Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s (again), Soho, Camden Town Market, Warwick Castle, Stratford…and maybe a Good Frolic.
Travel Location: Stratford-upon-Avon,United-Kingdom
Well, friends, about a week or so has passed since I’ve last managed to write on this blog. The main mental block about doing so comes down to one thing: the internet. My connection here is slow, if present at all—which is rare. Pictures take even longer, as I generally want to throw my computer off my lovely balcony long before they finally upload, about an hour later, due to slowness and my incapability to cope with said slowness…So please bear with me! Hahaha…
Thursday brought more class, as usual, and that night we went bar hopping…not crawling, as Jenn or Laura can tell you, as that generally involves being so sloshed that you can’t stand upright. Instead, we hopped. Literally… Okay, I’m kidding, we walked. But bar walking sounds so uninteresting…
And so we started at the Student Union, since they have relatively cheap drinks. I’m starting to adjust to the money, and not converting as much in my head…to me, a cheap drink of Guinness is about 2 pounds 50 pence, which is about 5 dollars a pint here…ah well, I’m not likely to find it any cheaper! We headed off to the smoky but atmospheric Gloucester Arms, and eventually to the Mango Lounge, one of the few 2 a.m. bars in the area—and stayed until about 2 a.m., dancing. It’s funny, since I never dance in America! It seems since coming to Europe, I’ve been dancing like a fiend.
So Friday was my first Friday off…and it was spectacular. I went out, all on my own, and saw the sights. I started on a tube ride towards Charing Cross, since I knew that’s the main stop my mother used when she visited London all those years ago…but it was closed. Thus I got off the train and threw myself into the insane fray they call Oxford Circus on a Friday. Holy crap. It was packed with people walking every which way, shopping, window shopping, eating, chatting, shouting—you name it. It was wonderful. I people watched for a bit, then made my way down Regent Street (a place I’d read of in some book somewhere, so my interest was piqued) towards Picadilly. Another bustling frenzy of people around the statue of Eros, one of the most prominent “meeting places” in London. From there I headed to Pall Mall, and eventually to Trafalgar Square. The National Gallery was there, and I considered going inside, but it was too nice to be indoors. So I sat on the side of one of the lions, looking at Nelson’s Column and all the sightseers around me.
Eventually I made my way to the Thames, where I crossed this bridge (unfortunately I forget the name of it now) and saw some really great views of Parliament, Big Ben, the London Eye, and the river. Of course I went into tourist mode, snapping pictures of everything—including the street performers along the banks of the river, dressed up in snazzy silver costumes and face paint, pretending to be pewter statues. It was getting chilly at this point, so with a mind of heading for the Underground, I wound my way around the Thames and across again until I was standing in front of Westminster Abbey. It was about 5:45 p.m., and the bells were ringing in the tower. It obviously wasn’t calling the time, so I decided to check it out. A man stood at the gate, either letting people in or turning them away in what seemed like random fashion. I stepped a little closer and overheard the truth. It turns out I have marvelous luck: they were calling worshippers in for evensong, and only turning away tourists who didn’t want to partake of the service.
Needless to say, I quickly decided I did, and asked if I could attend. Instant entrée! I walked down the long path to the church (ridiculously feeling like this was a supremely momentous occasion) and passed through the doors. And what can I say? It was breathtaking. The sheer age of the place was enough to give me goose-bumps (it was built at the order of William the Conqueror!), much less the brilliant stained glass, the impressive statues, and the grand, vaulted ceilings… The religious and civic importance was not lost on me, either—this is where every single King and Queen of the English monarchy was crowned. This was the seat of power at the beginning of such times. Totally amazing.
A clergyman showed me to my seat, and the service began. I was taking surreptitious looks around, seeing whose tombs I could spot from my disadvantageous location (I was one of the last people allowed in for the service, and so didn’t get the best of seats), until the choir sang. I’ve never heard anything so lovely in my life. I’ve always loved chamber music, but hearing it live, and in such a setting, was remarkable. Again, I was moved to near-tears… Man, I’m such a wuss! Haha…
Not too much else happened on Friday…I went home and ate some much-needed dinner. Woot woot! Haha.
