I knew that Duke University students love their basketball, and I knew that Duke takes its basketball very seriously. Today I learned that Duke sports fans are crazy.
Being in Durham I took the time to visit my friend Steve, who graduated from Ithaca last year and is now doing his graduate studies at Duke. He took me around campus and showed me a small niche in the Duke culture: A tent city assembled on the grass in front of the atheltics center. Every year at the beginning of January students assemble this tent community (that's called K Town after the coach of the basketball team) and camp out until the Duke vs. UNC basketball game, which is not until February. So for a month and a half students of every grade gather in this tent community and follow very strict rules. What's the pay out? Some of them MIGHT get a ticket to the game.
Maybe it's because I go to a college where our sports aren't really that big of a deal that I find this a bit unbelievable and crazy. The biggest event at Ithaca College is the "Cortaca" football game, and even then it's only because it's an excuse to start drinking at 10am and not stop until well into the wee hours of the following Sunday. But even for Cortaca students don't camp out a month and a half in advance to get tickets.
I can't imagine living in a tent every day for that long to go to a basketball game, but I'm not going to lie, some part of me thinks that if you had the right group of people with you, it could be kind of fun.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Time Flys By in the City of Lights
I should apologize for my lack of posting these past few weeks. In certain places of my adventuring there is an alarming lack of internet available on my computer and I'm left diving at any free chance to use someone elses in a free moment.
On Saturday I went to Charlotte, NC, and had one fact confirmed: Charlotte is big.
It's also a city, and after I managed to unfluster myself from driving through it to get to a parking garage (I don't know if I'm ready to tackle city driving yet) I was able to spend the morning self-touring a beautifully designed city on a 60-degree and sunny day. I looked around at the architecture, soaking in the magnificent design of the buildings around me, and even got to go and see the Bank of America Stadium (where the Carolina Panthers call home) up close. And it was game day. But more on that later.
The thing that struck me about Charlotte (and mind you I had been warned by my voice teacher) was that everyone really was friendly. The women working in the Visitor Center were unbelievably helpful in finding me brochures on attractions, as well as a pamphlet for leading myself on a walking tour. Not 30 minutes after I left the building I was hit on twice and every time I passed someone and happen to not be smiling the would look at me and say, "Now where's your smile today, Girl?" or some derivation of the phrase.
In the bustling city there were plenty of small peaceful alcoves, beautifully designed and arranged, where a person could get away for a minute and almost forget that they were surrounded by skyscrapers and traffic. One little park, called The Green, was a little novella-themed patch of greenery taking up probably an entire block between two buildings, with allusions and references to great authors and their works of literature at every turn. On this particular Saturday there was also an ice-skating rink set up where people could throw on a pair of blades and skate together in the sun.
I must have wander the city for some 3 hours before I finally stopped to get something to eat and rest my legs for awhile.
Then at 2pm the people disappeared. The traffic died to barely a trickle and businesses began to close all around me and the activity of the city moved to a select parking lot nearby where I had parked. The game was in 6 hours and it was time for tail gating. Tickets were being scalped, merchandise was being sold, and Panther fans from all over gather together to grill and drink and get riled up for the football game. Having friends in North Carolina and being so conveniently located in the action I made some calls to see in anyone was interested in catching the game, but work is a cruel beast and it prevented anyone from being able to make the drive. It was probably for the best, since God only knows how much a person would have to pay for a ticket.
On Saturday I went to Charlotte, NC, and had one fact confirmed: Charlotte is big.
It's also a city, and after I managed to unfluster myself from driving through it to get to a parking garage (I don't know if I'm ready to tackle city driving yet) I was able to spend the morning self-touring a beautifully designed city on a 60-degree and sunny day. I looked around at the architecture, soaking in the magnificent design of the buildings around me, and even got to go and see the Bank of America Stadium (where the Carolina Panthers call home) up close. And it was game day. But more on that later.
The thing that struck me about Charlotte (and mind you I had been warned by my voice teacher) was that everyone really was friendly. The women working in the Visitor Center were unbelievably helpful in finding me brochures on attractions, as well as a pamphlet for leading myself on a walking tour. Not 30 minutes after I left the building I was hit on twice and every time I passed someone and happen to not be smiling the would look at me and say, "Now where's your smile today, Girl?" or some derivation of the phrase.
