Today is moving day. One more time! Okay ... two more times, but this is our last move within England. The apartment we booked for our time in London was only available until Nov 12. Our flight is Nov 14.
For the last two days we are booked into a hotel right underneath the landing planes of Heathrow. It will be impossible to sleep, I’m sure. However, I would rather make the arduous journey to the airport today when I am not worried about missing my flight, than on Monday morning. This is a trial run for getting ready to fly.
We’ve been here two weeks, so the suitcases are well and truly exploded all over. From Saturday night to Sunday morning, I do not imagine we will have the same amount of packing to do.
Crystal Palace is a delightful place. It is a quiet place to live, albeit still a busy, close-to-inner-London suburb. The area was named for a Victorian-era exhibition hall, which delighted people until a fire took its toll in the 1930s. Much of the town is still Victorian in its architecture, although modern buildings are found here and there.
It has been pleasant to stay here. The park was a beautiful place to spend a few hours in the afternoon. There is a hedge maze, though at this time of year it is truly a sad sight to behold. If it weren’t for the chicken wire fences in between the rows, the empty bushes would just look like winter is coming. With the fences holding people in their rows, and the leaves fallen off the bushes, the effect is more one of decrepitude, rather than natural order.
The park also contains several dinosaur statues. Although life-size and designed by a scholar of natural history, today palaeontologists claim they are inaccurate, due to new research. I still think they are cool.
I’ll miss the park, and being able to get the best Indian food in London (in my humble opinion ; ) ). I won’t miss hiking up the hill to the highest point in all of greater London every night at the end of sightseeing, just to have to walk up three fights of stairs to get to our attic apartment.
In Orkney, Inverness, and in London, how did we always manage to find accommodations at the top of steep inclines? Well, I guess it keeps the heart pumping.
London’s Underground is undergoing massive construction work this month. Every possible line leaving Crystal Palace, and the only line to the airport are all being replaced by buses for portions of their journeys. The thought of dragging the suitcases up and down stairs to the trains, changing to a bus, back to a train, then a different train to a bus, then back to the train...umm, No thank you. Instead, we’ll take two buses. That’s all. It should take at least a couple hours to get across the city, but it will be easy.
We’ll have one more day out in London tomorrow. One more chance for blogging!
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
November 7: Harrods
I have mixed feeling about Harrods. On one hand it is a London icon. It has been a department store in London since 1824. Its history is interesting, being the first store in London to install a “moving staircase”in 1898. It has served the likes of A.A. Milne, Oscar Wilde, Noel Coward, Charlie Chaplin, and various members of the royal family.
It sells a little of everything. Okay, it sells a lot of everything. I started in the food area and skipped most of the clothing: slacks, dresses, purses, shoes, custom made suits. You can buy books, fountain pens, stationery, air hockey tables, gold (I mean gold, not jewelery, although they sell that, too), and by appointment only, bullet-proof clothing.
I had been looking forward to wandering through the racks of Kevlar vests hanging on the racks next to the Hermes scarves, but apparently that isn’t how the department works. Besides, the Hermes department was four floors down from Bullet Proof Clothing.
The clothing and accessories are famous names. Even I have heard of some of the names. But really, fashionable shopping is wasted on me. I love the idea of looking elegant, but I love my flannel shirts and jeans too much to do anything about it.
So there I was, wandering through the most famous department store in the western hemisphere, wondering if I would get kicked out for violating the dress code. Jeans, scuffed-up muddy Eastlands, and a Goodwill purchased shirt boasting a Cabella’s label. Other than being ignored at the food sample stands, though, no one seemed to care how I was dressed. While I drooled over the $4000 fountain pens, I actually had two sales associated ask if I needed help. Maybe they were just concerned I was in the wrong store and were willing to give me directions to the nearest Asda. “You know, there’s an Ikea just down the street,” they were thinking.
While having this fascination with seeing the famous London department store, and wondering how the upper echelon lives, I hate paying for a name. I have an aversion to paying grandiose amounts of money for anything, unless the quality is such that the price covers the long years of use I will get out if it,. My favourite purse, for example. I used it for almost ten years. Of course, I spent almost $100 on it. I about died handing over that much money for a purse. But I used it for years and years.
And there I was in Harrods staring at purses costing 10 times that.