On Saturday, I woke up early to meet Steve at the London Bridge tube station, so we could see Borough Market. It was wonderful! All food, and lots of vendors—we ended up grabbing some wild boar sandwiches and partaking of every tester item we could spot. I could look at food all day (I am a hospitality major, after all!) but Steve was getting tired with endless vegetable bins and iced fish, so we headed up the road to St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Now this kid works in an office building that is at most about 200 yards from the Cathedral. His office window looks straight at the dome. Steve, however, has never been inside St. Paul’s…crazy! Needless to say, I decided it was high time I remedy the situation. And so we started in the crypt, and I pointed out all the greats: Admiral Nelson, Christopher Wren, William Blake, Duke of Wellington, Florence Nightingale…It was kind of fun to give a Brit the tour of his own hometown cathedral. I mentioned the story about Nelson’s death in Trafalgar, and how, in order to preserve his body, they put his corpse in a barrel of liquor; and how, upon arriving in England and getting the body interred, the men of his ship drank the liquor he’d been bottled up in, as a tribute.
My favorite bit, however, was when I showed him Wellington’s tomb, unwittingly assuming that this man, an Englishman, would know who Wellington was. How wrong was I! He had a vague notion of the Battle of Waterloo, and when I explained that it was the final victory of England against Napoleon, Steve queried about Bonaparte, “He was French or something, wasn’t he?” Ha! I threatened to disown him (as I’m personally enthralled with history) but forgave him, as he’s clearly a math-and-science type… I suppose that comes with being a banker. All part of the territory.
Anyways, the top two galleries of St. Paul’s were finally open, so I decided to brave the steps. The first gallery we reached was amazing, but poor Steve has what he terms “a height problem”, so he didn’t make it to the uppermost gallery. It was so tiny and crammed up there, but it felt, from that vantage point, as though the city of London was at my command. Like tiny ants. Quite fun.
After St. Paul’s we went shopping for a coat for Steve. Starting around Oxford Circus, we made our way to the oh-so-posh Bond Street, famous for ages as the center of high-end shopping. We went into all sorts of designer clothing stores, and I dared not look at the price tags, lest I get a coronary on the spot.
Steve never did find a coat, but alas we made our way back to Earl’s Court, where he finally got to see my flat and meet my roommates, and we all had fun. Later that night, Flat 3 (from now on meaning Laura, Jenn, Courtney, and me) headed out to the student union for some drinks. Afterwards, Jenn and our friend, Kevin, decided to go see a band, The Sounds. The show was in the Soho area at a place called The Mean Fiddler. I hadn’t been to that area before, so my first impression of the place was Soho at it’s height: A late Saturday night, with young people of all descriptions out and about: going to shows, drinking/drunk, singing in the streets. There were lots of night clubs there, and gay bars, and 24 hour restaurants. I’m under the impression that Soho is the portion of the city that never sleeps! We were running late, so I didn’t get to stop and look around as much as I’d have liked…
But it turns out we hurried up only to wait: isn’t that always the story? The line to get into The Mean Fiddler was around the whole building. Again, I felt underdressed for the occasion—or maybe overdressed, as the girls around me were in the latest street-fashion styles, which apparently don’t consist off all that much, haha. I still felt like a sore thumb, but when we finally were let in, it didn’t matter much; there were so many people surrounding the bars and on the dance floor that you could barely see anything of anyone, expect maybe the tops of their heads.
The set only lasted about half an hour, but they had a good sound. After that, there was a DJ to keep the crowd moving. I went out there and half-danced, half bounced, for the next several hours. I had stopped drinking at the Union, but Jenn and Kevin were in full force, so I had that fun sober-person-watching-the-not-quite-sober-people-dance experience—always a treat. Jenn was reeling random guys in that night: first the creepy Italian guy, next the not as creepy Turkish guy. My favorite patron at the place was this old, white-haired man—he must have been about 75 or 80 years old—in a suit, dancing at the front of the stage by himself, with a tall, cold Budweiser and closed eyes, taking in the music. Sometimes you just can’t help but wonder about people—where they come from, what their story is…it was interesting to watch.
