Paris Caprice

Paris has the reliability of a good time. Good food and people who are easy going to a considerable degree if only to promote consistency with their characteristic and prized national identity. Yes, also the existential heart beats beneath the streets of the city of love. And maybe more so than other cities, there seems this slow, melancholy brooding in the steps of old men and women on the streets, and the Seine that runs through the city, beneath the feet that pass over bridges connecting old and new districts and land marks of little or profound significance. I come to think they must know this place too well, and for so long, that they’ve worn away the lustre and live trudging in the deep.  

First night, after passing the day walking around and interacting enough to arrive at these impressions, we met Ashleigh’s friend at the Saint- Michel fountain and walked through streets lined with bars until we happened upon a piano bar where the french signer and pianist sang mostly american classics as the French patrons out for a good time danced and sang along. Everyone seemed good humored, easy, and free for no reason. My being unable to drink, it took a bit of a vicarious perceptive effort to take on the effects of the atmosphere. 

And here I wonder if it’s all a delusion- the happiness for no reason. Is it honest felt? Or maybe the French just know the deep sad current of life too well not to get caught in a joyous delirium. I can only imagine I’ll experience more of this moving further south in Europe--that ‘raison d’etre’ that needs no ‘raison d’etre.’ 

I find refreshing in this that at the end of the day after having walked what felt like miles to get to the top of the eiffel tower, starving, feet hurt, thinking damn there’s no one around here.. if I had to run I don’t know if I could, and then findind a descending staircase with a sign- the word decipherable as “metro” only from as close as a 10 foot distance, gothic lettering that seems to suggest the station’s no longer functioning -then there shurgging that off, walking down, buying a ticket, sitting on a bench claimed by colorful grafitti, seeing one person waiting too and hoping the train you think is coming in 25 minutes is in fact the one you need to take. Then comes the resolution that it doesn’t really matter all that much because there’s nowhere you really need to be so you remedy your discomfort by spliting a hazelnut chocolate bar out of the subway vending machine.. and...just...trust. sigh. 

Then there it is and you follow the color-coded map and the lady on the intercom who repeats each stop twice; once as your appraoching in an inquisitive tone as if she’s not sure that’s where you are but she’s supposing “ L’hotel de ville?” Then the stop and the sign, and there it is; yes, she was right, “L’hotel de ville.” And her voice reads that she’s relieved herself to see it’s so. I can’t help but find something so uniquely French in this minute aspect of quotidian life such as transport. The French are naturally curious, dubious, and in pursuit of absolute reality and therefore necessarily abandoning the type of complaceny that would be more characteristic of say the British whose intercom announces and arrives at each tube stop with absolute, unalterable certainty, precision and promptness. 

In Paris I had many my share of moments I found were like following a whimsical current aboard a boat as a passenger uncertain of what lie ahead but necessarily adjusting to the changing natures of the waters. 

Walking around a foreign city after a delicious cup of French café au lait can incite a disposition of ecstasy, though contained and thoughtful, for the thrill of the known that once lived in the imagination but outside the experience then merges with the realm of the actual. For example, one may always know the eiffel tower exists and imagine in and view pictures, but standing in front of it gives you the pleasure of at least ticking the box that you've been there and discovering what it's really all about. It’s an incredibly triumphant sensation when real life meets or exceeds the expectations of your dreams, and if it doesn’t -it’s better and more beautiful because it’s more truthful, and I welcome a change of mind just as much as I do a confirmation of it- for it in someway propels me forward and I’ve gained a bit more leverage on the wisdom of the worldly. 

Then there’s the gradual decent from the high. You see travel in all its novelty is not without its patterns. The rush of sights, the current’s splash up over the bow of the boat that wets your face with a gentle mist of blissful experience, like new acquaintances, energizing conversations, the loom of noble spirits about an architectual time capsule in Père Lachaise cemetery, and the fresh gusts of air that envelop you emerging from the metro to a new street, a new hunt, adventure, and an eventual victorious find---which then turns into cold, meandering want for comfort and warmth you either accept you wont find or settle down in a restaurant to afford youself a few hours of luxury, or at least a cup of coffee and directions to your next target. Everyday lacking consistency and delightfully contradictory in taste, sight, and sound.  