I do not understand fashion, and I confuse it with quality. Are the goods in Harrods worth their price? Or even, taking into consideration a typical 30% mark-up, are they worth two thirds of their price?
Are customers paying for a name? It is a famous name. Are customers paying for quality? Famous does not necessarily mean quality. But, sometimes it does. I guess I’ll never know until I try.
Harrods. I went. I saw. I bought.
It sells a little of everything. Okay, it sells a lot of everything. I started in the food area and skipped most of the clothing: slacks, dresses, purses, shoes, custom made suits. You can buy books, fountain pens, stationery, air hockey tables, gold (I mean gold, not jewelery, although they sell that, too), and by appointment only, bullet-proof clothing.
I had been looking forward to wandering through the racks of Kevlar vests hanging on the racks next to the Hermes scarves, but apparently that isn’t how the department works. Besides, the Hermes department was four floors down from Bullet Proof Clothing.
The clothing and accessories are famous names. Even I have heard of some of the names. But really, fashionable shopping is wasted on me. I love the idea of looking elegant, but I love my flannel shirts and jeans too much to do anything about it.
So there I was, wandering through the most famous department store in the western hemisphere, wondering if I would get kicked out for violating the dress code. Jeans, scuffed-up muddy Eastlands, and a Goodwill purchased shirt boasting a Cabella’s label. Other than being ignored at the food sample stands, though, no one seemed to care how I was dressed. While I drooled over the $4000 fountain pens, I actually had two sales associated ask if I needed help. Maybe they were just concerned I was in the wrong store and were willing to give me directions to the nearest Asda. “You know, there’s an Ikea just down the street,” they were thinking.
While having this fascination with seeing the famous London department store, and wondering how the upper echelon lives, I hate paying for a name. I have an aversion to paying grandiose amounts of money for anything, unless the quality is such that the price covers the long years of use I will get out if it,. My favourite purse, for example. I used it for almost ten years. Of course, I spent almost $100 on it. I about died handing over that much money for a purse. But I used it for years and years.
And there I was in Harrods staring at purses costing 10 times that.
I do not understand fashion, and I confuse it with quality. Are the goods in Harrods worth their price? Or even, taking into consideration a typical 30% mark-up, are they worth two thirds of their price?
Are customers paying for a name? It is a famous name. Are customers paying for quality? Famous does not necessarily mean quality. But, sometimes it does. I guess I’ll never know until I try.
Harrods. I went. I saw. I bought.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
November 8: Stonehenge and Bath
Part 2: Stonehenge
Rising up out of the tunnel into the field, the first thing I notice is their size. Stonehenge is huge. Enormous. I am used to seeing them on television; in books. Size is deceptive.
The second thing I noticed is how amazed I am by their size. I had just been there two years before. I should not have been this awe-struck. But that is Stonehenge. It does not become less impressive by familiarity. It just gains in mystery and grandeur. The more I study it and learn about it, the more magnificent it becomes.
New studies of the area are always being undertaken. New theories tested. New evidence being found. Nearby at Durrington Walls is the site of a settlement. Archaeologists believe it might be the settlement of workers who built Stonehenge. Who were they, and why here?
Within the last few years, evidence of another stone circle has been found nearby. Research points to the existence of another circle at the end of the ancient avenue leading out from Stonehenge to the river Avon. Are they related? Were they two parts of one ritualistic journey?
The stones at Stonehenge come from two places: The smaller inner circle of stones are from nearby fields, no more than twenty miles way, The larger stones are from Wales.150 miles away. Why not just build the circle in Wales?
I drug David to every possible stone circle in bussing distance all over Scotland. All equally impressive and equally mysterious. Yet, none like Stonehenge. I haven’t done my research yet, but our guide yesterday told us it is unique in Britain because it is the only one that used sculpted stones. The other circles were made of natural stone, but stonemasons shaped Stonehenge’s boulders into the uniform monoliths we see today.
While research is carried out all over the surrounding area, Stonehenge itself is rarely a dig site. Although I do not know for certain why that is, I do have my guesses. Archaeology, while being beneficial to our knowledge of the past, is invasive surgery. In order to get under the ground, we have to dig up the present. There are ways of minimising damage, such as using radar to search for clues underground before digging pell-mell. It does not seem difficult to dig in small sections, and carefully replace dirt to put things back to normal.
