On Sunday I took a tall tall coach from Grantham to Nottingham, to see Morgan Stankey who, if you don't know, is my friend, is wonderful, and is going to grad school at NU. Little as it was, it was my first solo independent travel, and I'm a little bit proud. I tried to get bread and cheese (okay, and Diet Coke) at Morrisson's while I waited for my coach to come, but evidently even though they open at 0930 on Sundays, you can't check out until 1000, and I had to leave before then. Still, I made it to Nottingham smoothly and thereupon found Morgan quite well. It's possible that everyone in the bus station thought we were either big lesbians or big loud Americans, as I've found the English don't really touch each other. But that was no concern of ours. It's amazing what a hug will do after a month without one.
We walked casually around one of the UK's largest pedestrian areas and slowly drank tea and ate scones (how fitting) while catching up on the past five months and remembering Indiana and Tennessee. She took me to see her school, whose campus is huge but lovely. It's more fall there than in Grantham, where it seems to be an unknown season we don't have in America. Most of the day was spent sitting in different places and talking, as I hoped. We sat on her bed and talked, sat by the lake and talked, sat on the bus and talked, sat in a pub and ate food with taste for once and talked. Seven hours may not be much for a trip, but it was a truly splendid afternoon out. At six we parted smiling and happy to do it again soon, and back home for work and work, but rather more refreshed than before.
30 September 2009
22 September 2009
Land of My Heart Forever
As I seem to have contracted a new strain of the Bubonic Plague, there is little I can do but sit in bed and putter through the internet between extended naps. Luckily, this puttering makes me inclined to write about Scotland, a spectacular place, and one which I visited this past weekend, 18–20 September.
Bernard and I took a very early train out of Grantham, opting for indie travel and economy over six hours on a coach. I watched gulls land all around tractors, eating little bugs out of the just tilled dirt. The train was cold but fast, and before long we were within sight of the ocean, then out of it again, then in Edinburgh. We dropped off our bags at the fabulous hostel, where every room had a theme (ours was "Mr. Men") and all the halls were decorated with Medieval knights and Scottish warriors, then headed out for our first adventure—into Edinburgh Castle, conveniently located right outside our hostel.
The castle could have been better, I guess, if it had been free, but that's about it. We spent several hours there, and went through every room we could, several museums, saw the Scottish Crown Jewels, touched a lot of history, took a tour from a very Scottish-style-friendly guide named Colin whom we could scarce understand, and visited the Scottish War Memorial, which was touching at the very least and heartbreaking at its worst. The memorials all listed the dead like this: "566 officers and 9459 others," and I wonder if the others wish they could be listed the same as their officers. An Edinburgh Castle employee told me I'd get stuck if I climbed into Mons Meg, the giant cannon. "I've seen it happen," he said.
The castle could have been better, I guess, if it had been free, but that's about it. We spent several hours there, and went through every room we could, several museums, saw the Scottish Crown Jewels, touched a lot of history, took a tour from a very Scottish-style-friendly guide named Colin whom we could scarce understand, and visited the Scottish War Memorial, which was touching at the very least and heartbreaking at its worst. The memorials all listed the dead like this: "566 officers and 9459 others," and I wonder if the others wish they could be listed the same as their officers. An Edinburgh Castle employee told me I'd get stuck if I climbed into Mons Meg, the giant cannon. "I've seen it happen," he said.
The view from the castle
Having worn ourselves out, we ate scones in the Redcoat Cafe in the castle. I kind of felt like I was betraying my homeland, but the jam and cream made it so worth it. After eating we went back to the hostel to regroup, and established that if we didn't go out any more that night, we wouldn't have to eat again. Now that's what I call frugal. So we stayed in our room and met a doctoral student from New Zealand and a fancy New York chic girl who was taking a tour of Europe for a few months. She asked where everyone was from and what we were doing, but we never exchanged names. We went to bed early, wiped and needing to be rested for the next morning.
On Saturday, after a croissants-and-nutella breakfast (classic Scottish fare, I'm sure) at the hostel, we set out to meet Mary, Stephanie, Elenya, and Erynn to climb Arthur's Seat, the 800-some-foot extinct volcano in Edinburgh where King Arthur is said to have had his throne. On the way to the seat I noticed how much Scotland looks like the Industrial Revolution—everything was lovely, no mistake, but all the buildings seemed to be covered in soot a century or two old.
