A Lover's Walk

Well, we had another sunny (although quite chilly) day here in London, and I did some more sightseeing to make the most of it. I got up at the crack of noon to wander about the city on my own a bit, and just went across the London Bridge and tried, but failed, to find The Monument (whatever that is). I wandered around a bit on some random side-streets and along the Thames, and got this nice picture of a couple of bridges - if I'm not mistaken, the one in the forefront is in fact the London Bridge:

And a few shots of a little courtyard someplace with a fountain - I certainly hope I can find it again, as it seems a lovely place to stop and read or write a bit when it is no longer January:

I also came across a statue of a man on a cell phone, the purpose of which was unclear, but which I found curious enough to photograph:

I settled for locating the Tower of London during daylight hours so I could take some photos. Of course the place was swarming with tourists, but I got a few decent pictures:

And yes, that last bit is, in fact, a skating rink on the grounds of the Tower of London. Curiouser and curiouser.

And just before the Tower was this lovely establishment that I also thought I ought to document:

And then I found a nice little spot called Tower Place, which was quiet and almost entirely unpopulated, where I took a few more pictures:

Then I walked back across the bridge to London Bridge Station to meet up with a group to see "Lover's Walk," a "promenade" show that walks the audience through the South Bank. While I was waiting I saw this:

I know, I found it funny too.

Anyway, "Lover's Walk" was both a teeny bit cheesy and quite believable performance that, to be honest, left me feeling a bit melancholy. I didn't take many photographs, as it made me feel sort of awkward, what with being in a rather small group led about by two people, but I took this one in which both actors appear:

In the background you can see the Gherkin (or at least that's what I'm told it's called) - reputedly the ugliest building in London. You can tell which one it is because it looks like a gherkin. No, seriously.

And I snapped this one as well, because the view was just lovely:

And here's some important ship that is reputedly an eyesore but in fact looks quite nice at night when they light it up with multicolored lights and it looks rather like a float in a gay pride parade:

Obviously, I took those in the daytime.

Now I haven't a clue what I'm doing this evening, and tomorrow I have a departmental welcome from the philosophy department at King's College, and then I think I need to buy some dishware at Tesco (no, that wasn't included either... how was I expected to pack all this stuff?), so I don't know when more pictures will be coming, but our classes don't begin until the 17th and I still haven't seen Buckingham Palace...

On that note, cheerio!

And Now For Something Completely Different

I had forgotten to post about the fact that I now have proper sheets, which I bought at Primark for £10, as well as some towels, which cost me a total of £9 - this is turning out to be quite an expensive city. In any case, now my room is properly furnished, and I'm sleeping much better and can shower and wash my face at my leisure. And now that my room is properly furnished, I can post a few pictures of it that I took yesterday.

Here's my view of the city from the window (and I also get quite a lot of sun in the morning, when there happens to be sun...):

And here's a general view of the bed and desk (as you can see, I added a tapestry to liven up the space):

And here's my little in-room sink area (really very nice to have):

And the results of my first grocery shopping trip (minus the perishables, of course, which are all in the communal fridge, which I have chosen not to post a picture of... that's a fine bone china mug by the way, which I got for 99p at some ridiculous shop):

And here is my toiletries shelf, if anyone is even remotely interested (I told you I was obsessive):

And, this is mostly for my mother, here's the stowaway that I brought along (also note the leopard print throw that I bought - somehow I can't feel at home without leopard print all over the place...):

And that's that. Now I have a furnished bed to sleep in, although the mattress is still tiny and rather hard, and how you all (all two or three of you, I mean) know what it looks like. Now I'm off to do some more adventuring, and I shall certainly post more later.

Cheerio!

At The First Clear Day

Contrary to its title, this post is nothing like a surrealist painting.

BUT, we finally had a nice sunny day in London and I had quite an adventurous afternoon. I had planned to get up early and explore on my own, but I ended up sleeping until past noon and just went along to London Bridge Station at two in the afternoon to meet up with my friend Alex, a Skidmore student who's originally from London. We went to Borough Market for lunch (which also happened to be breakfast for me) and to look at all the lovely food stalls and smell the lovely smells (really, it was magnificent. And so here is a photo of my first ceremonial plate of fish & chips (it's cod from fish!, a vendor that Alex insisted sells the best fish & chips in London):

...and here is a photo of what they looked like after I was done with them - minus the handful of leftover chips that I somehow managed to spill on the street (because, as you will learn, I am obsessive compulsive about documenting things like this):

But Borough Market really was lovely - they had all manner of breads and cheeses and meats and olives and spices, even smoothies and a vegetarian stand or two. Here are just a few pictures I took of some of the stalls:

