Tristan engaged him in conversation, I kept a steady chat with this blonde-haired blue-eyed self-taught guitarist from Kent. I would find out later that his name was Andy. For all the fun he poked at me for being American, he seemed like a nice and interesting guy who had a few good stories in him.
For at least another hour we stuck around and talked about everything from Andy's job at the Tower Bridge where he wrote business proposals to Peter's opinion that he is, as a drummer, an eclectic blend of Chuck Berry and Sergei Prokofiev. As it neared midnight we said our goodbyes and made our way outside to which I could only take a deep breath and wonder, "What just came over me?" Of course I quelled this thinking as I took my bows for being the "hero" of the night and finding us some locals to chat up.
Thinking back on it now, a day later, I can't believe that I did what I did. I never go up to people randomly with no provocation and strike up conversation from nowhere. I never put myself willingly in the forefront of a social situation and cross my fingers, hoping for the best, but this came upon me like an impulsive instinct: A move I had to make, but to prove what, I don't know. It makes me wonder what's to come of this one instance of seemingly random outgoingness.

JD

Hatchards

I told my professor I was on a quest for a book by my favorite author.
He said to me, "If you're going to go book shopping, go to Hatchards. It's the best bookstore in London."
Today I went to Hatchards, and he was absolutely right.
I walked through the glass doors and immediately my eye was caught by ceiling-to-floor shelves of books. Books were everywhere: In front of me, to both sides; corners upon corners of stories both old and new. In the middle of the room is a spiral staircase that goes down one flight and up three more! Every level has its own check-out desk with its own cashier and a map in case you lose your way in the aisles. Okay, that's going a bit too far, but each section (which are split by floors) has an extensive list in front of each new corner telling you exactly which kinds of books you'll find should you dare to venture.
Everything is black and very classy and felt very comfortable, as though I could have been standing in my grandfather's den. I could have spent all day there, perusing and wandering. The problem is if I did I would find an enormous pile of books to buy and come out completely broke!

JD

The Walk of 10,000 Theatres

I'd like to start by saying: I freaking love Mozart. But more on that in a little bit.
I say above 10,000 theatres and am not above admitting that this may be exaggerating a bit. I believe the correct number is 40... Which still equates to 3 hours of walking. By 2pm we were glad for a break and the chance to finally eat a much anticipated meal, although I did learn a lot. It was an interesting an informative tour... It also happened to point out the fact that London is now playing EVERY musical I've wanted to see for a long time now. Not to mention The Royal Opera House didn't have the promotional poster of Le Nozze di Figaro that I really really want to buy.
Le Nozze di Figaro!!! Yay, Mozart!
Now when you think opera you, like me, probably think of cushy chairs and balconies: A large stage with a phenomenal cast and upwards of 600-1,000 dollars to attend. That's exactly what I was thinking as I told myself over and over again while we were walking through the Royal Opera House that 157 pounds is too much for a ticket to see an opera. Even if it is Mozart. (Hey, I'm a college student!)
Fast forward to me at 7pm watching the curtain drawing for the start of Le Nozze di Figaro, indulging in the melody of Mozart's opening overture. The girl behind me ate her Greek wrap and open a can of Fosters as the servants bustled about on stage. A pigeon wheeled its way upward past my line of sight and shifted in attempt to find a more comfortable position. An inflatable plastic seat cushion is the only thing between my butt and the cold stone. No, I'm not in the Royal Opera House watching from a few feet as these masters of music wow the audience with their skills. I'm am in Trafalgar Square, near the heart of London, outside with what I would later learn was 8,000 people watching Le Nozze di Figaro (mind you it was running live from the Royal Opera House at that exact time) on a giant screen erected right in front of Nelson's Column.
The anticipation and excitement was the same, however, as Trafalgar Square laughed with the audience of the ROH and heard the same celestial voices as the audience at the ROH. Even though we knew the actors couldn't hear, we clapped when the ROH clapped and watched the events of Figaro's wedding day unfold. Thanks to BP this was available to the insanely affordable price of free, all an effort to bring the art of the Royal Opera House to the people of England (there were screens in, I think, seven other locations across the country).
So maybe I wasn't there, when Susana sang in her sweet soprano voice, or as Cherubino wooed the Countess with his song, but I was there and got to share the moment with thousands of other people, of all ages, background and stature, and got to affirm my love of the musical prodigy that is Mozart.
I also learned that Ildebrando d'Arcangelo is ridiculously good-looking. :-)