In the bustling city there were plenty of small peaceful alcoves, beautifully designed and arranged, where a person could get away for a minute and almost forget that they were surrounded by skyscrapers and traffic. One little park, called The Green, was a little novella-themed patch of greenery taking up probably an entire block between two buildings, with allusions and references to great authors and their works of literature at every turn. On this particular Saturday there was also an ice-skating rink set up where people could throw on a pair of blades and skate together in the sun.
I must have wander the city for some 3 hours before I finally stopped to get something to eat and rest my legs for awhile.
Then at 2pm the people disappeared. The traffic died to barely a trickle and businesses began to close all around me and the activity of the city moved to a select parking lot nearby where I had parked. The game was in 6 hours and it was time for tail gating. Tickets were being scalped, merchandise was being sold, and Panther fans from all over gather together to grill and drink and get riled up for the football game. Having friends in North Carolina and being so conveniently located in the action I made some calls to see in anyone was interested in catching the game, but work is a cruel beast and it prevented anyone from being able to make the drive. It was probably for the best, since God only knows how much a person would have to pay for a ticket.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Paradise is 75 Degrees and Sunny
So a busy handful of days have passed, coupled with a flakey internet connection I was left with little way to update on my adventure.
To start off, as I stated before I feel in love with the Carolinas the moment my feet crossed the border into North Carolina. The weekend that ensued involved a lot of heavy lifting and unpacking of boxes, but by Monday most of the house was set-up and ready to be lived in. However, don't think that this was an easy task.
The very first night we had to stay in a hotel because there was no power in the house (a COMPLETELY spider-infested house I might add) because the property overseers didn't prepare the house to have the electricity turned on. The next morning, sun shining and full moving truck parked out front, Sara's mother went to work vacuuming spiders while the rest of us moved everything inside. This was how the next two days went, with bouts of cleaning in between the unpacking and unloading.
Then on Monday the upstairs toilet flooded while we were all out, which leaked through to one of the downstairs bedrooms and soaked the carpet running into the bedroom and the stairway. So between plumbers and ceiling repairmen and carpet cleaners we've had to spend a lot of time waiting around the house for people to show up and fix things.
But today we did get to go to the aquarium, and I can always find appreciation from a good aquarium. This one was decent. I've been to aquariums that I liked better, but this one was very nice. Sara and I spent an hour or two exploring the exhibits and got a nice little lunch from the cafe and had a nice time. And they had a baby sea turtle which was adorable. And otters. I love otters.
Right now as far as future living places go Charleston, SC, is winning by a landslide (granted I haven't been anywhere else yet). The weather here is fantastic, and I've found that even on cloudy days the sky is beautiful. There's a smell of water in the air everywhere and the atmosphere feels like the beach, which is one of my most favorite places in the world (the beach, that is). It would be extremely easy for me to get used to this kind of weather all the time (even the heat) and even now I'm not looking forward to returning to the frozen tundra that will be Ithaca, New York.
To start off, as I stated before I feel in love with the Carolinas the moment my feet crossed the border into North Carolina. The weekend that ensued involved a lot of heavy lifting and unpacking of boxes, but by Monday most of the house was set-up and ready to be lived in. However, don't think that this was an easy task.
The very first night we had to stay in a hotel because there was no power in the house (a COMPLETELY spider-infested house I might add) because the property overseers didn't prepare the house to have the electricity turned on. The next morning, sun shining and full moving truck parked out front, Sara's mother went to work vacuuming spiders while the rest of us moved everything inside. This was how the next two days went, with bouts of cleaning in between the unpacking and unloading.
Then on Monday the upstairs toilet flooded while we were all out, which leaked through to one of the downstairs bedrooms and soaked the carpet running into the bedroom and the stairway. So between plumbers and ceiling repairmen and carpet cleaners we've had to spend a lot of time waiting around the house for people to show up and fix things.