Arthur's Seat is actually the second of two sort of mountains in Edinburgh right next to each other. We did not know this and, ambitious, set to climbing the first one we saw. A sign said "Please do not climb the steep slope" but, of course, that is more of a challenge than a warning, and we climbed straight up to the path instead of going around the side and taking the way where you could actually walk.
The vertical stripe just left of center is the non-path we took.
The real path goes along the side at the bottom of the rock face.
Having demolished that, and emerged as Mountain Women for sure, we trekked along until we found ourselves going back down hill and realized we had gone the long way. But we were not to be swayed! We found the long rock stair and rambled on. Another group took one picture of all of us about halfway up, but naturally it was on the camera of the only member of our expedition who doesn't have Facebook. As for the rest of the climb, well, we made it to the top somehow, and I can't even tell you. I could see all the way to America, I think. Bernard and I took a picture of ourselves at the summit marker. You can't see much, but you'll just have to trust me.
Not even from the top
"If I had a Top 10 Experiences Ever list, I would probably just scratch it out and start over."
The rest of the day was slow because, really, what do you do after climbing a mountain? We sat at the bottom of the seat for an hour or so, then Bernard and I separated because I didn't want to go to the Palace of Holyrood House and she did. I went to the Our Dynamic Earth museum, which is really ridiculous I know, because they have natural science in America too, but I love it. Too bad it was £7.50 so I just sat outside and wrote for two hours, then wandered along the Royal Mile, where there are lots of pubs and shops selling plaid stuff. Bernard and I got back together for some more solid Scottish food at Pizza Express because all the pubs were expensive and we didn't want to be the tools who go to Subway in Edinburgh. I sucked it up and spent some money on a cashmere scarf because when am I ever going to be able to afford cashmere again in my life? Never, that's when. I love it though. Bernard said of hers, "I feel like God is hugging me." That's pretty accurate.
We turned in early again, though not as early as Friday night, met a woman from Northern Ontario who was so very nice, and on Sunday (after everyone in our room woke up at the same time) we made reservations at Mary King's Close and went to the National Portrait Gallery while we waited. We passed the (Sir Walter) Scott Monument on the way, and it really does look like a Gothic space ship. So bizarre. The National Gallery was splendid and full of lots of really big paintings. The one of Achilles mourning Patroclus (by Gavin Hamilton) was particularly spectacular, as well as the statue of "The Campbell Sisters," which reminded me of a few people. We snuck up to the famous works before being good visitors and looking through the section of Scottish artists. John Duncan's "St. Bride" was my favourite.
Soon it was time for Mary King's Close, a sort-of-underground (but actually just underbuilding) tour of the 17th-century "closes" between blocks of poor, dirty, diseased people whose lives generally sucked. I wonder how a fire drill would have gone down there. Good thing it's all stone.
A little shortbread and some lunch at Chocolate Soup (one of the more bizarre restaurants/cafes I have yet encountered) left us pretty much done with everything we had planned, and we went back to our hostel and drank free tea to kill time before our train. The train station experience was much more stressful than it had been going out, but we made it back home in time to do pretty much nothing before going to sleep, which is what I'm going to do very soon.
In short, I loved that place.
10 September 2009
07 September 2009
How Come Every Time You Come Around...?
This past weekend was the London trip and, best I could, every time something happened I wrote it down in red pen in my little black journal where, I hope, I'll continue to write down everything that happens. Here is a description of things that happened.
The coach ride was long and quite uncomfortable, but we arrived in central London around 3 on Friday and gaped at the huge old things everywhere on the driving tour before being dropped off at our giant hotel. Bernard and I were roommates and we sat on our beds indecisively for a little while before settling on going to the British Museum, as it is free. In an effort to feel closer to those who are far, we looked for things we knew they'd seen. Half an hour of amazement at how old and huge the Egyptian statues were led us to the giant fist, where we happily recreated the Pound It picture from semester 0801.
Saturday was even more full. A rushed morning after breakfast found Bernard and I buying day passes for the tube (though we still managed to walk our feet off) and then queuing at the TKTS booth for discount seats for Avenue Q that night. Lion King was our first choice, but we just couldn't bear to spend £56 on it, so AQ was a worthy substitute.