However, a clue from a Smithsonian article in 2009 provides insight into views on Stonehenge. Before beginning the first dig on the Stonehenge in 44 years, prayers were spoken and blessings were requested. Even today, Stonehenge is still a holy place. Druids worship here at the Solstices. The mounds surrounding the area are the burial places of hundreds of people.
Yet, we do much research and digging across the middle east and the cradle of Christianity, Judaism and Islam. We want to know our history, including our religious history.
That leaves me to agree with Geoffrey Wainright, President of the Society of Antiquaries of London. He was involved in the research at Stonehenge in 2009. He told Smithsonian,“I think what most people like about Stonehenge is that nobody really knows why it was built, and I think that’s probably always going to be the case. It’s a bloody great mystery.”
http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history-archaeology/light-on-stonehenge.html#ixzz1dHkr1ACk
Rising up out of the tunnel into the field, the first thing I notice is their size. Stonehenge is huge. Enormous. I am used to seeing them on television; in books. Size is deceptive.
The second thing I noticed is how amazed I am by their size. I had just been there two years before. I should not have been this awe-struck. But that is Stonehenge. It does not become less impressive by familiarity. It just gains in mystery and grandeur. The more I study it and learn about it, the more magnificent it becomes.
New studies of the area are always being undertaken. New theories tested. New evidence being found. Nearby at Durrington Walls is the site of a settlement. Archaeologists believe it might be the settlement of workers who built Stonehenge. Who were they, and why here?
Within the last few years, evidence of another stone circle has been found nearby. Research points to the existence of another circle at the end of the ancient avenue leading out from Stonehenge to the river Avon. Are they related? Were they two parts of one ritualistic journey?
The stones at Stonehenge come from two places: The smaller inner circle of stones are from nearby fields, no more than twenty miles way, The larger stones are from Wales.150 miles away. Why not just build the circle in Wales?
I drug David to every possible stone circle in bussing distance all over Scotland. All equally impressive and equally mysterious. Yet, none like Stonehenge. I haven’t done my research yet, but our guide yesterday told us it is unique in Britain because it is the only one that used sculpted stones. The other circles were made of natural stone, but stonemasons shaped Stonehenge’s boulders into the uniform monoliths we see today.
While research is carried out all over the surrounding area, Stonehenge itself is rarely a dig site. Although I do not know for certain why that is, I do have my guesses. Archaeology, while being beneficial to our knowledge of the past, is invasive surgery. In order to get under the ground, we have to dig up the present. There are ways of minimising damage, such as using radar to search for clues underground before digging pell-mell. It does not seem difficult to dig in small sections, and carefully replace dirt to put things back to normal.
However, a clue from a Smithsonian article in 2009 provides insight into views on Stonehenge. Before beginning the first dig on the Stonehenge in 44 years, prayers were spoken and blessings were requested. Even today, Stonehenge is still a holy place. Druids worship here at the Solstices. The mounds surrounding the area are the burial places of hundreds of people.
Yet, we do much research and digging across the middle east and the cradle of Christianity, Judaism and Islam. We want to know our history, including our religious history.
That leaves me to agree with Geoffrey Wainright, President of the Society of Antiquaries of London. He was involved in the research at Stonehenge in 2009. He told Smithsonian,“I think what most people like about Stonehenge is that nobody really knows why it was built, and I think that’s probably always going to be the case. It’s a bloody great mystery.”
http://www.smithsonianmag.com/history-archaeology/light-on-stonehenge.html#ixzz1dHkr1ACk
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
November 8: Stonehenge and Bath
Part 1: Bath
On Tuesday David and I joined a day trip tour to Stonehenge and Bath. My two favourite historical periods: Neo-lithic and Roman Empire, although, both Stonehenge and Bath had histories longer than I thought, Stonehenge stretching to Bronze Age, and Bath’s turn-about in Victorian times.
The pool, the actual Bath in Bath, is quite impressive. I know the water isn’t supposed to be green; that it only is green because of algae and the fact that the pool is not treated for human use. But it looks like tarnished copper. Magnificent, yet hiding its glory. Old, but recognisable.