But today we did get to go to the aquarium, and I can always find appreciation from a good aquarium. This one was decent. I've been to aquariums that I liked better, but this one was very nice. Sara and I spent an hour or two exploring the exhibits and got a nice little lunch from the cafe and had a nice time. And they had a baby sea turtle which was adorable. And otters. I love otters.
Right now as far as future living places go Charleston, SC, is winning by a landslide (granted I haven't been anywhere else yet). The weather here is fantastic, and I've found that even on cloudy days the sky is beautiful. There's a smell of water in the air everywhere and the atmosphere feels like the beach, which is one of my most favorite places in the world (the beach, that is). It would be extremely easy for me to get used to this kind of weather all the time (even the heat) and even now I'm not looking forward to returning to the frozen tundra that will be Ithaca, New York.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
The Sky is Bluer in the Carolinas
It's a legendary saying that the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. These old adages are seldom to be taken literally, but I realized today, that when you know in your heart you want to be a certain area in particular, all of the colors of the world seem a little brighter.
But I guess I should start with the beginning.
There's a lot you can do in a 12-hour car ride, especially when you're driving a "soccer mom" style van filled to the brim with boxes and suitcases on January 1st. You can write stories in your head; you can imagine relationships with people you may or may not know, putting each of you in a situation and pondering what the outcome may be; you can think about the people in your life that you care about, and the people you care about that aren't really in your life; you can ponder what you're planning to write later in your blog; and you can think about what you've learned about yourself and the world around you that you want to take and use to shape the brand new year you're facing the dawn of. I hope I'm not the only one who does this, because it's how I spent the better part of the day traveling from Columbus, Ohio, to Summerville, South Carolina, to help my cousin with the big move that will start her new life.
On a drive like this, it's important to observe the scenery. It's a gorgeous drive once you get in the mountains, the tree-covered hills rising up into the sky like a fuzzy blanket spread across a bed without being smoothed down after. The dips and falls captivate your attention: The way the sun and shadows play across the landscape, the town nestled in a valley just to your right.
The entire ride anticipation was building inside me to get to the one place I had been waiting to go since October: The Carolinas. It's my hope to someday make my future in one of the cities there and for the next two and a half weeks I will be adventuring to find my niche in their embrace.
The first thing I learned on my car ride to South Carolina: The sky really is bluer there.
But I guess I should start with the beginning.
There's a lot you can do in a 12-hour car ride, especially when you're driving a "soccer mom" style van filled to the brim with boxes and suitcases on January 1st. You can write stories in your head; you can imagine relationships with people you may or may not know, putting each of you in a situation and pondering what the outcome may be; you can think about the people in your life that you care about, and the people you care about that aren't really in your life; you can ponder what you're planning to write later in your blog; and you can think about what you've learned about yourself and the world around you that you want to take and use to shape the brand new year you're facing the dawn of. I hope I'm not the only one who does this, because it's how I spent the better part of the day traveling from Columbus, Ohio, to Summerville, South Carolina, to help my cousin with the big move that will start her new life.
On a drive like this, it's important to observe the scenery. It's a gorgeous drive once you get in the mountains, the tree-covered hills rising up into the sky like a fuzzy blanket spread across a bed without being smoothed down after. The dips and falls captivate your attention: The way the sun and shadows play across the landscape, the town nestled in a valley just to your right.
The entire ride anticipation was building inside me to get to the one place I had been waiting to go since October: The Carolinas. It's my hope to someday make my future in one of the cities there and for the next two and a half weeks I will be adventuring to find my niche in their embrace.
The first thing I learned on my car ride to South Carolina: The sky really is bluer there.
Friday, December 26, 2008
A New Adventure
Tuesday marks a grand day for me: I'll be heading down to Columbus, Ohio, to help my cousin with the final packing and cleaning before New Years. What, you ask, happens on New Years? She starts her new life with her husband in South Carolina and I'm coming along to help with the move. So what, besides the dropping of my Ohio social life and embarking to cities unseen makes this an adventure? The rest of my winter break between semesters (classes start again on January 20th) will be spent slowly road-tripping my way north from Charleston, South Carolina, stopping in the big areas of North Carolina (Charlotte, Raleigh) and any other little alcoves that catch my eye, back up to the frozen tundra of Ithaca, New York. It is my hope that on the way I'll get the intuition and input I need to finally decide where I want to live after I graduate college next December.