Our tube passes got their first of many uses taking us out to Portobello Road, one of my favorite roads I've yet encountered. The street market there was huge and packed like clothes in a Space Bag. There were musicians everywhere, two steel drum drummers, and a guitarist wearing all pink. I walked by a man selling bowls made out of scratched up records, some with WWII helmets and gas masks, several with watches, and a whole stretch of beautiful real food. If I lived in London, I would go to Portobello Road every weekend and eat nothing but bread and vegetables for the rest of my life. One vendor sold old, old books, and some were in German and French and Spanish. I looked for Eugene Onegin in Russian to no avail, one perfect gift lost. (When I asked if he had any in Russian, the man said, "No. Absolutely not.") Coming back up the road we bought a basket of apples and hunks of bread for lunch on a dime. A garbage truck came down the street and almost ran over Bernard, and we got separated for about fifteen minutes. I stood on the corner and ate bread and waited for a while, then headed toward out and found her.
We walked down a long curvy street to Kensington gardens, where we sat under a tree eating apples and feeling the sun sneak through the clouds. It was a beautiful and warm day. We were joined by a gaggle of little neon green spiders the size of pin heads, who crawled all over everything black and nothing else. "Why do the green spiders like black? Because they're English?"
After Kensington, Bernard humoured me by going to the Natural History Museum. Everything there was so interesting, I could have stayed all day. But there was so much to do! so we hurried through rocks and giant crocodiles and dinosaurs to the life size blue whale replica. It was the biggest thing I've ever seen. That's not true, but it was the size of the biggest animal ever to exist, and that's pretty big.
Poor planning means we got off the tube at Parliament with not nearly enough time to get to Westminster for evensong, so we took in Parliament, Big Ben in his tower, and the Thames, crossing the bridge intent on taking the closest tube station on the other side to the Tower Bridge. This endeavor led to a fairly long wander on the South Bank, since the station we sought was closed. But we got to to it soon enough, and took in the bridge to the smell of sweet sticky chestnuts being sold on the footpath. We found a tiny door, but I don't think Harlaxton's "If it's unlocked, you're allowed to go in" rule applies at Tower Bridge.
Returning from the bridge, we aimed to take the tube via King's Cross and find Platform 9 3/4, but sadly we found ourselves short of time and thus headed back to the theatre district in a big hurry. We ate our first overpriced meal of the weekend at Pret A Manger, a sort of organic English combination of Subway and Starbucks, and dashed off to make it to the 8:30 show on time (only dashing in the wrong direction for a few minutes before correcting the error). We arrived at 8:26, Bernard in jeans and I in Chucks, both of us sweaty and tired and forcing a dozen people to stand so we could get to seats 13 and 14 in a row of 25. The show, however, was hilarious, and made the stress of getting there very acceptable. When it ended, we took the underground quietly back to our hotel and fell asleep happy.
Getting ready Sunday morning we watched Megananny, a show that is not at all like Super Nanny, and then got back on the coach (which left two people at the hotel despite a five minute grace) and went to Hampton Court Palace, where we learned Diligence and Haste from a genuine medieval master of the house, strolled through Henry VIII's kitchens and William and Mary's apartments, ate the second overpriced meal of the weekend and sat in the lovely sun under the gumdrop trees before heading back to Harlaxton for a power homework session and finally sleep again.
The coach ride was long and quite uncomfortable, but we arrived in central London around 3 on Friday and gaped at the huge old things everywhere on the driving tour before being dropped off at our giant hotel. Bernard and I were roommates and we sat on our beds indecisively for a little while before settling on going to the British Museum, as it is free. In an effort to feel closer to those who are far, we looked for things we knew they'd seen. Half an hour of amazement at how old and huge the Egyptian statues were led us to the giant fist, where we happily recreated the Pound It picture from semester 0801.
Soon we met two fellow Harlaxtonites, with whom we spent the remainder of the day. At the National Gallery, I put away everything I thought I knew about paintings and let the art blow my mind. It was spectacular, but like many buildings in England, it was huge, and soon we found ourselves very, very tired and desensitized enough to start looking for a way out. Then, out of nowhere, we emerged into a bustling room full of Van Goghs on loan from somewhere else. What a way to end the visit. The caption on one Degas said, "Degas was fascinated by the female body in awkward contortions."
.