One day we: Walk around Monmarte, get crepes ragou at a little hole in the wall where a nice couple sits next to us and they smile, and double take smiling again, because us three girls speaking both French and English are smiling too; laughing about the rain imagining God’s spiting or perhaps challenging us. Today we will sit here and wait for the one woman to make our crepes and coffee along with the rest of the patient customers, and walk up to Sacré Coeur, avoiding the tourist traps under the guise of needy people wanting to make a buck. Or is it the other way around? It’s both but you can’t stop once you have once, because you only remember how bad it made you feel- lest you give into that feeling again. You can see almost the whole city from the top of Sacré Coeur, but it’s cold and the wind’s blowing rough in February, so we walk down and add a little skip in our step to stay quick and fresh and giggle at the reactions of pedestrians to the playful folly of our little group, we at times made exhibition of. Enter boutique, and another boutique and try on clothes we don’t buy but talk about- and we would have pet the shop keeper’s sleeping dog- but, "she bites." 

So tonight, let’s go somewhere else. We’ve had enough of buttery croissants and cheese and crepes. So we go to this Spanish tapas bar, get directions online which prove difficult to follow, though we eventually get there. Settle up to some Sangria and aps, and for me a fruity coconut milk with a glow stick so as to not risk the chance of feeling “shocking” as my British doctor put it when he handed me the antibiotic for my wisdom tooth infection. Yes, ouch! But darn..no drinking in Paris? Mais le vin! but the wine! 

Though a twist of fate led me to forget my medicine for one night so I thought after considerable deliberation and consultation with my friends who donned their doctors' masks for the seriousness of such a decision, that taking a break from the affect of the drug could afford me a couple drinks- from which I felt shockingly not shocking but delightfully at ease in Paris with one old friend and one new. 

The tapas hot spot was owned by a handful of lovely gentlemen who after casually inquiring as to how us ladies were enjoying Paris, and hearing our response unfulfilled by a night on the town, offered to guide us to an authentic Frenchy French bar experience- I was happy to forgo the dreaded club house music-strobe light nightmare flash forward I had from an earlier suggestion. So we get drinks on the house, wait for the boys to close up shop and head out. The bar is packed, but you wouldn’t have known it from the outside because the owners insist on the windows and doors staying shut so as not to disturb the neighbors. (It’s a 5am bar.) There are two floors and it’s like a little corner appartment really with the hanging chandeliers and wall sconces on the sides of both large flower wallpapered rooms, where hung decorations of still lifes done of fruit in bowls. Frenchy french indeed! And smoke everywhere. 

Julien, the bartender who accompanied us is a painter, originally from Columbia- though he's lived in Paris 9 years. We talk about art and writers, American and other, and when the bar closes go to his place which happens to be a gorgeous condo in the financial district of Paris of a friend of his and investor in his art who allows him to use the place, under construction as it is, as his private studio. He shows us his work, and I ask questions he answers without reservation and I marvel at the open mind strangers bear to other strangers and potential friends given the right circumstance, talking, scanning for something new and different in one another and resonating on points of similarity or sameness in thought. Julien and I fall into a discussion of dreams, the sleeping kind, and he disappears on one of these notes of registered likeness and returns with a deck of cards, lifts me up from the hand off the carpeted floor we sat Indian style on saying “follow me darling,” in his casual but kind manner. We sit down to a table and I notice, as he tells me, that he’s about to read my fortune with tarrot cards. I can hardly believe my luck-- not because I consider myself very superstitious to have struck an opprtunity to decipher what the stars have in store for me, but rather, that I consider the chain of coincidental events and encounters strangely fortuitous, perhaps from the positive sentiment the people and experiences of the evening inspired and feeling them the destination of directions from a sound instinctual compass. The evening seemed the perfect fusion of rational discernment and creative impulse. 