I'm throwing plans and agendas out the window and just heading to where the road takes me (or whatever friends I happen to have in said areas). Cruising north in the Soccer-Mom Van alone with only my GPS to guide me, I don't know what I'll find with the rising of a new sun and the dawning of a new year, but I guarantee you that I wouldn't miss it for the world.
I'm throwing plans and agendas out the window and just heading to where the road takes me (or whatever friends I happen to have in said areas). Cruising north in the Soccer-Mom Van alone with only my GPS to guide me, I don't know what I'll find with the rising of a new sun and the dawning of a new year, but I guarantee you that I wouldn't miss it for the world.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
The Summation
For your enjoyment: My final 2,000-word article on my trip to London.
I went to London to find love. I went to London to find adventure and life and something outside of the ordinary to jump-start my soul and send my heart wheeling skyward. Well, maybe I went to London for a class, but if life were a video game, then love, life and adventure were my side quests: Those little extras that you do to feel more complete, but don’t necessarily have to in order to beat the game.
Things started out on the bleak side. Our plane was delayed about 4 hours, taking off, finally, somewhere around the 3am range. When we arrived it was to emerge from the tube station to pouring rain and an apparently rare occasion of thunder and lightning. I guess you could say our trip started with a bang, but it’s at the risk of sounding cheesy.
It’s hard to describe how I felt those first few moments when I realized that I was really standing in London. My umbrella was in my suitcase, which meant that as the drops of rain splashed down from the sky I was soaked from top to bottom, my jeans leaving a sizable puddle on the floor in my room when I finally arrived at what would be my home for the next three weeks.
The room was cozy. My freshman year in college I had been in a single dorm room, and I had come to love that room as my sanctuary in times of trouble. This room had the same warm, inviting feel and I almost instantly felt at home. When we ventured forth again the rain had sauntered away, leaving us with a quiet, cloudy evening for getting a feel for our new neighborhood.
It was strange to me: I had never been out of the US before this trip; I had just journeyed across an entire ocean to a land on which I had never set foot before and, somehow, it felt like I was coming home. Through that entire first week I was struck by a comfort that made me feel like I was right where I belonged. Sure, the Coopers weren’t mini and the buses had two decks. There were so many things so different from the country in which I had been raised, but there were so many things that seemed exactly the same.
I knew that, as with most things in life, adventure wasn’t going to find me. I would have to set out with an initiative to find it: To take it by the tusks and shake it around before I found that great, life-altering journey. I would have to go into this city, stare fate in the eyes and dare it to have its way with me. To find life, love and adventure I would have to go out alone: By myself, with no one but my own instincts and intuition to help me.
The only problem? I sort of have this latent fear of doing things alone. It’s really less of a fear and more of a preference to do things with small groups of close friends (or one friend) so that I don’t feel completely by myself. It came to me early on, however, that if I wanted to find love, life and adventure, I would have to go out by myself. If I didn’t, I would use my friends and classmates as an excuse to hold back and not step outside my protective boundaries.
I started with the Thames.
It seemed to me the perfect place to gain insight and inspiration: To find the true meaning of life. After all, didn’t Shakespeare sit along its banks and fill pages with sonnets and plays: Works of art unique and unmatchable by any other scribe? With its silken water, faded shades of brown, there must be a muse hidden somewhere in its muddy depths. I crossed bridges, stopping occasionally to glance over the lapping wavelets or toss in a coin for good luck. I spent one sunny afternoon walking a 2-mile stretch along the south bank, breathing deep the smell of garbage that had been left on the street for collection earlier that morning.
I sat in the gardens near the giant ferris wheel known as the London Eye, staring out over the waters and contemplating. All of this I did patiently, opening myself to the experience, but only seemed to find myself more stuck than before, a feeling of stagnation settling over me. It wasn’t until the final week we were there, when I wasn’t looking at all, that I felt a small spark of something in the music of a young Slovakian guitarist/singer who played a set on the very banks I had been searching before.