Because we were on a day tour, I knew we would only have a couple hours in the town of Bath. I did not know the tour of the actual Baths would take me the whole two hours. I wandered the through the displays without being able to fully enjoy them due to our being chronologically limited. In spite of time constraints, I lingered over the audio tour. One of my favourite authors and hero of travelling, Bill Bryson, has been given the honour of providing commentary for parts of the audio tour. I used up much of my time listening to him!
I walked quickly past gravestones, past coins, past lead pipes (the Romans loved their lead), past stone-carving demonstrations and over the courtyard of what was once a grand temple. Apparently only two temples have been found in Britain, this one for the goddess Minerva. The temple was dedicated to Sulis-Minerva, the hybrid of the celtic goddess Sulis, already being worshipped at the site before the Romans came in.
Any good conqueror knows the way to assimilate people is to convince them to keep doing what they had been doing before the conqueror showed up: “Hmm, you worship Sulis in these relaxing and healing waters? Okay, we’ll do that, too. This Sulis sounds just like our goddess Minerva. They must be the same goddess, don’t you think? We’ll re-dedicate the temple to Sulis Minerva.” And life continues as normal.
Bath the city is not at all what I expected. Built between seven hills, I did not expect the city to have grown so large as to be built on, over, and around the seven hills. The hills are lined up and down with Georgian townhouses. Ringing the tops of the hills are the luxurious Crescents, houses for wealthy residents to have sweeping views of the valleys.
Bath was in Roman times and in Victorian times and is again now, a resort town. For many years it was not. Bath housed woollen mills and factories, driving away respectable residents and in the end giving the town a bad name, one known for carousing, drunkenness, and crime. It is hard to imagine that, today, given all the glitz and sparkle in the city now saturating the city. Boutiques and movie stars and royal residents and spa treatments all shine in today’s Bath.
We drove past 4 Sydney Road, Jane Austin’s former residence. 8 Circus Crescent, Nicholas Cage’s former residence. Rumour has it Johnny Depp recently bought property in the town, but I didn’t see a gaggle of women with cameras lingering outside anyone’s door, so I assume we didn’t pass it.
Nobles and Stars. Millionaires and the merely wealthy. They live among the blue-jeaned tourists who come for the day. On the other hand, someone has to work in the shops and coffee houses. People have to clean the mess tourists and rich people leave behind. I wonder where they live? Someone asked our driver about how people make a living in the town, and he said it’s all connected to tourism. But tourism doesn’t usually pay individuals well enough to live in a resort.
We only saw one side of Bath, but we were not there long enough to discover if there was a “wrong side of the tracks.” The train connects the town to others on the way back to London. Perhaps they live in other towns and commute in. I wonder if I had time, would we have found where the normal people live? Or is it so well hidden that we never would?
On Tuesday David and I joined a day trip tour to Stonehenge and Bath. My two favourite historical periods: Neo-lithic and Roman Empire, although, both Stonehenge and Bath had histories longer than I thought, Stonehenge stretching to Bronze Age, and Bath’s turn-about in Victorian times.
The pool, the actual Bath in Bath, is quite impressive. I know the water isn’t supposed to be green; that it only is green because of algae and the fact that the pool is not treated for human use. But it looks like tarnished copper. Magnificent, yet hiding its glory. Old, but recognisable.
Because we were on a day tour, I knew we would only have a couple hours in the town of Bath. I did not know the tour of the actual Baths would take me the whole two hours. I wandered the through the displays without being able to fully enjoy them due to our being chronologically limited. In spite of time constraints, I lingered over the audio tour. One of my favourite authors and hero of travelling, Bill Bryson, has been given the honour of providing commentary for parts of the audio tour. I used up much of my time listening to him!
I walked quickly past gravestones, past coins, past lead pipes (the Romans loved their lead), past stone-carving demonstrations and over the courtyard of what was once a grand temple. Apparently only two temples have been found in Britain, this one for the goddess Minerva. The temple was dedicated to Sulis-Minerva, the hybrid of the celtic goddess Sulis, already being worshipped at the site before the Romans came in.
Any good conqueror knows the way to assimilate people is to convince them to keep doing what they had been doing before the conqueror showed up: “Hmm, you worship Sulis in these relaxing and healing waters? Okay, we’ll do that, too. This Sulis sounds just like our goddess Minerva. They must be the same goddess, don’t you think? We’ll re-dedicate the temple to Sulis Minerva.” And life continues as normal.