Staring at the tarrot cards, and then staring at Julien - who looked into my eyes repeating the question “ What is one question you want to ask?” And all I’m thinking is no don’t ask that, maybe that but no that’s too revealing for even a stranger, and then settled on a very vague but pointed question. "Will I have success in my life..." I know it's such a vague question, and I chose so by design 1. to protect myself from too exact an answer and 2. to withhold my specific desires from my inquisitor. I don’t think it would be proper to share it here...or the results that seemed a perfect response, and Julien's explication which seemed to betray his true identity as the oracle instead of the artist. Yes his words, and what he said, encouraged me in a way to make a step or a change of thought and action in my life. Though more so, the interest he took in me, to ask me the questions he did, to even attempt at the council which he did without an eye for time and with the patience of a friend brought me to a disposition which found coincidence serrendipitous in retrospect. 

You can talk of fear, and the rush of doing what you’re afraid of because it can teach you so much. Something that you probably already knew in your deepest most childish self, but were afraid you would discover the contrary: that you couldn’t, perhaps other than, you could. Don’t worry, I’m not about to launch myself off a cliff into icy waters- but coming back to this realization and having that thought-spark warmed to a fire by another like-mind set my soul ablaze with liberation and more importantly awakening encouragement. Enough vagaries to bore you with the ‘spiritual’ underpinnings of my perspective. But reflection makes me feel as if I can take an experience floating in memory and stamp it to the walls of my mind for good, bringing its outline to the forefront when I return to this and other writings. 

We left Julien’s apartment as the sun came up over the hill that we climbed to the metro station. All kissed cheek to cheek in the true French way and parted on possible plans for coffee or just to meet someday again. Making it back to the hostel felt like the final mile of a marathon. The other hostel mates sat at the typical breakfast of baguette and Jam, tea or coffee, we grabbed some and sat down, high-heels and hair-blown and I for one relished in the looks that scanned for confirmation of our being out all night. I’m sure my smug grin said it all, laughing at myself and, well everything, maybe just life- There's always more to say. 

"Wander Lust"

Having been told by numerous and various sources, that study abroad is an experience I've purchased, while then reflecting upon this little fact as a consumer might, I've been taxing myself with pressures to find the meaning, significance, and worth of every day's occurrence, like squeezing the juice of an orange into a cup, wringing out every little pulpy bit and then pondering over the flavor and freshness I've extracted with the same pressure to enjoy attentively- careful not to miss a sip!- that I've come near to forgetting the value of the initial impulse which brought me here in the first place.

Yesterday, after having researched poetry spots in London, I resolved to make my way over to the Poetry Café in Covent Garden to crack open my book on Romanticism for class, as well as peruse entertainment options, see what other readings I could enjoy, or acquaintances of like interests I could make. Poetry, is a very accessible avenue for uniting diverse groups of people under a like appreciation. I find its influence pervasive and thrives in friendly spheres of intelligent people who have not only a lot to offer, but a sincere willingness to listen to and meet with new people.

As I sat by the coffee bar, at a table for four, leafing through the section on Wordsworth in my Anthology, I was approached by an older man in a suit and tie with a red felt scarf. "This seat taken?" he asked with a hopeful smile. I politely told him "No, not at all," inviting him to a chair and consequently another chance at conversation- which he took, and I did not decline as I quickly became tired of the lengthy verse amidst the public distractions, a growing buzz of chatter, and the Cold Play record that sounded just a little too loud winning my attention over the natural images of the romantic poets. Better in silence, I thought, and better even outdoors. Instead I randomly selected one of the many books on the shelf of poetry to sample- see what contemporaries I'm working with. The barista set down the man's coffee and separated the tables adjoined between us- I'm not sure for his sake, or for mine? Either way, that didn't stop him.

"Are you a poet? Is that your work?" he asked.
"Well no... I write but I'm not published or anything." (I didn't know what to say!)
"Are you a teacher?"
"No, I'm a student"
"Oh I see."
(pause) (sips of coffee)
"What do you do?" I asked
"Oh, I do nothing, and I am nothing. Nothing." the man said. He looked down and modestly shook his head, so I followed the obvious course of the conversation.
"That just can't be true." I insisted.