I thought maybe I would find something in the bar scene. I have known many people who are people of the early morning hours, stumbling to bed after a night of boozing and dancing. I searched for love in the London nightlife, hoping to find someone sweet with a good story to tell: Someone with an accent I could at least have a decent flirt with. I ended up with a 70-year-old man professing his undying forever-love to me; a creep almost dragging me off of my bar stool, only understanding the word “no” when I threw out my arms and body-checked him away from me; and getting a kiss from an only slightly less sketchy creep who frenched me and I couldn’t help but think, “This is what it must be like to kiss a vacuum cleaner.”
I knew before London that the kind of guy I wanted to meet would not be found in a rainbow-lit room playing music so loud that even if you scream you can’t be heard over the din of pulsing beats and repetitive vocals. In retrospect I begin to wonder why I even thought to look there, but it was the desire to immerse myself in something I never do while somewhere I’ve never been. I enjoyed wandering the eerily empty streets of London at 4am more than I did dancing on a wooden floor with 100 other people sweating just as much as I was, thrown together in an orgy of grinding bodies. And I love to dance.
It was the solo saxophone slicing through the early morning silence of Piccadilly Circus, with its neon advertisement reminiscent of Times Square in New York City as beacons of an overindulgent society that made me stop and take in another small shard of some secret fire I was attempting to kindle. Something small and beautiful and real was piercing its way through the heart of a hostile corporate takeover.
I tried to find adventure in celebrity. Not my own celebrity, but in proving with my own eyes that movie stars were real people made of flesh and bone and blood and not just holograms on the big screen. This involved standing for eight hours in a rabid crowd, straining at their leashes for an autograph. This involved getting pushed and shoved and bumped around as I attempted to get merely a glance at a famous face. This involved attending the red-carpet European premiere of The Dark Knight.
To say that a movie’s celebrity premiere is a frantic experience is like saying that the sun is really bright. It takes a particular breed of person to come to these things over and over again willingly. It takes a person who cares only about him/herself and no one else. It takes a person who is willing to push and shove and scratch and bite and cheat and weasel their way the forefront against the metal barricades so that they can complain about how people need to stop leaning on them. It takes people with no heart and no real lives.
I went to the European celebrity premiere looking for adventure. What I ended up with was a rollercoaster ride of whirlwind emotions: All the feelings in the World in one convenient package. I was happy that I would soon get to see real movie stars face-to-face. There was high anticipation as the carpet rolled out and the moment drew closer. Pangs of jealousy struck as I longed to be up front where I could get good pictures and anger as I realized the true nature of some of these fan-people. There was excitement when the Batmobile drove down the red carpet, followed by fatigue as I waited another hour before the big-name celebrities showed up. I fell in love with Aaron Eckhart at first sight and wanted to cry when, just as I was about to take a picture of Michael Caine, my camera died. Awe and respect swept over me as I witnessed the unassuming grace of Maggie Gyllenhaal followed by sheer disappointment and utter defeat as, at the moment of truth, I was shoved away from seeing Christian Bale. Finally I walked away disgruntled and grumpy, ready to be home where I could sit and have a nice dinner.
I went there looking for adventure and came home with a new understanding of what I would never bring myself to do to another human being and an experience I’ll be able to carry with me for a lifetime and a day I’ll never forget.
It wasn’t enough, though. By the middle of my third week in London I was still feeling like something wasn’t quite clicking, like there was something I was still missing and I was running out of time to find it.
I searched for my inner child by visiting the London Aquarium. Something about being around giant tanks of water and watching hundreds of kinds of fish swim around makes me feel happy. It causes a sense of calm to wash over me. I looked for an adventure in Camden only to find myself too early for the night crowd, but too late for the market. It wasn’t among the designer clothes at Harrod’s or in the intricately decorated churches of the nearby area. I tried to find it in the history, something rich and abundant in London. While I found the history interesting, and even chilling at times, it didn’t seem to fire up the pilot light in my soul.
I found moments of it in the theatre, between fulfilling my inner geek by seeing Lord of the Rings: The Musical and by fulfilling my inner diva by watching a live screening of Le Nozze di Figaro with 8,000 other people, but it wasn’t enough to kick me into forward gear.