JD

Southbank, Sunshine, Psycho Buildings and a Drink Among Friends

Tuesday morning found me hopping a tube train to Canon Street, where I navigated my way to the Thames and the southern bank where Monday night ended. It was a beautiful sunny day: Perfect for simply strolling, which is exactly what I did.
Following along the Thames I just walked; Pausing here and there to watch an animated group of youngsters or stare out over the gently lapping waters of the river that walked along with me. The Southbank of the Thames is a bit like a festival. On nice days street musicians and living statues put out their hats (or baskets) and perform, hoping that a generous passerby will drop in a few unneeded coins.
Whether they're tourists, school groups or Londoners out for a day in the sun people seem to crowd around places like the Globe Theatre, the Tate Modern Art Museum, Gabriel's Wharf and the other entertainment and art venues located along this particular stretch of walkway. The constant chattering and bustling about gives the entire place a feeling of energy and life.
Ultimately I ended up at the Hayward Gallery, where they were presenting an exhibit called Psycho Buildings: Artists Take on Architecture. Every piece on display was a large-scale artwork meant to play with and make you aware of your sense of space and spacial reasoning. From the spice-filled "tumor" made of mesh-like lycra and designed to make you feel like you're underwater to the 3D photograph of a room mid-disaster (whether explosive or natural), each artist made you fully immerse yourself in the art and use all of your senses to make sense of it. It was really a fun exhibit.
After making my way to Embankment I hopped a train back to my flat to eat some food and rest up before the evening, which found the seven of us walking Fleet Street once more, this time with a tour guide and a pub agenda. We learned a lot about the historical culture surrounding some of the pubs in the City of London and had a drink or two along the way. The guide left us two hours later at the Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, where we all sat for the rest of the night eating, drinking and talking about everything and nothing.

JD

A Midsummer's Night

To be honest I went into a bit of hermit mode today. What with all of the touring and wandering we did last week (and I did this weekend) it was kind of nice to just hole up in my flat and spend the day being lazy. I just chilled out, read a little bit and watched some videos online. When evening finally came I ventured out of my hobbit hole and met up with the class and our professor. The agenda? Dinner at the George Inn followed by A Midsummer's Night Dream at The Globe.
Dinner was fantastic (and on Ithaca College) and we sat around the table having a nice chat while we ate, drank and made merry. It was something to think that we were sitting in a corner that Shakespeare very well may have frequented while pondering works and writing sonnets. The waitress was cheerful, the mood was light and (since we were eating dinner in London at 5:15pm) it was as if we had a whole floor of the pub all to ourselves.
After dinner we wandered the winding roads towards the South Bank of the Thames. It was there we took our seats.... Err... Rather benches, in the lower gallery of the theatre; Luckily we were spared the privilege of being groundlings and standing for three hours (although if we had we would have gotten a T-shirt). The show was great (it was the first time I had seen it) and it was so amazing to watch the performance in a venue intended for the showing of it.
Afterwards we walked across the Millennium Bridge and paused midway to look out across the river that would have been moonlit had it not been a cloudy evening, and just talked, enjoying the cool air. The city around us glittered with light and I looked at buildings I had seen before, and some I was sure I hadn't, but want to. We ended our Monday by grabbing a bus in front of St. Paul's and sitting in the very front of the top deck, where we could watch London as it passed by our window.