He went on to answer my questions, telling me he's originally from Iraq, though he's lived most of his life in London through and now after a career with the BBC. Turns out he's a successful writers of several books, widely known in the Arab world, and works as a translator- currently translating Ulysses. My proving a willing listener, he talked without hesitation on whatever subject that seemed to crop up in his head. Told me how the British differed in their silence and privacy, from the Americans in their openness, and he discussed the Spanish and their eyes; how everything they created was imbued with color and visual attractiveness. He asked if I knew who was the poet on this evening, when I confessed I did not but showed him the February schedule of events I had picked up which said 'Sebastian Hayes.' He said he was there to meet Sebastian, a friend of his, and he told me he'd introduce me. I was confused as to why he would ask me the name of the poet for that night's event when here he was guest to the man himself- who shortly arrived and amicably joined our parted table of four we pushed back together, and Sebastian's old lady friend June sat by my side- and told me of her life in London.

Sebastian looked a bit like Smeagal would as a hobbit before he turned into the sea creature Gollum. He had very animated features, in addition to his dress. June was clearly aged, but still showcased her marks of beauty with wide cast pale blue eyes and sleek coiffed white hair, and most importantly a very sweet, inviting smile. She, an image of composure in contrast to the disheveled Sebastian.

Having lived in London her whole life, I asked June if she liked it. She said yes but shared how much it's changed through her life's course, pointing out that she's very old. Then she said, "My favorite part of London is the river. Have you seen it? The river Thames. I like to walk along the river, and in all my years in the city, the water has not changed. One thing that is unchanging." A very nice reflection I thought.

My new friends, all coincidentally a skip of a generation or two behind myself,  invited me to stay for the event in which people came to read 'memorable poems that have changed their lives.' I volunteered to partake as a mere listener since I was not prepared to share any of my favorites- though I was severely pressed for participation regardless. About 7 or 8 people shared poems and revealed the authors at the end. The conductor himself read this short poem I've included below- and it reminded me of my strongest reason for being here in London.

Sebastian shared this poem, by Edna St. Vincent Millay, entitled, "Travel":

The railroad track is miles away,
  And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
  But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn’t a train goes by,
  Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
  And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,
  And better friends I’ll not be knowing,
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take, 

No matter where it’s going.

I recall in making my decision as to where to go, that I concluded it didn't really matter. It's not the destination that matters, but the travel, for its own sake. I can't help but juxtapose this idea with that obsessive mind set I'd been in about extracting meaning from my experiences. I can even lace this into the aesthetic movement I'm studying now in modernism with Walter Pater and Oscar Wilde among it's prominent figures- the movement was a reaction to the moral preoccupations of the Victorian era; the philosophy argues that it's the moments themselves; the sight, the feeling, the initial impact, the people you meet once that you won't again; the risk, the rush, the beauty- the travel, not the destination.

Of course, I have had my problems with this ideology; but this poem helped me to realize something so natural in myself that I was in danger of rationalizing out of existence- my love of travel, primarily for the sake of it.

I left yesterday evening with a few business cards in my wallet, and a commitment upon handshake to attend and participate in the next reading.

There are varying degrees of wander lust in people. One man at the meeting discussed a stranger he knew who traveled so much around the world alone that he became obsessed with doing everything for the best bargain. He would spend hours buying tickets, and he was distrustful of everyone. He traveled everywhere alone and became close with no one- the reaction of a broken heart he recounted to us. Though there is a tendency among people to become addicted to travel, the highs. the detachment, and the freedom; I do not believe the above poem describes such a compulsion, but rather, it denotes something innate in human beings, a kind of wander lust.

Just because things don't have to mean more does not mean they do not mean at all.
When the meeting had ended and I said my goodbyes, and headed for the door, June reached for my hand and looked in my eyes saying in her frail, gentle voice,
"I will remember you."

I think after my last post especially, I'd been seeking a genuine connection with all the strangeness I've been encountering. I'm glad I've trusted my instincts to do differently, and stumbled upon something very familiar in the process.

What the end of the world might look like

I created this blog so that I could relay all of the positive experiences I have in the course of a study abroad experience. Like all things in life, I find how futile an effort it can prove to make attempts at controlling impressions. With that comes the overwhelming pressure to tell the truth as one sees it.

While I find many aspects of London endear me to the culture, others, perhaps more strongly so, repulse me from it. I'm beginning to find that the somewhat suppressed stereo-type I held regarding British society as stuffy or rude has come up to the surface where it now haunts me in a waking reality.