I got on the plane that final day thinking that I had come within a hand’s reach of grasping it, but somehow missed it: That one moment that would make my heart beat faster and my soul soar skyward. Between sleeping and keeping myself occupied I pondered quietly. I mused, turning every moment over in my head, wondering why my trip didn’t somehow didn’t feel complete. Hadn’t I done everything I wanted to in London? Maybe I hadn’t found life, love and adventure to their full extent, but I had gotten glimpses, enough to say that I sucked the marrow out of my trip overseas.
I was on planes and in airports all day that day, and had to walk half the length of the Detriot Airport to claim my luggage after all was said and done. My legs were sore, I ached all over from sitting for so long and I wanted nothing more than a drink of water. Then I saw my mom and dad waiting for me by the conveyor belt. I ran over and hugged them tightly and realized that it was that moment that was missing.
It was great to spend three weeks overseas learning and living and loving life and adventure, but nothing could compare to that moment of coming home and seeing the people that I love and that I knew loved me.
Adventure may take you away, sweep you off your feet and force you to hit the ground running, but it never really feels finished until that moment you come back and realize, “I’m home.”
“Coming Home”
I went to London to find love. I went to London to find adventure and life and something outside of the ordinary to jump-start my soul and send my heart wheeling skyward. Well, maybe I went to London for a class, but if life were a video game, then love, life and adventure were my side quests: Those little extras that you do to feel more complete, but don’t necessarily have to in order to beat the game.
Things started out on the bleak side. Our plane was delayed about 4 hours, taking off, finally, somewhere around the 3am range. When we arrived it was to emerge from the tube station to pouring rain and an apparently rare occasion of thunder and lightning. I guess you could say our trip started with a bang, but it’s at the risk of sounding cheesy.
It’s hard to describe how I felt those first few moments when I realized that I was really standing in London. My umbrella was in my suitcase, which meant that as the drops of rain splashed down from the sky I was soaked from top to bottom, my jeans leaving a sizable puddle on the floor in my room when I finally arrived at what would be my home for the next three weeks.
The room was cozy. My freshman year in college I had been in a single dorm room, and I had come to love that room as my sanctuary in times of trouble. This room had the same warm, inviting feel and I almost instantly felt at home. When we ventured forth again the rain had sauntered away, leaving us with a quiet, cloudy evening for getting a feel for our new neighborhood.
It was strange to me: I had never been out of the US before this trip; I had just journeyed across an entire ocean to a land on which I had never set foot before and, somehow, it felt like I was coming home. Through that entire first week I was struck by a comfort that made me feel like I was right where I belonged. Sure, the Coopers weren’t mini and the buses had two decks. There were so many things so different from the country in which I had been raised, but there were so many things that seemed exactly the same.
I knew that, as with most things in life, adventure wasn’t going to find me. I would have to set out with an initiative to find it: To take it by the tusks and shake it around before I found that great, life-altering journey. I would have to go into this city, stare fate in the eyes and dare it to have its way with me. To find life, love and adventure I would have to go out alone: By myself, with no one but my own instincts and intuition to help me.
The only problem? I sort of have this latent fear of doing things alone. It’s really less of a fear and more of a preference to do things with small groups of close friends (or one friend) so that I don’t feel completely by myself. It came to me early on, however, that if I wanted to find love, life and adventure, I would have to go out by myself. If I didn’t, I would use my friends and classmates as an excuse to hold back and not step outside my protective boundaries.
I started with the Thames.
It seemed to me the perfect place to gain insight and inspiration: To find the true meaning of life. After all, didn’t Shakespeare sit along its banks and fill pages with sonnets and plays: Works of art unique and unmatchable by any other scribe? With its silken water, faded shades of brown, there must be a muse hidden somewhere in its muddy depths. I crossed bridges, stopping occasionally to glance over the lapping wavelets or toss in a coin for good luck. I spent one sunny afternoon walking a 2-mile stretch along the south bank, breathing deep the smell of garbage that had been left on the street for collection earlier that morning.
I sat in the gardens near the giant ferris wheel known as the London Eye, staring out over the waters and contemplating. All of this I did patiently, opening myself to the experience, but only seemed to find myself more stuck than before, a feeling of stagnation settling over me. It wasn’t until the final week we were there, when I wasn’t looking at all, that I felt a small spark of something in the music of a young Slovakian guitarist/singer who played a set on the very banks I had been searching before.