Having come in at the back, we exited the National Gallery into Trafalgar Square, where a magician had attracted a crowd, and a man with a puppy was playing the wine glasses beautifully. On a statue pedestal with a net, a woman wearing all denim was shouting and waving to cars and singing Old McDonald. The news was there looking nonchalant.
.
By this time we were quite hungry (probably due to the failure of our sack lunches at the best truck stop in the world to satisfy), so we set out to find dinner. We were hoping for the cultural experience of some solid hearty pub food—but alas, we were less excited about pub prices, so after a long wander and much contemplating, we entered a tiny Italian place with no name and very good prices. The panini I received for £3.30 wasn't huge, but it was certainly substantial enough to be worth saving the money. Though there were people smoking on either side of us and the threat of pigeon attack from above, the owner (and possibly the only employee) was especially welcoming and kind.
.
Exhausted, we headed back to the hotel early, around 20:30, but stopped at a side store on the way, where I bought a box of strawberry tea that I sincerely hope has caffeine in it. In our room, Bernard and I curled up to rest our feet and watched the last hour of Ghost, which is probably not a good film to start halfway through. P-Swayze backed off into the great white yonder, and we fell asleep.
Saturday was even more full. A rushed morning after breakfast found Bernard and I buying day passes for the tube (though we still managed to walk our feet off) and then queuing at the TKTS booth for discount seats for Avenue Q that night. Lion King was our first choice, but we just couldn't bear to spend £56 on it, so AQ was a worthy substitute.
Our tube passes got their first of many uses taking us out to Portobello Road, one of my favorite roads I've yet encountered. The street market there was huge and packed like clothes in a Space Bag. There were musicians everywhere, two steel drum drummers, and a guitarist wearing all pink. I walked by a man selling bowls made out of scratched up records, some with WWII helmets and gas masks, several with watches, and a whole stretch of beautiful real food. If I lived in London, I would go to Portobello Road every weekend and eat nothing but bread and vegetables for the rest of my life. One vendor sold old, old books, and some were in German and French and Spanish. I looked for Eugene Onegin in Russian to no avail, one perfect gift lost. (When I asked if he had any in Russian, the man said, "No. Absolutely not.") Coming back up the road we bought a basket of apples and hunks of bread for lunch on a dime. A garbage truck came down the street and almost ran over Bernard, and we got separated for about fifteen minutes. I stood on the corner and ate bread and waited for a while, then headed toward out and found her.
We walked down a long curvy street to Kensington gardens, where we sat under a tree eating apples and feeling the sun sneak through the clouds. It was a beautiful and warm day. We were joined by a gaggle of little neon green spiders the size of pin heads, who crawled all over everything black and nothing else. "Why do the green spiders like black? Because they're English?"
After Kensington, Bernard humoured me by going to the Natural History Museum. Everything there was so interesting, I could have stayed all day. But there was so much to do! so we hurried through rocks and giant crocodiles and dinosaurs to the life size blue whale replica. It was the biggest thing I've ever seen. That's not true, but it was the size of the biggest animal ever to exist, and that's pretty big.
Poor planning means we got off the tube at Parliament with not nearly enough time to get to Westminster for evensong, so we took in Parliament, Big Ben in his tower, and the Thames, crossing the bridge intent on taking the closest tube station on the other side to the Tower Bridge. This endeavor led to a fairly long wander on the South Bank, since the station we sought was closed. But we got to to it soon enough, and took in the bridge to the smell of sweet sticky chestnuts being sold on the footpath. We found a tiny door, but I don't think Harlaxton's "If it's unlocked, you're allowed to go in" rule applies at Tower Bridge.
Getting ready Sunday morning we watched Megananny, a show that is not at all like Super Nanny, and then got back on the coach (which left two people at the hotel despite a five minute grace) and went to Hampton Court Palace, where we learned Diligence and Haste from a genuine medieval master of the house, strolled through Henry VIII's kitchens and William and Mary's apartments, ate the second overpriced meal of the weekend and sat in the lovely sun under the gumdrop trees before heading back to Harlaxton for a power homework session and finally sleep again.
03 September 2009
Write, write, write, you!
It's been a week so far at Harlaxton. The logistics are that I live in the manor house on the top floor in a suite, really, with one roommate, Jessica, and I'm taking British Studies with Dr. Taylor, British Literature, Poetry Writing, and Shakespeare, as well as choir. It's a lot of hours for Harlaxton, but I'm confident. I'll just be very busy.