This past Friday, I was coming back from the cinema, having watched Tangled with my friend, when I entered my 'living accommodation,' otherwise considered 'home,' to be interrogated by the front desk personnel. He plainly asked me my name, whether I was American, what floor I lived on and if I had any American friends. Well yeah, mate, I've got loads of American friends- I'm from there. It took him a while to get to the point, though he never divulged the true source of his interest. What I took from it is there's an American on the 16th floor with a problem, as in stirring up trouble, and I'm already suspect for sharing the nationality. After discovering there's no possible way I could be involved, he said nothing in kind to an apology and I left bewildered and worried about 'what the hell's going on on the sixteenth floor' to call for such reasonably arbitrary and relentless screening of residents?

A specific, isolated circumstance you could say- hardly the norm. But I'm not sure the norm operates in so opposite a mode, as merely forgetting your swipe card turns into a game of 21 questions before you're admitted up to your dorm. And I've been a desk receptionist, I get the drill. But at least my residents were few enough, in the couple hundreds, for my being able to say; "I know you, and that you live here- go ahead." There has to be just shy of a thousand students living in Nido Accommodations King's Cross, and maybe a dozen or two I actually know by name.

So I leave my dorm on Mondays to go to class for 6pm, and I walk to King's Cross tube station- one of the busiest stations in London, as St. Pancress International rail service neighbors it. Now I've lived in the city of Chicago for 2 1/2 years- long enough to know how foot traffic works. But here, what side of the street or stairs or tunnel to walk on creates as much ambivalence as a choice between gold or diamonds. Seriously people, I get that if you're in the habit of driving on the left you might want to walk on the left- then why are you always coming down the right side when I'm climbing up the left side- like I though you wanted! right?. It's a fact of nature most people are dominant in their right, and perhaps that translates to a tendency to walk to the right of passersby. Yet, the British are horribly conflicted by this habitual-physiological conundrum that they just sway to and fro as they please without regard for their fellow travelers- and let me tell you, a few weeks of tube-dependent travel and this no longer becomes a petty issue but a colossal force of frustration.

When there's too many people, how do you organize them, who will organize them, where will they go, how will they affect one another...

6:02pm: I'm already a tad late for my favorite class, Gothic Fiction, and I realize I don't have one of my many cards of identification, my university ID. I go to the attendant, "Hey look, I go to school here, I gotta get to class in minus 2 minutes- think you can let me in?" First he asks for my username. Ok, I can do that. Then my name for verification, where I'm from, what I'm studying, and as if that's not enough verification- I have to fill out a day pass!...you know just in case hall patrol's going to pull me over for a random screening. Did I mention it's 6pm and I have one class to attend. But no, no question about it, I need a day pass.

Class went well, we talked about Poe and The Fall of the House of Usher, a fabulous piece of gothic fiction. After class, I met my roommate at the grocery store to get some items to cook dinner. It was of course very busy, and understaffed so we went to the self-checkout like many of the other customers. It wasn't until I was having trouble myself with the automated machine that I noticed everyone was, and the line was wrapping around the aisle. So, an employee was going around assisting people with checking "themselves" out- a little tinge of irony in that ain't there? Then- I pay by credit card, and of course she checks to see my ID. If it isn't enough that my picture, as well as my name, appears on both my credit card and my license, she's obsessed about the signature. I have to tell her- hey, that signature on my license is from when I was sixteen, my John Hancock has changed just a bit in five years. Oh, and by the way- there's my FACE saying it's me.

I'm sorry this is such a rant for my recurring and recent readers, and mind you these anecdotes are but a sample of a plentitude of like situations contributing to this crack in my cultural composure. I just need to convey to some level of common understanding the frustration and furry I've tolerated in the most mundane circumstances by fact of living in the city of London, that's too large and anonymous for its own good. Sometimes I feel like Catherine Deneuve in Repulsion; if you don't get the reference, watch the movie- a good psychological thriller by Polanski.

The paradox of the big city goes: the more people, the more anonymous life is.  Looking out at the scene from within, I begin to feel my smallness, and I want to live outward, open, and large.
Though I refuse to believe London is the drone of indifference it might seem at times. Tomorrow I'm heading to The Poetry Café, headquarters of the London Poetry society, for some reading and to imbibe in the artist's verse, as well as the beautiful scenery of Covent Garden. Perhaps finding some commonality amidst the masses will give them a more human, rather than machine-like, characterization. After all, I too am a part of that mass that perhaps affects others in the same way it has me.