I thought maybe I would find something in the bar scene. I have known many people who are people of the early morning hours, stumbling to bed after a night of boozing and dancing. I searched for love in the London nightlife, hoping to find someone sweet with a good story to tell: Someone with an accent I could at least have a decent flirt with. I ended up with a 70-year-old man professing his undying forever-love to me; a creep almost dragging me off of my bar stool, only understanding the word “no” when I threw out my arms and body-checked him away from me; and getting a kiss from an only slightly less sketchy creep who frenched me and I couldn’t help but think, “This is what it must be like to kiss a vacuum cleaner.”
I knew before London that the kind of guy I wanted to meet would not be found in a rainbow-lit room playing music so loud that even if you scream you can’t be heard over the din of pulsing beats and repetitive vocals. In retrospect I begin to wonder why I even thought to look there, but it was the desire to immerse myself in something I never do while somewhere I’ve never been. I enjoyed wandering the eerily empty streets of London at 4am more than I did dancing on a wooden floor with 100 other people sweating just as much as I was, thrown together in an orgy of grinding bodies. And I love to dance.
It was the solo saxophone slicing through the early morning silence of Piccadilly Circus, with its neon advertisement reminiscent of Times Square in New York City as beacons of an overindulgent society that made me stop and take in another small shard of some secret fire I was attempting to kindle. Something small and beautiful and real was piercing its way through the heart of a hostile corporate takeover.
I tried to find adventure in celebrity. Not my own celebrity, but in proving with my own eyes that movie stars were real people made of flesh and bone and blood and not just holograms on the big screen. This involved standing for eight hours in a rabid crowd, straining at their leashes for an autograph. This involved getting pushed and shoved and bumped around as I attempted to get merely a glance at a famous face. This involved attending the red-carpet European premiere of The Dark Knight.
To say that a movie’s celebrity premiere is a frantic experience is like saying that the sun is really bright. It takes a particular breed of person to come to these things over and over again willingly. It takes a person who cares only about him/herself and no one else. It takes a person who is willing to push and shove and scratch and bite and cheat and weasel their way the forefront against the metal barricades so that they can complain about how people need to stop leaning on them. It takes people with no heart and no real lives.
I went to the European celebrity premiere looking for adventure. What I ended up with was a rollercoaster ride of whirlwind emotions: All the feelings in the World in one convenient package. I was happy that I would soon get to see real movie stars face-to-face. There was high anticipation as the carpet rolled out and the moment drew closer. Pangs of jealousy struck as I longed to be up front where I could get good pictures and anger as I realized the true nature of some of these fan-people. There was excitement when the Batmobile drove down the red carpet, followed by fatigue as I waited another hour before the big-name celebrities showed up. I fell in love with Aaron Eckhart at first sight and wanted to cry when, just as I was about to take a picture of Michael Caine, my camera died. Awe and respect swept over me as I witnessed the unassuming grace of Maggie Gyllenhaal followed by sheer disappointment and utter defeat as, at the moment of truth, I was shoved away from seeing Christian Bale. Finally I walked away disgruntled and grumpy, ready to be home where I could sit and have a nice dinner.
I went there looking for adventure and came home with a new understanding of what I would never bring myself to do to another human being and an experience I’ll be able to carry with me for a lifetime and a day I’ll never forget.
It wasn’t enough, though. By the middle of my third week in London I was still feeling like something wasn’t quite clicking, like there was something I was still missing and I was running out of time to find it.
I searched for my inner child by visiting the London Aquarium. Something about being around giant tanks of water and watching hundreds of kinds of fish swim around makes me feel happy. It causes a sense of calm to wash over me. I looked for an adventure in Camden only to find myself too early for the night crowd, but too late for the market. It wasn’t among the designer clothes at Harrod’s or in the intricately decorated churches of the nearby area. I tried to find it in the history, something rich and abundant in London. While I found the history interesting, and even chilling at times, it didn’t seem to fire up the pilot light in my soul.