JD

Street Where the Riches of Ages are Sold

If you haven't yet noticed, I watch way too many Disney movies.
Today's beautiful Sunday weather found four of us on the bus to Portabello Market. We got off of the bus a stop too early but made our way happily through the streets of Notting Hill. We were just glad that is wasn't raining. We spotted the market after a stroll and darted across an empty street to make our way to our destination.
It was that precise moment that a biker whizzed past me as I was crossing and yelled,
"The crossing's over there, Fat Girl."
Now I'd like to say that I had a witty retort ready, such as, "The asshole club's that way, Dick Face" or "Nice spandex, Ninny" or even just "Up yours, Jerk." Alas there was little I could do but look down the road in sheer astonishment as he disappeared around a bend. I'd also like to say that it was easy for me to shrug it off and say, "screw him," but, honestly, it hurt my feelings a lot.
It's often rare that I'm astounded by the sheer rudeness of some people, but this instance was ludicrous. I wasn't in his way. It's not like he nearly ran into me as he flew down the hill: I was well across the street by the time he went past. There was also not a single car on the road coming from either direction, and it's not like I was the ONLY person who had just crossed that exact road at that exact intersection.
Either way, it's hard to have a good day when someone so blatantly insults you without any provocation. We went down the road and into the shopping district and as I perused the stands I started to feel a little better. I even bought a gorgeous leather-bound plain-sheet journal. We ate a pretty decent lunch at a Lebanese food joint and made our way back to Weeks Hall on the top deck of a double-decker bus.
Some evil part of me will be hoping for a while that a certain spandex-clad bicyclist gets hit by one of those awesome red buses.

JD

Hobbitses

Covent Garden, mid-afternoon. The streets are bustling with people, merchants and street performers. How do I describe Covent Garden? If Saks 5th Avenue met Chinatown, their offspring would be Covent Garden.
The uneven brick streets took me back to a time when I could picture carriages pulled through the streets by gray horses. Merchants with carts were surrounded by customers, while all along the sidewalks are stores like Marks & Spencers, H&M, and Gucci: Trademarks of high society mingling happily with street vendors and wanderers.
What brought me to Covent Garden, however, was a 2pm showing of Lord of the Rings: The Musical. Being the geek that I am, the moment I saw posters for the show on the walls of the London Underground I had to see it before it finished its run. I hopped online immediately and found out everything I could and, despite mixed reviews, had every desire to see this show.
Allie and I took our seats in the Grand Circle of the Royal Theatre on Drury Lane (no I didn't meet the muffin man) to face a stage that appeared to be overgrown with tree roots and branches, from the point where the wall meets the stage, wrapping all some of the side boxes and balcony, it's span stretching across the ceiling.
From this moment on we were bombarded by a fantastically immersing experience that pulled in all of the senses and made us feel alongside the characters. It was the best stage and technical design I have ever seen for a show and the music was a beautiful blend of Celtic tradition and Enya. I lost count of all the times I got chills while watching. There were moments when the cast used the tiers of the circles as part of the stage, coming among the audience to appear as though on a perch in relation to those on stage, which only helped to immerse the watcher in the whole experience. I stared transfixed as Gandolf turned to face the Balrog of Moria amidst glowing fire and smoke and wind that filled the entire theatre, ending the first half of the show.
The second half began with Gollum literally climbing down the complex root-work from the ceiling to the stage and the story picked up without losing a beat. Before long I was in the glory and radiance of the Golden Wood, serenaded by a Galadriel who descended from the trees by ribbon and vine. Battles with the Orcs were filled with amazing feats of acrobatics on a revolving, lifting and lowering stage. Most Orcs hobbled around, their hands attached to front stilt-like appendages. Others wore on their feet springy stilts that allowed them to flip and tumbled high in the air.
Between the second and third acts Allie and I jumped as unsuspecting audience members screamed, finding themselves face-to-face with Orcs so well costumed they were like something out of nightmares, only to later find ourselves victim to their taunting as the horns struck up again and they ran for the nearest exit. I found myself cringing as a giant convincingly spider-like Shelob attacked our heroes and holding my breath as Frodo stood on the crack of Mt. Doom.
Honestly, I felt like the show was very well put-together. I enjoyed the music and every aspect of the storytelling. I'll admit, that many important characters and plot lines were cut from the show altogether (they'd have to be to fit three novels into three hours). Anyone who was a die-hard, stalwart aficionado would probably be up in arms crying treason to Tolkien, but as far as the story goes, if I were someone who had never heard of Lord of the Rings or anything about it, with this show I would get the basic idea of the main story, if not all the little extras that expanded the books. I think to pick it apart for leaving out full story arcs inside the larger story arc is getting very minute. The main story, after all, is about Frodo's quest to destroy the One Ring.
Anyways, Allie and I capped the night with a visit with the boys to an Indian food restaurant up the road from our flats and a nice hour of ping-pong and chatting.
It was a Saturday I'll remember forever.