This weekend it's Paris- and I think I'm ready to take on the city with some learned city grit and broken French. Then maybe time for a country side retreat, more mountains than people who form mountain-like obstacles to who knows what.

Be back soon. Cheers.

Take the Piccadilly Line to Cockfosters.

I find the British accent most endearing from the mouths of little children, and I gather that the adults have just not grown out of it, defiantly, in order to hold on to their playful characters; personalities which inevitably materialize into a more holistic expression not limited to language- namely through fashion. Like the construction worker on the tube, with his studded lace up boots that he shows off under a cuff of jean, completed by a shabby-sheek cordoroy jacket, looks out from under circular rimless glasses, and the sixty-something poshly dressed woman who brushed by me on the street with spunky pink-blond hair. And lastly the old man in Café Pompidou gazing out the window, his white hair in spiral fluffs as if from a tornado wind-gust, who through his countenance wore the freshest expression that seemed to be saying as his eyes met mine, “Oh yeah, you’ve got dreams? So did I. So do I.” 

Common threads of style for the people of London have vivacious characteristics which constantly challenge expectations to an extent I find positively delightful. For however unlimited they be in dress, it seems to apply in spirit and potential as well. In a consumer-driven culture much like that of the U.S; here, "things" have more of a transcendent power for individualizing people in the vast masses of faces verses inducting them into the realm of  a certain status or social acceptance.


There is no ‘blending-in’ in London. Don’t let the stereotypical neutral color-palated wardrobe deceive you. Londoners find ways to draw attention, and even if you’re trying to be discrete, you’re constantly being scanned and evaluated by your dress. Image is big business here, and people take it seriously. The paradox goes though, that while everyone’s indulging in curiosity, you are either deliberately or inadvertently inviting others to be curious about you. This results in a difficult game on the tube in which you're telling yourself "don’t look there now," but then you can’t help it and do, and find someone’s looking at you and there’s a constant collision of glancing followed by a reflex aversion of the eyes. Everyone shrugs it off as- I mean I see you but it was an accident we happened to be looking in the same direction- but really, people won’t admit that they’re curious. And I think the British people of the city of London are insecure about this fact that they're intensely interested in other people, so they cover it up with snobbery. So coy!


Each day I attend class, I take the Piccadilly line of the Tube in the direction of Cockfosters; and yes, even the British people giggle somewhat ashamedly when the loudspeaker announces the route. Cockfosters.


Cheers. 

Freedom of the Press.

Hi, hiya, thanks, cheers...just because you speak English and you're in the UK, where British people speak another kind of English, does not mean you're not a foreigner. Being thrust into a completely new environment, even one with familiar elements, always presents some awkwardness that can only be sorted through by a gradual familiarization. I make the physical analogy of this strange feeling in that it's like being naked on a cold morning. It's uncomfortable. Having only been here for roughly 10 days, at least 5 of those lagging from the jet, I'd say I'm still working on clothing myself with the culture.

There's a separate setting and a new context here for everything I brought with me. An idea we discussed in my class on modernism and modernity by Henri Bergson here applies to my experience. That being that anything in the past which is a part of memory, and your exercise of tapping into that memory, is then, also, a part of the present. Being in London, there's a separate setting and a new context for everything emotionally, psychologically, and obviously physically as well. The new context even allows one to romanticize and accentuate feelings developed before arrival towards, well, really anything. And even the simplistic routine aspects of life take on a gleam of excitement with the newness of it. For example, I don't think I've ever taken so long to buy groceries and enjoy the process to such an extent. Though as I adjust to the context of life in London verses life in Chicago, or life in New Hampshire, I come to find the fresh sparkle begins to flake off, and you find yourself living here experiencing similar feelings, frustrations, and concerns you would at home. And I think and dream of home in a new light. Not that I want to be there at present, but, being here gives me new found appreciation for what I've established in my own country, especially relationships with friends and family.