I found moments of it in the theatre, between fulfilling my inner geek by seeing Lord of the Rings: The Musical and by fulfilling my inner diva by watching a live screening of Le Nozze di Figaro with 8,000 other people, but it wasn’t enough to kick me into forward gear.
I got on the plane that final day thinking that I had come within a hand’s reach of grasping it, but somehow missed it: That one moment that would make my heart beat faster and my soul soar skyward. Between sleeping and keeping myself occupied I pondered quietly. I mused, turning every moment over in my head, wondering why my trip didn’t somehow didn’t feel complete. Hadn’t I done everything I wanted to in London? Maybe I hadn’t found life, love and adventure to their full extent, but I had gotten glimpses, enough to say that I sucked the marrow out of my trip overseas.
I was on planes and in airports all day that day, and had to walk half the length of the Detriot Airport to claim my luggage after all was said and done. My legs were sore, I ached all over from sitting for so long and I wanted nothing more than a drink of water. Then I saw my mom and dad waiting for me by the conveyor belt. I ran over and hugged them tightly and realized that it was that moment that was missing.
It was great to spend three weeks overseas learning and living and loving life and adventure, but nothing could compare to that moment of coming home and seeing the people that I love and that I knew loved me.
Adventure may take you away, sweep you off your feet and force you to hit the ground running, but it never really feels finished until that moment you come back and realize, “I’m home.”
Sunday, August 3, 2008
The Calm After the Storm
It's been a week now since I left London.
The plane rides home went, thankfully, without hitch. Sitting in JFK I had an interesting conversation with a girl from Texas whose name I didn't catch, which helped to pass the 4 hours I had between flights.
What will I miss most about London? The food and the beer. Don't read me wrong: I'm by no means an alcoholic, but those Brits know how to brew their beer. Was I sad to leave? Sure, but I didn't realize how happy I would be to see my family and just relax for a bit.
Of course looming in the near future was my cousin's wedding, which would take place in Columbus, OH, exactly one week after my feet returned to US soil. I went down on Thursday, which was the beginning of probably one of the most memorable weekends I've had in a long time. There's simply too much to put down here, but it was just the kind of getaway I needed to put reservations aside and have a good time: A conduit in which to recharge my batteries. It made me very happy to get to see my cousin stand with her man and take that last step towards life as a couple.
I thought I would be feeling more of a loss after leaving London, but I think it's been helpful to have these little things to look forward to: My cousin's wedding this past weekend, and a Cedar Point trip in a couple of days. It will be just the right kind of wind down before hanging my hat on the coat rack and returning to the real world. Then will begin that slow downward whirlwind into a reality of double majors, double jobs and half the time to get anything done.
Do I regret anything in this past month of vacation? Absolutely not.
JD
The plane rides home went, thankfully, without hitch. Sitting in JFK I had an interesting conversation with a girl from Texas whose name I didn't catch, which helped to pass the 4 hours I had between flights.
What will I miss most about London? The food and the beer. Don't read me wrong: I'm by no means an alcoholic, but those Brits know how to brew their beer. Was I sad to leave? Sure, but I didn't realize how happy I would be to see my family and just relax for a bit.
Of course looming in the near future was my cousin's wedding, which would take place in Columbus, OH, exactly one week after my feet returned to US soil. I went down on Thursday, which was the beginning of probably one of the most memorable weekends I've had in a long time. There's simply too much to put down here, but it was just the kind of getaway I needed to put reservations aside and have a good time: A conduit in which to recharge my batteries. It made me very happy to get to see my cousin stand with her man and take that last step towards life as a couple.
I thought I would be feeling more of a loss after leaving London, but I think it's been helpful to have these little things to look forward to: My cousin's wedding this past weekend, and a Cedar Point trip in a couple of days. It will be just the right kind of wind down before hanging my hat on the coat rack and returning to the real world. Then will begin that slow downward whirlwind into a reality of double majors, double jobs and half the time to get anything done.
Do I regret anything in this past month of vacation? Absolutely not.
JD
Friday, July 25, 2008
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
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
Thursday, July 24, 2008
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
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
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
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
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."
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."
Monday, July 21, 2008
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
Sunday, July 20, 2008
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
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