 These fellows were quite nice and even smiled for my photo (that would never ever happen in a Parisian market...):

 Apparently ostrich meat is quite popular here:

After the market, we walked across the Millennium Bridge to St. Paul's Cathedral (although of course we didn't go in - what with the lines and the crowding - it's easier to appreciate from outside):

And on our way to the Cathedral we saw Shakespeare's Globe Theatre:

And the Tate Modern:

And then we went to Covent Garden and saw a fellow on a unicycle who was juggling dangerous things in his underpants (pictured below he's got knives, but later on in the show he had chainsaws):

And then I went on my own to Trafalgar Square:

And after that I had an absurdly long walk home, on which I saw Westminster Abbey (albeit from across the street:

And the London Eye all lit up for the night:

And the long walk was made a bit more pleasant when I saw this restaurant: 

Which was interestingly RIGHT ACROSS from an Alice in Wonderland billboard featuring Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter. But now I think I'm going out someplace or other, as it is Saturday night, so I shall leave off here and post more when I have more adventures and corresponding photos to share. Cheerio!

Off to Sea Once More...

Well hello there, I suppose it's time to begin blogging again, as I find myself in London for five whole months. It's only my second day but I'm so exhausted and have done so many things it feels like a week. It's after 4am here in London, but thanks to jet-lag I can't sleep, so I suppose I shall write.

I got into Heathrow yesterday morning at 7am, took forever in the customs line, then looked for the shuttle my program director had promised, and upon finding no shuttle took an express train to Heathrow Central intending to take a coach bus to Victoria Park, but ending up taking the tube. Now, I saved a bunch of money, which is very important in a place like London, BUT I had a hellish time getting my luggage into the tube, making a changeover, then walking three blocks from the nearest station (London Bridge) to my residence hall. Really, how could my luggage have been that heavy? It wasn't overweight at the airport... Anyway, my shoulders still ache.

Finally, I arrived at Wolfson house, quickly unpacked some essentials, then took a bus to Strand campus for registration. I was about an hour late, but it didn't seem to matter, as everyone else was still lined up and I got through the process fine. Then I spent about an hour in a Starbucks smelling the familiar smell and feeling terribly homesick and exhausted. Then we had a bit of a welcome lecture at 2, and were told all manner of things about King's and London and I tried my damnednest not to fall asleep in my seat. Afterward, I walked back to Wolfson house with a friend, and in the evening had a little wine-and-beer get-together in the common room and met all the study abroad students staying here, as well as a few regular students. Then a bit of dinner and... can't sleep. Didn't fall asleep until about 2am, and I had to get up at 9 this morning. Oh, the wonders of international travel. If only I could teleport home for a hot shower and a sleep in my own bed - did I mention that Wolfson doesn't provide linens? Well, they don't. I have no sheets, just a pillow and duvet. And no towels. So no showering until I buy some. I suppose I'm still adapting.

Today was a bit better, as I'd gotten at least some sleep (I'd slept only about 2 or 3 hours on the plane, and fitfully at that - I can't sleep upright, or on moving things), and I had the English Department welcome and a lecture on student life in London, then walked to Tesco to do a bit of grocery shopping before a student union event at the Waterfront Bar. On which walk I took this photo, my first in London:

It's right on Waterloo Bridge. See, there's the London Eye, and Big Ben, and a tiny bit of Westminster... and that's about all I know right now. I'll post more pictures once I do more exploring.

Anyway, grocery shopping, bus back home, tube to the Waterfront, silly pub quiz, met lots of lovely new people, and then went out for a night on the town. In fact, I didn't get home until 3:30am. But that sort of adventuring isn't for blogging about, now is it? So I'll leave it at that, and maybe try to get some sleep... Still can't believe I'm really here. Blimey.

An Unwelcome Message

Well, for once I am writing an opinionated blog post. I took a break from my desk in the English Office to visit the ladies' room, only to find an unsettling flyer taped to the door.

It read: "Food For Thought: Did you get into Skidmore because you're smart, or did Mommy and Daddy buy your admission? Think about this the next time you question whether students receiving financial aid deserve to be here."

I almost tore the damn thing down. Now, I am attending Skidmore on financial aid. A LOT of financial aid, without which I would certainly not be here. I am under the impression that I am receiving this aid because my family is in a situation of financial need and, perhaps, because I have maintained a 4.0 as long as I've been here. Sentiments like the one on that flyer make me sick. I do not need some anonymous outside party to defend my right to be at Skidmore; I'm confident that my past academic achievement got me here, and that my current academic achievement places me on a top rung here.