A few highlights of my week:

I spent this Saturday night in the West end of London, circling 'round Soho and Leicester square with a group of American friends as we looked for a suitable pub to set down in. Having finally made the choice for a bit roomier scene, we passed an enjoyable evening sampling the local ales in a swanky bench-seat cushioned saloon. We might have stayed to burn the midnight oil, however the tube trains close at midnight and navigating the bus route can prove tricky to the baby Londoner. All in all, I had a good time taking in the spirit of a typical weekend in this London hot spot on the border of Chinatown. The foot traffic overflows into the streets and the bars, like KU, are teeming with young hearts swelling to the UK top 40, which is a lot like the U.S. top 40 five or ten years ago- with a few exceptions. And there's a little dodgy character on the corner, hidden amidst the mob saying discretely but audibly as you pass, "You ladies wanna party tonight?" And I don't think he's looking for friends. If you missed that-- drugs. The prevalence is astounding!

The resonating impression I took away from my first weekend in London town allowed me to begin to register with 1. how incredibly large London is, and 2. how much more incredibly the people of London cover every bit of surface. If there's empty chairs or slots at the bar by 8pm, be sure they'll be filled by 10, and by 11, expect not to see the floor you're walking on. Though, perhaps the most incredible part of it is that you won't see one Londoner within these massive and rapidly collecting clusters express any frustration with it. It's just the way it is. The expression 'the more the merrier' must have been coined here.


By far the best part of my weekend happened on Monday. I met my friend who came in the city from Brighton, down in Central London in front of Big Ben. We chatted along the Thames and turned every direction off London bridge before landing on Trafalgar square. We had fancy coffee at an Italian café that branded 1882 in chocolate on the foam. We laughed at that, bought post cards including images of a sky view of the Houses of Parliament, as well as close-ups of the Queen- laughed at that too.


At 7:00 pm, Conway Hall, Red Lion Square, Holborn, there and then took place a rally led of behalf of Julian Assange of Wikileaks. We scoped out the venue around 5:30pm and settled into a nearby pub for some brews, a bite, and a preparatory discussion infused with the great anticipation of what to expect from this political spectacle. Ran into a couple American ladies in the pub as the hour neared seven who were intensely curious how we heard of the organization and advised us to be careful, as those in attendance were wary of American government spies. She was a little nuts, but her tone was an appropriate precursor to the seriousness of the gathering. It was more organized and formal than I envisioned, which made me feel the grounds were safe for this kind of contained, intellectual protesting. The speakers were well-spoken and included distinguished journalists, veterans, and activists who expressed the views of at least all those in attendance, and many of the British and American people, when they conveyed disappointment with the current government "censorship" or, to put it bluntly, the lies that have been told to cover up what we know now to be an ugly truth. It was a passionate sort of outpouring that reflected on the shameless contradiction to American first amendment rights apparent in the words and actions of our government officials (though not exclusive to the U.S. Tony Blair was mentioned.)

One of the speakers expressed a view that I think many people feel regarding the leaks on the war in Iraq. It's not so much that we didn't think these atrocities of cruelty were not possible or even not probable, but rather the most appalling bit is the continued determination to conceal and deny what has already been revealed, and to unjustly punish someone who acted in accordance with the pursuit of truth and righteousness, the democratic ideal. Being in London, at this rally, was a meaningful experience that felt like a reawakening to the benevolent possibilities like minds and motives hold. Very glad to have been in attendance.

I've once again been impassioned by the fervor of justice through reason that it's a concept that must be actively perpetuated, and this is all the more necessary when the previously established fundamentals of said idea begin to shift from corrupt, self-interested influences. It's hard at times to remember human flaw exists among all including those who hold the power. Human weakness can lead them to use it unjustly or to neglect to use it for the principles the nature of those powers are tied to by moral law. All the more necessary for the citizens to make clear the establishment of human rights and to remind those with power that the 'people' have not become indifferent, and that the technological generation has not bred passivity, in actuality, contrary to what it may seem. I think what's changed is our reactions tend not to be as public or discussed and having less opportunities for objectives to gain momentum in an organized fashion, being so distracted as we are, the would-be collective force of these passions and ideas are often latent, between sheets of paper, behind computer screens, and sealed by closed lips in the heart that feels powerless.

Ancient Greek historian Herodotus said, "The worst part a man can suffer is to have insight into much and power over nothing."