JD

Walls that Speak and a Man Without Shoes

I started my day with a trip to the Science Museum. Maybe CoSci has spoiled me, but I was just a little disappointed. I thought there would be more interactive exhibits, but there were just a lot of text blurbs and models behind glass, which was cool for the first hour or so. I'll admit that the "Who Am I?" exhibit about all of the things that make us who we are was really nice and I could have spent forever there. It was highly interactive (although half the machines weren't really working right) and I think, in the end, that was its downfall.
What I learned at the Science Museum today: Don't go on school field trip day. The place was overrun with kids aged 7-17. Now I like kids (for the most part when they're not in that preteen stage of obnoxious where no one matters but them and they're overwhelmingly rude most of the time) but in this case every time I came across an interesting interactive display some little kid darted past me and began to play with it, whether or not they understood what they were doing.
I think if it had been less crowded I would have enjoyed myself more, although I probably would have continued to compare it to CoSci.
One positive, however, I found nestled away in the back corner of the first floor. It was a modern art exhibit called The Listening Post and if you find yourself in South Kensington with a spare moment, I highly recommend checking it out. I won't say too much, because I'm sure it holds a new experience for each listener/watcher but for me, I just stood there feeling moved by the message in the digital art and "music." One reviewer described the sounds being Philip Glass-like, and I'll attest to that quality. If you're interested in all at modern art and/or music or are a person who is moved by depth-ridden displays of humanity, this is the thing for you to see.
My late afternoon/evening was spent wandering London at my leisure, where I made my way to two different, but beautiful churches somewhat off the beaten path. On my way back to the tube I passed a man wearing no shoes or socks nursing what looked to be a bottle of champagne or white wine. As I walked down the sidewalk he called to me, his voice thickly British, "Hey, Sister, are you all right?" To which I smiled and shrugged and said, "Yeah. I'm good."

JD

Palaces, Parks and Pretty Boys in Neat Red Suits

We headed up to Westminster and, disappointing as it may be, I had no random movie/book/legend/musical references that immediately popped into my head when we began wandering around the political hub of London (unless you count some random snippets of "Cats" lyrics that ran through my mind briefly). I guess that means I need more pop culture in my life. ;-)
We took a stroll down Pall Mall, and I didn't even want to look in any shops to see how expensive everything would be. Buckingham Palace was lovely, and the Queen is in residence, which I thought was pretty neat, even though we won't see her ever. We watched the changing of the guard and somehow it made me very happy to see those military men in their bright red coats and tall black caps marching past in the band playing the piccolo. :-P We strolled through St. James Park and saw a varied assortment of creatures with wings, as well as a few quirky and bold squirrels that didn't seem to be afraid of coming right up to a person as they sat on a bench.
We ended our day with a walk through Kensington Park up to Kensington Palace, where we took a tour of the State Rooms on display. The entire place had a very warm feeling of home to it, and I tied to imagine living there: Getting changed in the dressing room, sleeping in a canopy bed in a room the size of a small studio apartment, spending the afternoon sewing on a chaise lounge in the drawing room and the evenings dancing in one of the galleries... So maybe that's not quite how it all went down back then: We were told later that there are actually more comfortable rooms on the lower floors that the Royals would retreat to many times when there weren't people around to put on a regal front for.
Either way, I can scarcely remember living in a world without electronic television, instant communication (whether by phone or message) and the internet, let alone imagine one of debutantes, servants and elegant dresses. It's like something to get swept away in: Another world that I could have been in had I only been born earlier and in a different place to a different family.
Either way, I was content at the end of the day to rest near the pond in the park with a few friends and enjoy a light lunch before trekking back to my room and passing out from pure exhaustion. I can't remember the last time I went to bed at 5:30pm!
Of course, there was a little side quest to get my tickets to see Lord of the Rings the Musical on Saturday. O.o