Bath the city is not at all what I expected. Built between seven hills, I did not expect the city to have grown so large as to be built on, over, and around the seven hills. The hills are lined up and down with Georgian townhouses. Ringing the tops of the hills are the luxurious Crescents, houses for wealthy residents to have sweeping views of the valleys.
Bath was in Roman times and in Victorian times and is again now, a resort town. For many years it was not. Bath housed woollen mills and factories, driving away respectable residents and in the end giving the town a bad name, one known for carousing, drunkenness, and crime. It is hard to imagine that, today, given all the glitz and sparkle in the city now saturating the city. Boutiques and movie stars and royal residents and spa treatments all shine in today’s Bath.
We drove past 4 Sydney Road, Jane Austin’s former residence. 8 Circus Crescent, Nicholas Cage’s former residence. Rumour has it Johnny Depp recently bought property in the town, but I didn’t see a gaggle of women with cameras lingering outside anyone’s door, so I assume we didn’t pass it.
Nobles and Stars. Millionaires and the merely wealthy. They live among the blue-jeaned tourists who come for the day. On the other hand, someone has to work in the shops and coffee houses. People have to clean the mess tourists and rich people leave behind. I wonder where they live? Someone asked our driver about how people make a living in the town, and he said it’s all connected to tourism. But tourism doesn’t usually pay individuals well enough to live in a resort.
We only saw one side of Bath, but we were not there long enough to discover if there was a “wrong side of the tracks.” The train connects the town to others on the way back to London. Perhaps they live in other towns and commute in. I wonder if I had time, would we have found where the normal people live? Or is it so well hidden that we never would?
November 5, 2011 : Westminster Abbey
Every tour book, advice guide, and review blog warns tourists to arrive early and even so, be prepared for a very long wait to enter Westminster Abbey. Some reviewers claimed to stand in line for an hour, or not quite, because they left before they were allowed inside.
David and I ended up at the Abbey just out sheer necessity. We had several hours until Wicked began, and an afternoon with nothing else planned. We were ready for an hour staring at the old stone walls.
However, 12:30 on a Friday afternoon in November is apparently not a busy time at the venerable church. The line to enter the building was approximately three people long. The audio guide kindly tells people to “keep walking” through narrow points and bottleneck passages, but I found I could linger as long as I wanted around the tombs of Queen Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots, and St Edward the Confessor. Except St. Edward the Confessor’s tomb is on a dais behind King Henry III and a couple other medieval kings. I just had to stare at the tombs in a circular shape, and know the top of the platform was built for the saintly king seven centuries ago.
I love to visit cemeteries and read gravestones, but I try to avoid walking across the graves. It feels disrespectful to me. Yet, here in the abbey, every floor stone is lined with writing. Under the floors are vaults where the former inhabitants and a few national heroes are put for their final resting place. It is impossible to walk through it without walking over graves. I soon did get over the feeling of disrespect because there was so much to read!
I am glad the crowds were manageable, because then I could stop to inspect the stones. Every nook, every inch of floor, and most walls, are filled with tombstones, memorials, markers, commemorations. Charles Darwin, whose plain tombstone simply lists his name and dates, lies a few feet from Ralph Vaughn Williams, whose smaller and newer stone also lists only his name and dates. It was fun to go through and see who I recognised.
Dukes, duchesses,non-monarchs of the royal family. All the names who once would have been well-known now are written in Latin in forgotten alcoves skipped over on the audio tour. But at least when I stumbled in them by accident, I knew they were important people at one time. They have elaborate marble tombs and memorials; statues and likenesses. Gilt or painted decorations.
The floor is also covered with stones, many worn smooth from hundreds of years of monks, worshippers, and tourists. Abbots, organist and choirmasters, headmasters of the school choir, the monks themselves, and even people who worked for the Abbey in any way, were all buried here. Their stones line the cloister and the halls.
600 years ago, a poet and royal bureaucrat rented rooms in the Abbey. When he died, as was customary for their tenants, he was buried in the Abbey. As it turns out this was not just any poet, but Geoffrey Chaucer. Instead of becoming a forgotten book-keeper, he became the first person buried in Poet’s Corner, and immortalised by his Canterbury Tales. Poet’s corner was expanded to included other artists. Now Rudyard Kipling, George Frederick Handel and Laurence Olivier, among others, rest near the former scribe.