(I know I'm verging on becoming a compulsive quoter. Though I only mean to give credit to the ideas that affect me, rather than simply adopting them as my own.)

Tomorrow there's a public demonstration in Trafalgar square to stand in solidarity with the Egyptian people and their struggle for democratic rights, which now has already begun to be hopeful as their leader recently announced his resignation. Hopefully, a relatively small number of people can help to make an historic difference and alleviate some of this suffering.

I don't mean this to be a political blog; for I do not have full confidence in the degree to which I remain informed, unbiasedly, on the issues. It only is so in this post because I felt personally compelled to share my experience with you, in that I feel it's my place as representative of the aforementioned rally to impart the feelings, opinions, and thoughts the group and its leaders impressed upon me.

Thanks for reading.

British Museum, Westminster, and "Tyger Tyger"

Alright. I'm feeling the pressure of the unrecorded life, as Virginia Woolf puts it, so here goes- first post.

London is truly a multidimensional city. Scratch that- this is an obvious characteristic of any city. But here I'm more aware of everything happening all at once, simultaneous, together, in overlapping spheres of experience.

Just yesterday I attended the world famous British museum where myself and a couple of my American friends spent most of the daylight hours. I like museums, but more so the idea of them and the collective impression the preservation of history can have as a million marks of existence held by the same walls. As far as perusing artifacts go, the visual experience just isn't enough for me- without a context that is. Knowing this, I had in mind a particular print by a particular German artist, Albrecht Durer, whose work is referenced in one of my favorite poems, The Burning of Paper Instead of Children by Adrienne Rich. I saw online that the museum held the work and that it was among other features on the fourth floor print room. After visiting the mummies of ancient Egypt, I looked and looked for this engraving, knowing the black and white scene from google images. Not being able to find it, I asked an attendant if the museum still held some of Durer's collection. He informed me that it was no longer on display but that if I knocked on the door behind the wall he pointed to, they might be able to help me find what I was looking for. (I wish that happened more often.)

Now, I was by no means made exceptional to the ordinary goings on of the museum, though I never knew something like that existed. Behind said wall was the complete archive of prints and drawings held by the museum that weren't currently on display, and I was allowed to view Melancholia upon request and filling out a short slip. It's a beautiful work, very detailed and short pen-like incisions make up the engraving of a woman who personifies the malaise of an artist. She sits in what appears to be a secluded room, where rational elements and tools are strewn about, and with which she does nothing and prefers to stare off into the imaginary- that's the choice she makes as an artist in opposition with using the tools to fashion the material world. The print has many interpretation which all apply considering the great complexity of the work. Consult the print image on google for a more detailed, interesting, as well as concise description. I was unable to attach the link.

We left the museum and took the tube to Westminster Abbey for the nightly choral service. At this time the church was closed for tourism but charged no fee for the ceremony. The choir sang beautifully, and it was a majestic experience to hear the sonorous echo; it gave me chills, though it was also cold in there. Outside Westminster is picture perfect London. The London eye, Big Ben, The Abbey's exterior, etc. Will post pictures when I receive the necessary cord from home.

Took the tube back to King's Cross. Later last night went to "Tyger Tyger," a dance club that costs ten pounds to get in. Having never been to a "club" per se, I was razzle-dazzled by the atmosphere and how perfectly it conformed to the stereotypical version you see in the movies. Though, it was over-crowded, and the bar service was a joke. And all the men you don't want to talk to you, do. But maybe that's because there were no men there I wanted to talk to? Yeah. Won't be going back there. The thing about clubs is that they embody a dating, dancing fantasy realm that transports you, with a little help from the alcohol, into a dream state chain of interactions, and you always leave thinking, "well that was weird, not sure what to make of that." And that's because you can't..make anything of it. It's nothing. Just colored vapors and the lingering after scent of a desperate amount and strength of cologne that rubbed off on your dress.

If I go to the club again, I have set in my mind the purpose of that will not be to entertain or ward off my pursuers, but rather to dance freely, reject whomever from my company, and enjoy myself.  Because to be quite frank, dreams of the altered consciousness variety don't lend themselves well to conversation.

Point: London's a massive plethora of choice. Lesson: choose wisely.