JD

Demon Barbers and Tuppence a Bag

Our late morning began with a stroll down Fleet Street. Men in suits and fancy cars made their way past buildings majestic and symbolic. Umbrellas went up as the rain came down and most of our group got a thorough washing. We walked down the sidewalk past a blend of buildings old and new, standing side-bye-side in architectural harmony and all I could think was, "If Sweeney Todd were real, where would his barber shop have been?"
There was no demon barber to be found (although we did see a barber shop), and in all seriousness I did take in the culture (of the non-pop variety) and history with its due respect and admiration, ducking down narrow cobble-stone alleys to see the Temple Church, beautiful even with its pillared faces worn away by the forces of age; wind; rain and sleet, and Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, where three of us later had a bite to eat and I had my meat pie on Fleet Street.
The main attraction of our visit, however, was St. Paul's Cathedral: Looming through the mist in the far distance, gaining glory as we got closer and closer. We walked through the doors and I was struck with an intense spiritual enlightening, only to realize that I was angry. This grand hall of faith; This House of God; had become nothing more than an attraction for squawking tourists. I've nothing against those that are non-religious, but having been raised Catholic, I was always taught to treat churches and Holy Grounds with due respect. Most of the people there seemed more impressed by the fact there were pretty designs on the ceilings (albeit the designs on the ceilings were very VERY pretty) and eager to take out their cameras and snap a shot of something grand, even though photography was forbidden inside the building, than the fact that they were standing in a display of love and praise for a power beyond any of us. Something from the bible stuck out in my mind about the House of God becoming a den of thieves and Jesus being slightly less than happy about that. I recall a bit about tables being over turn and cages busted open...
I did attend 12:30pm mass in the Quire, however, and started to feel more at home. There were a few moments of profoundness that struck me (like gazing at the monstrance in the crypt chapel and putting my hand on the headstones of William Blake and Florence Nightingale), after which I was able to feel a sense of peace and let go of my irritation that some people were being so disrespectful of it all. Finally my friends and I made the trek up the some 500+ stairs to gaze at London from the very top spire of the Cathedral before putting up our hoods, heading back down those same stairs and starting our wet walk to food and the nearest tube station.
Needless to say, my legs liked stairs a little less than usual today.

JD

The Tower of London

Today was my first full day in London. I thought that I would be facing a huge culture shock, but in reality the thing I'm most excited about is the fact that the Coopers aren't mini (they have FOUR seats!!!). In all seriousness, though, it's strange to come here from the place I've always called "home" and feel like I fit right in. It doesn't feel strange or new to me, it just feels... Well, right. Either way my voice teacher was right. I want to live here after I graduate.
Anyway, today was our first full day here and we went to the Tower of London. Walking across the square on Tower Hill I have to say: Even though it was flanked with tourists (I suppose like myself) who were chattering away and going about their business, there was a profound silence in the background of it all; Like if you stood still long enough and listened, you might just hear something whispering to you. There was something romantic about the place; Not in the love and mush sense, but in the original sense when the word simply meant "a story."

JD