But what really gets me is that an attacking message like that sparks anger on both sides of the divide. I do not like to think that lots of students are here just because of the wealth of their parents. I like to think that Skidmore accepts students based on academic achievement, as all college should. But if I were a student from a wealthy family, a flyer like that would most definitely NOT make me think twice - it would make me angry. The simple fact that a student's parents are wealthy by no means indicates that the student isn't smart, or that the student is just getting a free ride based on their parents' income tax bracket.

If you're a student on financial aid, one sure way to get people to question whether you deserve to be here is by attacking other students who you have never met and probably, because you are probably classist, will never meet. Class generalizations go both ways, Skidmore - your assumption that a wealthy student is stupid or doesn't deserve to be here is just as bad as, if not worse than, the (supposed!) assumption of wealthy students that you do not deserve to be here. Honestly, such a message is a declaration of class warfare; sentiments like that draw a dramatic and uncrossable line between classes, barring communication and understanding while encouraging broad generalizations, bias, and outright hatred. If you don't want generalizations and unfair assumptions made about you, don't make unfair assumptions about others; don't make enemies out of your classmates.

In any case, if you're the kind of person who would put up such a nasty flyer, maybe you don't deserve to be here. You should know better, Skidmore.

Extremely Sad and Incredibly Happy.

This weekend I finished a book by Nicole Krauss called The History of Love. It is the most wonderful thing I have read in a very long time, and I was reminded of that bittersweet moment of ending a beautiful story, unwilling to let the characters go but glad to see them through to the end - a moment that I do not believe I have felt since I read The Neverending Story (over and over) as a kid. Although I guess The Buddha of Suburbia by Hanif Kureishi was bittersweet to finish as well, but mostly just bitter - I dragged out the last pages for a week.

In any case, The History of Love is an indescribably beautiful book that I shall, at this moment, feebly attempt to describe. I could not put the damn thing down. I spent all weekend reading it in my window-seat, ignoring much more urgent homework (yes, the glory of being assigned a novel for homework is a double-edged sword). It tells the story of an old man, Leopold Gursky, who survived the German invasion of Poland with the sole motivation of a girl, Alma, who had left their hometown in Poland for a school in America shortly before the Nazis arrived. It also tells the story of a young girl, Alma, whose father has died and whose mother refuses to fall in love with anyone else. It also tells a story of a book, The History of Love, which Alma's father gave to Alma's mother in the first days of their courtship, and for which Alma is named - you see, each girl in The History of Love is named Alma, who the author describes as "the first girl." Alma's mother is asked by a mysterious benefactor to translate the book from Spanish to English as Alma tries to find the real history behind The History of Love. Meanwhile, Leopold lives his life alone, alternately awaiting death and celebrating life. The stories are tied together in beautiful linguistic subtleties, words and sentences appearing in one section and then another, a theme from The History of Love repeated by one character or another in conversation or narration. Also, the passages from The History of Love that are revealed in the novel taste of a magical realism, reminiscent of but more tender than Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude.

It occurs to me that I have said almost nothing here about the enchanting, magnetic nature of the story, and why it made me sob outright in my window-seat and turn the final pages with an anticipation that might have been appropriate only if I was actually a character in the book and ache inside as if the book had put love there, or at least reminded me of the love that was already there. And the truth is, I have no idea. It's books like this one that both remind me of why I wanted to write in the first place, and fill me with despair that I will never, ever write anything as good. But it's just gorgeous - the language; the humanity and mystery of the characters; the carefully interwoven web of story, themes, and language; and the astonishingly accurate account of what love feels like, looks like, sounds like, and is. I was consumed by a ferocious desire to read the book, The History of Love, that is mentioned in the novel, as well as a childlike sadness knowing that it isn't a real book. However, the actual book The History of Love was plenty satisfying. I only wish that there were more of them... although, upon reflection, wouldn't they all be the same?

Interestingly enough, I discovered that Nicole Krauss is married to Jonathan Safran Foer, most famously the author of the novels Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I have only read a couple of his short stories, my favorite being "Here We Aren't, So Quickly," but from that beautiful piece of work I would have to say it's a lovely match that makes me deeply envious in a way that I don't entirely understand. She dedicates The History of Love "For my grandparents, who taught me the opposite of disappearing, and for Jonathan, my life." Ah, to be writers in love - especially writers of such lovely things.

So, everyone who is reading this now ought to go out and read The History of Love and be ready to put aside a whole weekend and, most likely, if you are as sentimental as I am, a box of tissues.

You're welcome.