June 15th – It’s the first day I wake up feeling normal, like I haven’t just started a shift on nights. I’m accused by Sarah, many times today, of being bored by London. It’s not true; I like it quite a bit. But I’m not ass over teakettle in love with it either—it’s just too familiar for that. If you’d asked me ten years ago—before I’d traveled anywhere—what country I’d like to visit first, I would have said London in a second. But I’ve seen more extraordinary places since then: towns built into the side of a mountain, a city where paramedics use a boat for an ambulance—London isn’t that incredible in comparison. And with the terrible exchange rate, in addition to the fact that you spend a pound like you do a dollar, it’s hard to forget that time in London is spent hemorrhaging money.
Westminster Abbey is the first major stop of the day. Ancient, huge, gothic, and crowded, the Abbey is the final resting place of kings, queens, soldiers, literary giants, the occasional actor, and miscellaneous inconsequential gentry. Seriously; in one room you have the somewhat modest tomb of Elizabeth I, then you turn the corner and run headlong into a structure—ten feet long, fifteen feet tall, and hoisted aloft by a flock of cherubs—that marks the grave of Joseph Cochrane, Earl of Dundonalin, Overseer of the Fabric. It’s an amazing building but it’s packed to the gills, to the point where Olivier had to be cremated so they could tuck him into a tiny square near Poet’s Corner.
Took a long hike next that brought us to Buckingham Palace again (no motorcades this time), then we cruised through Covent Garden (which, in the way that Piccadilly Circus isn’t actually a circus, isn’t actually a garden), and ended up in the National Portrait Gallery. The gallery is divided into three sections—1400 to 1900, 1900 – 1990, and 1990 to present (approximately). We spend most of our time and energy in the oldest section, and much like Westminster Abbey, you get royalty one minute… then random aristocracy the next. True to form, we crap out nearly the end, but a rush through the modern section is worth the effort for interesting portraits of J.K. Rowling, Michael Ondaatje (who the Brits claim as their own), and most notably, the David Beckham portrait—which is actually a sixty-seven minute video of him taking a nap. (Popular stop, that.)
June 16th – We plan to hit the British Library first this morning, but it doesn’t open until 10 and the underground is all jacked up, so we take the long route—by bus. Double decker, I’m on the upper level over the driver, and it’s fucking scary. It’s the first time I really pay attention to the driving, and it’s the darting pedestrians—dumb tourists or ballsy locals—that make the driving so unnerving. But I notice that Brits use their horns a little differently. We’re all, “HOOOOONK! Watch out, numb nuts! I will run your ass the shit over!” Whereas here, the horn is used as it’s meant to: for your sake. Pardon me. Do mind the vehicle, sir; she’s got a bit more weight behind her then you do and if some kind of collision were to occur I’m afraid you’d come out a bit worse for it than she would. That’s right. Double time. Safely along.
We don’t wander the stacks of the British Library, instead we hone in on two exhibits: one featuring antiquities and historic documents, and another on newspapers. I think that summarizing an experience by way of list is a bit lazy, but in the case of the antiquities exhibit I think it works very well. We saw: innumerable ancient holy books, surviving copies of the Magna Carta, DiVinci’s notebook, a handwritten, satirical history of Britain by Jane Austen, James Joyce’s totally fucked up notebook for Finnegan’s Wake, sheet music from Handel and Beethoven, Beatles lyrics scrawled by their authors on napkins—that’s just a taste of it. The newspaper exhibit was also worth the visit, particularly because of a feature where you can create your own printable front page, in whichever legitimate news vehicle or horrid tabloid you’d like. (One of our headlines dealt with a new medication for HIV. The other: Which Celebrity Has The Best Cleavage?)
The British Museum was next, and we only spent enough time in it to catch a feel for it. Saw the Rosetta Stone, an artefact discovered by the French army in 1799 that helped unlock Egyptian hieroglyphics for to scholars of the time. In my head, I’d always pictured it as a key code—Eye = A, Raven = B, Three Wavy Lines = C—but it’s actually a proclamation by Ptolemy V written in three languages: hieroglyphics, democratic Egyptian, and Greek. The last time Sarah was at the museum, the Rosetta Stone was unprotected, right out there in the open for you to lick (if that’s your thing.) Now it’s under glass, probably to prevent further lick-related wear. Along with the Rosetta Stone, the museum has an extensive collection of ancient artefacts stolen from other cultures—broken statue pieces from the Acropolis, for example. That exhibit is accompanied by an exceptionally lame pamphlet outlining the museum’s position on why they won’t return these items to Greece, which has something to do with how the artefacts help tell a story and that their absence would disrupt the continuity. L-A-M-E. If you just don't want to give it back then don't bother with the pamplet. Or better still, make a pamplet says, "Dear Greece, we know this shit is yours but we don't want to give it back. There's no good reason why: we just don't, so fuck off about it."