The Underground had closed by the time we decided to leave, so we took a bus back to Kensington…and walked the rest of the way in the cold. Despite our fast pace to keep the cold away, we didn’t get home until 4:45 a.m. that night…so I obviously decided sleeping in on Sunday was prudent.
I got up around 11, and Laura and I headed off to Camden Town Market. This is an amazing place—similar in a few ways to Portobello Road, but generally quite different. Camden Town doesn’t have any produce; they only have clothes, antiques, other assorted goods, and tons of food vendors. It’s absolutely huge, even compared to Portobello Road, which is definitely sizable in its own right. This place is open 7 days a week, though, so they have lots of permanent booths and stores set up in the market style.
Camden Town Market is where counter culture comes out to play. You see tons of punk rock and goth stores, along with Asian-inspired merchandise, Indian food, and trendy clothes. Lots of dyed hair and skintight black pants all around. Mohawks, funky jewelry, seemingly mismatched outfits, and deceptively cool stares by cigarette-smoking emo kids are the norm. Plus a few tourists to spice up the batch.
All in all, a really interesting combination.
And so we stewed in the melting pot that afternoon; I bargained over a jacket and managed to get two salesmen in a bidding war (which was actually kind of fun), bought some Indian jewelry and a beautiful pashima, and ate some great Chinese. Laura and I pitched in on a brightly colored Indian patchwork wall quilt, which should cover up the plain white walls of our flat quite nicely. Doyle ate a crepe, I ogled the tribal art and bongo drums, and all was right with the world.
We stayed there until early evening, and headed back to the flat. Courtney and I had plans to go watch the championship football game that evening, and so shortly headed out to the Sports Café near Leicester Square.
Now, Courtney was born and raised in Shreveport, Louisiana, and I’m obviously from Chicago, so the Bear-Saints game promised to make the night interesting. The winner would go on to the Superbowl, so the stakes were high. After getting through the line (it’s amazing how many Americans can come out of the London woodwork when a major NFL game is playing) we settled in with some good old fashioned bottled American beers: Miller Genuine Draft. Haha! Up until that night, it had been pretty much all Guinness for me, but I decided the Bears game called for an import.
I must say that it is truly bizarre to consider an American beer an “import”…
I felt like I was in a secret society at the sports bar; like we were all part of an army of expatriates meeting up in some foreign land…I ran into people from all over America: the businessman from D.C. who was waiting for the Patriots game to start, the girl from Tulane University in New Orleans, the lanky kid from (of all places) Lincoln Park who was studying abroad and rooting for Da Bears… Truthfully, I was completely overcome by the oddity of standing in the middle of London, surrounded by Urlacher jerseys.
I was ecstatic that night (since the Bears spanked New Orleans) and exchanged hugs with the random Chicagoans around me, not really knowing them at all, but feeling this commonality of shared pride…it was amazing.
Taking the tube home that night sort of dampened my spirits, though… Courtney and I ended up sitting across from three English girls. Nothing was said at first, but eventually they were snickering among themselves, and I overheard one of the girls complaining about how many Americans were out that night….and how “they all talk like Americans, and they all act like Americans,” all the while staring at Courtney and I with expressions of disgust, as though that were something to be sorry for. I sank from euphoria to a level approximately equal to dirt. Of course I wanted to question her assumptions, but I saw no real point in it. And such was my first experience of “The Ugly Brit.”
Not much happened in the next few days, until Wednesday. We went on a BLC field trip to Warwick Castle and Stratford-upon-Avon. Warwick was interesting; it’s been handed down the generations since the middle ages, but is now owned by the Madame Tussaud Company (which is the famous wax museum in London). And so Warwick has been transformed into a glimpse of living history: they have the dungeon and torture chamber full of actual period equipment (complete with dramatic sound recordings, of course), a haunted tower where one of the Earls of Warwick is said to have been murdered by an angry servant (which was nicely decorated with some convincing fake cobwebs and eerie lighting), and even the state rooms are on display in their full period décor (along with a few wax figures to complete the realistic look).