In one alcove is a memorial to James Watt, not buried in the Abbey, but commemorated by a “grateful king for his work on the steam engine.” I had recently been studying his steam engines in museums in Scotland, and visiting what remains of his house near Edinburgh, so I was pretty excited to recognise his name.
The grandest tomb in the Abbey does not belong to a king, although George III tried; nor to a queen, although Elisabeth I also tried. One marble carving of an old man holding a scroll, sitting next to a globe, and surrounded by cherubs and clouds is large. Very large. And sits in the middle of the nave, on the right hand of the altar used for daily prayer services. The base of the statue is a foot tall, trying to get in all the important reasons why this man is buried in the Abbey. The tomb marks the grave of no less an imposing figure than Isaac Newton. The weighty tomb does seem fitting for a man who taught the world why the statues will not move unless presented with sufficient force.
Yet, with all the famous people, I found myself drawn to the simple stones. The ones who are not on the audio tour. Faithful worshippers, canons, the names who no longer hold meaning for us. Who were they? Do they still have family come to visit their graves? There are newer graves, of course. I saw a few from the 1980s and 1990s, but what about the stones whose 17th century death date can only just be read? Are they forgotten? In the hubbub to see the grandest tomb in the Abbey, their names and epithets are worn off by millions of feet.
David and I ended up at the Abbey just out sheer necessity. We had several hours until Wicked began, and an afternoon with nothing else planned. We were ready for an hour staring at the old stone walls.
However, 12:30 on a Friday afternoon in November is apparently not a busy time at the venerable church. The line to enter the building was approximately three people long. The audio guide kindly tells people to “keep walking” through narrow points and bottleneck passages, but I found I could linger as long as I wanted around the tombs of Queen Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots, and St Edward the Confessor. Except St. Edward the Confessor’s tomb is on a dais behind King Henry III and a couple other medieval kings. I just had to stare at the tombs in a circular shape, and know the top of the platform was built for the saintly king seven centuries ago.
I love to visit cemeteries and read gravestones, but I try to avoid walking across the graves. It feels disrespectful to me. Yet, here in the abbey, every floor stone is lined with writing. Under the floors are vaults where the former inhabitants and a few national heroes are put for their final resting place. It is impossible to walk through it without walking over graves. I soon did get over the feeling of disrespect because there was so much to read!
I am glad the crowds were manageable, because then I could stop to inspect the stones. Every nook, every inch of floor, and most walls, are filled with tombstones, memorials, markers, commemorations. Charles Darwin, whose plain tombstone simply lists his name and dates, lies a few feet from Ralph Vaughn Williams, whose smaller and newer stone also lists only his name and dates. It was fun to go through and see who I recognised.
Dukes, duchesses,non-monarchs of the royal family. All the names who once would have been well-known now are written in Latin in forgotten alcoves skipped over on the audio tour. But at least when I stumbled in them by accident, I knew they were important people at one time. They have elaborate marble tombs and memorials; statues and likenesses. Gilt or painted decorations.
The floor is also covered with stones, many worn smooth from hundreds of years of monks, worshippers, and tourists. Abbots, organist and choirmasters, headmasters of the school choir, the monks themselves, and even people who worked for the Abbey in any way, were all buried here. Their stones line the cloister and the halls.
600 years ago, a poet and royal bureaucrat rented rooms in the Abbey. When he died, as was customary for their tenants, he was buried in the Abbey. As it turns out this was not just any poet, but Geoffrey Chaucer. Instead of becoming a forgotten book-keeper, he became the first person buried in Poet’s Corner, and immortalised by his Canterbury Tales. Poet’s corner was expanded to included other artists. Now Rudyard Kipling, George Frederick Handel and Laurence Olivier, among others, rest near the former scribe.
In one alcove is a memorial to James Watt, not buried in the Abbey, but commemorated by a “grateful king for his work on the steam engine.” I had recently been studying his steam engines in museums in Scotland, and visiting what remains of his house near Edinburgh, so I was pretty excited to recognise his name.