The obvious is that this place is beautiful. There are rooms everywhere and stairs everywhere and all the doors have doorknobs way too high or way too low. The lift was broken until this afternoon, and I walk the 95 stairs up to my room a few times a day. There are gold and blue and pink and marble and cedar and columns and stone and exposed pipe and doors that lead to tiny brick passages that lead to old books and dusty notes from friends. Outside the grass is still green and goes on until it hits the low clouds lit up dimly by the few lights of Grantham. Grey stripes are all the rage.
Before classes started, I spent my time comparing my mental images of things to the things themselves. In reality the hill from the Carriage House to the Manor is not as steep, nor as treacherous. The Carriage House is on the other side. The refectory is smaller and the tables aren't round. The rooms I had about right, but I saw them in some detail. I'm unexpectedly mad that my friends' pipe signatures got painted over. I want to put them back. The little red knob on the showers to turn up the heat is smaller and brighter. The lights come on faster.
Since the first British Studies lecture Monday morning at 830, my life has been more full than ever. At the end of week one, I am doing okay. Hours and hours of homework a night, but my class schedule is conducive to studying. I spend a lot of time in the library, at the little back corner table, reading, or in my bed reading, or in the Schroeder Lounge. Always reading, Shakespeare or the penguin or British literature, but good, good stuff. I doubled my knowledge of British history the first day. It's hard, but it makes me want to work hard.
Things have happened. I raced the lift up to the fifth floor and beat it. Someone got in trouble on the first night, knocking on doors in town at 1230am. The food is terrible. Rebecca Bernard and I walked up the mile to the Greg for a drink, but it wasn't very good, so we drank water and juice and walked back through harsh headwinds and rain, umbrellas straight ahead, phalanxed. I'm making friends—Anne, Kelsey, Chelsey, Colin. I've met people, I've made plans.
Tomorrow I go to London, to explore the world and combat my fear of spending money ever. I have a tiny journal. I want to write it all down, everything I can, but it's so hard.
Most importantly I am loving it, but I am also loving you. I hope you will make a point to keep in touch, because it's hard for me to, but I am trying. Everything is just big and I'm enraptured.
The obvious is that this place is beautiful. There are rooms everywhere and stairs everywhere and all the doors have doorknobs way too high or way too low. The lift was broken until this afternoon, and I walk the 95 stairs up to my room a few times a day. There are gold and blue and pink and marble and cedar and columns and stone and exposed pipe and doors that lead to tiny brick passages that lead to old books and dusty notes from friends. Outside the grass is still green and goes on until it hits the low clouds lit up dimly by the few lights of Grantham. Grey stripes are all the rage.
Before classes started, I spent my time comparing my mental images of things to the things themselves. In reality the hill from the Carriage House to the Manor is not as steep, nor as treacherous. The Carriage House is on the other side. The refectory is smaller and the tables aren't round. The rooms I had about right, but I saw them in some detail. I'm unexpectedly mad that my friends' pipe signatures got painted over. I want to put them back. The little red knob on the showers to turn up the heat is smaller and brighter. The lights come on faster.
Since the first British Studies lecture Monday morning at 830, my life has been more full than ever. At the end of week one, I am doing okay. Hours and hours of homework a night, but my class schedule is conducive to studying. I spend a lot of time in the library, at the little back corner table, reading, or in my bed reading, or in the Schroeder Lounge. Always reading, Shakespeare or the penguin or British literature, but good, good stuff. I doubled my knowledge of British history the first day. It's hard, but it makes me want to work hard.
Things have happened. I raced the lift up to the fifth floor and beat it. Someone got in trouble on the first night, knocking on doors in town at 1230am. The food is terrible. Rebecca Bernard and I walked up the mile to the Greg for a drink, but it wasn't very good, so we drank water and juice and walked back through harsh headwinds and rain, umbrellas straight ahead, phalanxed. I'm making friends—Anne, Kelsey, Chelsey, Colin. I've met people, I've made plans.
Tomorrow I go to London, to explore the world and combat my fear of spending money ever. I have a tiny journal. I want to write it all down, everything I can, but it's so hard.
Most importantly I am loving it, but I am also loving you. I hope you will make a point to keep in touch, because it's hard for me to, but I am trying. Everything is just big and I'm enraptured.
and we'll take up, where we left off
when we all meet again
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