Westminster Abbey is the first major stop of the day. Ancient, huge, gothic, and crowded, the Abbey is the final resting place of kings, queens, soldiers, literary giants, the occasional actor, and miscellaneous inconsequential gentry. Seriously; in one room you have the somewhat modest tomb of Elizabeth I, then you turn the corner and run headlong into a structure—ten feet long, fifteen feet tall, and hoisted aloft by a flock of cherubs—that marks the grave of Joseph Cochrane, Earl of Dundonalin, Overseer of the Fabric. It’s an amazing building but it’s packed to the gills, to the point where Olivier had to be cremated so they could tuck him into a tiny square near Poet’s Corner.Took a long hike next that brought us to Buckingham Palace again (no motorcades this time), then we cruised through Covent Garden (which, in the way that Piccadilly Circus isn’t actually a circus, isn’t actually a garden), and ended up in the National Portrait Gallery. The gallery is divided into three sections—1400 to 1900, 1900 – 1990, and 1990 to present (approximately). We spend most of our time and energy in the oldest section, and much like Westminster Abbey, you get royalty one minute… then random aristocracy the next. True to form, we crap out nearly the end, but a rush through the modern section is worth the effort for interesting portraits of J.K. Rowling, Michael Ondaatje (who the Brits claim as their own), and most notably, the David Beckham portrait—which is actually a sixty-seven minute video of him taking a nap. (Popular stop, that.)
June 16th – We plan to hit the British Library first this morning, but it doesn’t open until 10 and the underground is all jacked up, so we take the long route—by bus. Double decker, I’m on the upper level over the driver, and it’s fucking scary. It’s the first time I really pay attention to the driving, and it’s the darting pedestrians—dumb tourists or ballsy locals—that make the driving so unnerving. But I notice that Brits use their horns a little differently. We’re all, “HOOOOONK! Watch out, numb nuts! I will run your ass the shit over!” Whereas here, the horn is used as it’s meant to: for your sake. Pardon me. Do mind the vehicle, sir; she’s got a bit more weight behind her then you do and if some kind of collision were to occur I’m afraid you’d come out a bit worse for it than she would. That’s right. Double time. Safely along.
We don’t wander the stacks of the British Library, instead we hone in on two exhibits: one featuring antiquities and historic documents, and another on newspapers. I think that summarizing an experience by way of list is a bit lazy, but in the case of the antiquities exhibit I think it works very well. We saw: innumerable ancient holy books, surviving copies of the Magna Carta, DiVinci’s notebook, a handwritten, satirical history of Britain by Jane Austen, James Joyce’s totally fucked up notebook for Finnegan’s Wake, sheet music from Handel and Beethoven, Beatles lyrics scrawled by their authors on napkins—that’s just a taste of it. The newspaper exhibit was also worth the visit, particularly because of a feature where you can create your own printable front page, in whichever legitimate news vehicle or horrid tabloid you’d like. (One of our headlines dealt with a new medication for HIV. The other: Which Celebrity Has The Best Cleavage?)
Most aptly named beer consumed during three weeks abroad: Theakston’s Old Peculiar
The British Museum was next, and we only spent enough time in it to catch a feel for it. Saw the Rosetta Stone, an artefact discovered by the French army in 1799 that helped unlock Egyptian hieroglyphics for to scholars of the time. In my head, I’d always pictured it as a key code—Eye = A, Raven = B, Three Wavy Lines = C—but it’s actually a proclamation by Ptolemy V written in three languages: hieroglyphics, democratic Egyptian, and Greek. The last time Sarah was at the museum, the Rosetta Stone was unprotected, right out there in the open for you to lick (if that’s your thing.) Now it’s under glass, probably to prevent further lick-related wear. Along with the Rosetta Stone, the museum has an extensive collection of ancient artefacts stolen from other cultures—broken statue pieces from the Acropolis, for example. That exhibit is accompanied by an exceptionally lame pamphlet outlining the museum’s position on why they won’t return these items to Greece, which has something to do with how the artefacts help tell a story and that their absence would disrupt the continuity. L-A-M-E. If you just don't want to give it back then don't bother with the pamplet. Or better still, make a pamplet says, "Dear Greece, we know this shit is yours but we don't want to give it back. There's no good reason why: we just don't, so fuck off about it."
Comments
I like the fact that you're slowly starting to type with an accent, if that's at all possible.
I also like the lengths you go to to try beers that i will never get my lips on.
Bastard.
That's the funniest fucking thing I've ever read.
:-)
Just kidding! It sounds FABULOUS.