The grandest tomb in the Abbey does not belong to a king, although George III tried; nor to a queen, although Elisabeth I also tried. One marble carving of an old man holding a scroll, sitting next to a globe, and surrounded by cherubs and clouds is large. Very large. And sits in the middle of the nave, on the right hand of the altar used for daily prayer services. The base of the statue is a foot tall, trying to get in all the important reasons why this man is buried in the Abbey. The tomb marks the grave of no less an imposing figure than Isaac Newton. The weighty tomb does seem fitting for a man who taught the world why the statues will not move unless presented with sufficient force.
Yet, with all the famous people, I found myself drawn to the simple stones. The ones who are not on the audio tour. Faithful worshippers, canons, the names who no longer hold meaning for us. Who were they? Do they still have family come to visit their graves? There are newer graves, of course. I saw a few from the 1980s and 1990s, but what about the stones whose 17th century death date can only just be read? Are they forgotten? In the hubbub to see the grandest tomb in the Abbey, their names and epithets are worn off by millions of feet.
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
November 4: Being a Tourist
We walked from Piccadilly Square to Wesminster Abbey, passing theatres lit with their show advertisements. I longed to take in Phantom of the Opera. However, the reason we were walking to Westminster was because we had seven hours to kill until curtains opened on Wicked at the Apollo Theatre in Victoria, with us in row 6.
Wicked and the Abbey on one day -- what a day! I was looking forward to being a tourist. Museums are my favourite places to visit, but every now and then I have to get out the camera and just be in the way of the locals.
With that in mind, our walk became one large photo opportunity.
At one point along our walk, a crowd of people was gathered at an iron gate. Snapping pictures, I turned to see what it was, but it was a guy on a horse out in front of a museum. Young guy, obviously looking out at the tourists and posing for the camera. Not a palace guard. Though I am not sure why a palace guard would be sitting in front of a museum.
A few blocks later, another crowd gathered. Not as big a crowd. Only vaguely curious, I glances at the fence. Standing just inside the gate were three men in army uniforms, one touting a large gun. Huge -- I don’t know anything about guns, but this one was meant to say, “Step back and no one gets shot.”
What on earth?
I knew we were not at Buckingham Palace, which was my first thought. That’s the American tourist coming out: “I’m in London; must be royalty!” But again, no red coats and fuzzy hats. And these weren’t tourists with their Canons and Nikon, 300mm zoom lenses. These were Londoners, with their cell phones poised and ready, I figured they must have spotted Princess Kate or someone.
The gate covered a long driveway or alley. Then the street sign caught my eye. Not an alley. Downing Street. Looking down the gated street we could see a crowd of men in dark suits. The crowd snapped away, not caring that their cell phones were not going to zoom in enough on this crowd to pick out individual members.
Tourist I was playing, not politics. Not really wanting to bring home photos of politicians, I turned around and saw the most picturesque scene of the London Eye against a backdrop of orange leaves. Here was my moment. Downing Street at my back, autumn in front of me.
Politicians, go about your business, do your work, and by all means, enact fair legislation. Just don’t expect me to photograph it.
Wicked and the Abbey on one day -- what a day! I was looking forward to being a tourist. Museums are my favourite places to visit, but every now and then I have to get out the camera and just be in the way of the locals.
With that in mind, our walk became one large photo opportunity.
At one point along our walk, a crowd of people was gathered at an iron gate. Snapping pictures, I turned to see what it was, but it was a guy on a horse out in front of a museum. Young guy, obviously looking out at the tourists and posing for the camera. Not a palace guard. Though I am not sure why a palace guard would be sitting in front of a museum.
A few blocks later, another crowd gathered. Not as big a crowd. Only vaguely curious, I glances at the fence. Standing just inside the gate were three men in army uniforms, one touting a large gun. Huge -- I don’t know anything about guns, but this one was meant to say, “Step back and no one gets shot.”
What on earth?
I knew we were not at Buckingham Palace, which was my first thought. That’s the American tourist coming out: “I’m in London; must be royalty!” But again, no red coats and fuzzy hats. And these weren’t tourists with their Canons and Nikon, 300mm zoom lenses. These were Londoners, with their cell phones poised and ready, I figured they must have spotted Princess Kate or someone.
The gate covered a long driveway or alley. Then the street sign caught my eye. Not an alley. Downing Street. Looking down the gated street we could see a crowd of men in dark suits. The crowd snapped away, not caring that their cell phones were not going to zoom in enough on this crowd to pick out individual members.