Actually, the wax figures are insanely real looking. There is one portion of the castle set aside to look as it once did when the “Kingmaker” Richard Neville, the 16th Earl of Warrick, owned the castle. The rooms, through the use of period décor and wax figures, depict the day of Richard’s ride to battle against King Edward IV. There are sound reels, music, and recorded voices to complete the effect. It was actually quite cool…
Wax figures were again used to portray, in a series of rooms, what a 1898 weekend party might have looked like, with wax figures in the likeness of Baron Brooke, the then-Earl of Warwick, and his infamously scandalous wife, Daisy…along with a young Winston Churchill, the Prince of Wales at the time, and a bunch of other people. There was even a wax figure maid pouring a bath of real water!
The theatricality of the place was fun to look at, but I’m not sure it helped or hindered my ability to see the building as a place of historical significance…
After Warwick, we headed to Stratford, where we first stopped at Ann Hathaway’s cottege—the place where William Shakespeare’s wife lived. The architecture in Stratford is amazing. Buildings from the 16th century are all around, still in use. I love the organic look of them; no straight lines, very individualized. I’ve decided I’m totally moving into that cottage, by the way, haha. It’s perfect for me.
I saw furniture that Shakespeare himself used to sit in—even his bed—and it was amazing. The only real problem with the whole thing is that when I have to do these big field trips with the rest of the program, I don’t get to see or experience things as much as I’d like to. For example, in the cottage, the entire room was completely full of students, and so my view of the place consisted mainly of the floor and ceiling, with a few patches of wall, here and there, wherever a human wasn’t standing…Also, I felt rushed through the places, whereas I’d much rather let it all sink in. Ah well, there’s nothing much I can do about it.
We then went to Shakespeare’s birthplace with the group, and as this wasn’t a guided tour (like Ann’s cottage) I was able to take my time more. I stood in the room where he was born, and it was amazing. I had bits of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” floating through my head all that afternoon…
Sadly, Will’s house is no longer standing; only that of his parents’. In the 1800’s, apparently, the owner of Shakespeare’s old house was so sick and tired of sightseers knocking on his door and asking if they could see the Bard’s house, that he rather perversely (and incredibly sadly) tore the place down, just to spite everyone. That’s such a crime! And so I went to the Holy Trinity Church, along the River Avon, and saw his grave inside the cathedral. It was a beautiful spot, and his tomb had this funny inscription warning grave robbers away—it reminded me of the curse of the mummy or something, haha. Nevertheless, it was quite cool to know that such a brilliant man and historical figure was right there: under that big, flat rock.
Flat 3 headed out to a bar that the actors of the Royal Shakespeare Company supposedly frequent before and after shows: a little old building with a sign over the door that on one side reads, “The Dirty Duck” and on the other advertises “The Black Swan”. Consequentially, I’m not entirely sure which pub I had a pint in that afternoon, but it was a good time regardless.
Laura, Jenn, and Courtney caught one of the coaches back to the flats, but I stayed on in Stratford, since I’d signed up to watch Shakespeare’s Richard III that evening. And so I walked the streets of town, between the ancient buildings with their narrow alleyways, and eventually caught up with some friends: Heather, Paloma, and Tamako, from one of my classes. We ended up eating dinner at the Garrick Inn, a half-timbered pub that’s been in existence since the 1400’s. Amazing! Had some excellent bangers and mash and another pint before we decided to spend the remaining hour before the show at the Duck/Swan pub (with yet another pint)…and then we were off to the theatre.
The theatre itself was set up so the stage was in the middle of the floor, surrounded by seats on three sides. I had a great seat, as I was in the first row of the balcony, and could see all of the action perfectly. It was an amazing play, done in a surprising contemporary style, with really great acting (I’d expect nothing less of the Royal Shakespeare Company!), and awesome use of props and costume. Never did I expect to see a Shakespearian play involve a digital camera, a swat-team-style entrance, or machine guns. Wow.
Also, it turns out that one of the gentlemen at the pub I’d gone to earlier in the day was an actor in the play…which was fun.
I didn’t get home last night until around 1:30 a.m., since the play ended so late (and we still had a 2 hour bus ride to boot), so I’m pretty sleepy today. I’m not sure exactly what the weekend will bring—I may be going out to Kent to have dinner with the Roberstons—so I’ll be sure to fill you all in on the goings-on here whenever I get a chance. In the meantime, take care! And cheers!
Chris