Tourist I was playing, not politics. Not really wanting to bring home photos of politicians, I turned around and saw the most picturesque scene of the London Eye against a backdrop of orange leaves. Here was my moment. Downing Street at my back, autumn in front of me.
Politicians, go about your business, do your work, and by all means, enact fair legislation. Just don’t expect me to photograph it.
Friday, November 04, 2011
November 4: Reminiscing at the British Museum
I remember walking into my fifth grade social studies classroom and seeing my book leaning up the blackboard. I sat in the front row in the aisle next to the window. Throughout class I sat there looking at it, in an attempt to remember leaving with it this time. It was only sitting up there because I had forgotten it in the classroom the day before.
The book, Pharaohs of Ancient Egypt, had a blue cover with a photo of King Tut on the front of it. The cover was worn by this time, I was on at least my second re-read. This was at least a year before writing a sixth-grade tome on mummification in various cultures, but well after declaring to my family I was going to be an archaeologist and travel the world.
One summer I joined the ranks of other wanna-be Egyptologists in a class at College for Kids. I learned how to read hieroglyphics. I marvelled at the Rosetta Stone, and how important it was in learning about the Egyptians of old. I re-read that book (again), and read stories of Jean-François Champollion struggling by mid-night oil over the stone, using the Greek to translate the hieroglyphs.
Walking in to the British Museum brought all the memories and childhood dreams crashing back. The statues, the mummies, the hieroglyphs, and right in the middle of it: the Rosetta Stone. The very stone which change our understanding of history. I walked through the room, breathless. Graceful stone gods, kings, queens. I had not expected them to be so huge. Some life-size statues of the gods seated in tombs. Some larger than life heads sitting up on pedestals, towering over us as we walk through.
Papyrus scrolls, sarcophagi covered in writing, colourful paintings, texts to accompany the dead on to the next life. Cases full of brightly painted death masks. Gold, lapis lazuli. The mummies of cats and other animals.
This all a far cry from my first mummy: A dark wrapped figure in the basement of the local museum when I was ten years old. There was none of the colour. None of the prominence. But, still, all of the excitement. I remember hoping that in a few thousand years, my body could be on display in a museum. I hoped that I could somehow contribute to future generations understanding the time in which I lived.
Life for me lead in other directions than ancient Egypt and the dirt of archeology. Sometimes walking into a place of such excitement; sometimes standing in front of history; sometimes being in the presence of greatness, marvelling at the Rosetta Stone...sometimes I wish it hadn’t.
The book, Pharaohs of Ancient Egypt, had a blue cover with a photo of King Tut on the front of it. The cover was worn by this time, I was on at least my second re-read. This was at least a year before writing a sixth-grade tome on mummification in various cultures, but well after declaring to my family I was going to be an archaeologist and travel the world.
One summer I joined the ranks of other wanna-be Egyptologists in a class at College for Kids. I learned how to read hieroglyphics. I marvelled at the Rosetta Stone, and how important it was in learning about the Egyptians of old. I re-read that book (again), and read stories of Jean-François Champollion struggling by mid-night oil over the stone, using the Greek to translate the hieroglyphs.
Walking in to the British Museum brought all the memories and childhood dreams crashing back. The statues, the mummies, the hieroglyphs, and right in the middle of it: the Rosetta Stone. The very stone which change our understanding of history. I walked through the room, breathless. Graceful stone gods, kings, queens. I had not expected them to be so huge. Some life-size statues of the gods seated in tombs. Some larger than life heads sitting up on pedestals, towering over us as we walk through.
Papyrus scrolls, sarcophagi covered in writing, colourful paintings, texts to accompany the dead on to the next life. Cases full of brightly painted death masks. Gold, lapis lazuli. The mummies of cats and other animals.
This all a far cry from my first mummy: A dark wrapped figure in the basement of the local museum when I was ten years old. There was none of the colour. None of the prominence. But, still, all of the excitement. I remember hoping that in a few thousand years, my body could be on display in a museum. I hoped that I could somehow contribute to future generations understanding the time in which I lived.
Life for me lead in other directions than ancient Egypt and the dirt of archeology. Sometimes walking into a place of such excitement; sometimes standing in front of history; sometimes being in the presence of greatness, marvelling at the Rosetta Stone...sometimes I wish it hadn’t.
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