The Final Year

Well, I’m currently experiencing day two of my trip. It’s really quite incredible. The majority of yesterday was spent at 35,000 feet. I flew from LAX to Chicago, changed planes, flew to Manchester, changed planes, then flew to London. The entire thing took me more than 17 hours, but was 25 hours long if you count the time change. I left at 10:45 am on Sunday the 28 of May, and finally arrived in London at 12:15 pm (local time) the next day. The longest leg, between Chicago and Manchester, was a seven hour slow suffocation between a cold window, some sort of bolted down maintenance box taking up my foot hole, and a 300 lb Air Force grounds crewman strategically shifting his weight throughout the flight to sit more and more on my lap. Getting to my hotel was another story. I knew it was somewhere in the town of Ealing, but really had no idea of how big and confusing that place is. On the google satellite photos it looked really small. Anyway, I fumbled around, tired, sweaty, and covered in luggage for about an hour, but was completely unable to get my bearings. My maps showed Ealing as a dot on the outskirts of London. Finally, I just walked up to the nearest cab I could find and got in. "Wgagnel bward?" he said in my general direction. I broke about every rule of traveling in my response, "Um, I’m really lost, and I don’t know my way around and I need to find Seacrest Street. How much will it cost to take me there?" I could have said "Please take the most convoluted route you can find because you will be able to take all my money." I had £10 (haha this keyboard has a £ key) in my pocket, and knew the $60 I also had would be of no use. "Gagbhe six quid baek bery. Wbark Kenton House?" !! That was my hotel! Holy crap! "Yes, Kenton House! Please take me there." Ealing clearly was not as large as it seemed. Off we flew. From the outside, you’d think his cab was one of those stereotypical london cabs you see in postcards. The interior, however, betrayed its modernity. We weaved down the wrong side of the road, which was carefully built to handle the width of one and a half cars, so at every oncoming vehicle we had to swerve well onto the six inches of pavement that passes for a sidewalk there. After a total of 30 seconds, he pulled into one of the millions of driveways that lined the narrow streets, and I understood that we had arrived. £5.60 showed on the meter, so I concluded that he had not intentionally ripped me off. I gave him the entire £10 note just because I was so incredibly relieved to have arrived at my destination after so many grueling hours. He looked at me strange as I got out, as if he thought I didn’t understand the difference between 6 and 10. I told him thank you and went inside. My room, on the ground floor, has the square footage of a few coffins, but has 12′ ceilings. It is so narrow and tall that you feel strange not standing up. I unpacked, took a shower, and at 3 in the afternoon, I lay down on the bed made of an interesting combination of lumps and sags, and closed my eyes. I opened them again to find that 15 hours had passed. It was now 8 in the morning, and all my jetlag problems were solved. I got ready, ate my continental breakfast, and headed back to town. I was careful to note how the cabby had gotten to my hotel, so I found the Underground station with no trouble. The weather is interesting. Yesterday, it rained on and off, but today it’s just gigantic white and gray clouds covering and uncovering the sun. When the sun is out, it’s 70 degrees. When the clouds are over it, it’s 50. Anyway, I headed to the city and got off at The Monument station, which is underneath a truly humongous monument designed by Christopher Wren to commemorate those who died in the great fire that consumed most of London in 1666. From there, I walked across the London Bridge to the other side of the Thames (jeez, I think that’s how you spell it, I should know). I strolled along the river, through one of the many amazing alleyways that cut through the city, and found a lovely farmer’s market tucked away underneath the next bridge over. I walked past The Clink city jail (I had no idea being thrown in the clink came from this place), emerged again near the river, and to my delight found myself standing in front of none other than the Globe theater, of Shakespeare fame. It was rebuilt eight years ago using strictly the methods and materials of the time, so no power tools, no nails, etc. A tour was leaving in 5 minutes, so I hopped in line. What a delight! There were so many interesting factoids thrown at us. Did you know the word "understand" comes from the group that stands nearest, or "under" the stage, the poorest people, whose views were the only ones unencumbered by pillars and who were often as much a part of the performance as the actors. They were the only ones who truly "understood" the play. Also, famous Shakespearean asides become much more understandable when you realize that the actor would not simply stand towards the audience and recite the line, but would actually go over and ask them, should I kill myself? ("to be or not to be") or some other such thing. And the audience, especially those who understood, would fire back raucous replies, creating more of an interactive experience than how we think of Shakespeare today. A few more feet down the river and I was under the Millennium Bridge, and in front of the Tate Modern. A former electric power station, the museum has tons of public funding, and thus is free to peruse its extensive collection of modern art, spanning from the early impressionists, through cubism etc, and all the way up to some electric fans made entirely of skateboards done last year. They had impressive collections of Dali, Warhol, and Picasso, but I was more fascinated by the strange newer stuff, truly off the wall installations that I actually can’t describe. Anyway, after a couple hours soaking in the art and the remarkable building they are housed in, I set across the bridge. I’m not sure, but it looks like a Santiago Calatrava contraption, with big flat boomerang shaped beams and thick horizontal cables spanning the whole bridge. It looks like a gigantic metal spine arched low across the slow muddy river. On the other side looming gracefully in the sunlight was St. Paul’s cathedral. I wasn’t going to go all the way across, but it beckoned me. First of all, it’s massively huge. I’ve never quite seen anything like it. To think that it was built four hundred years ago is astonishing. I decided I’d better just have a look inside. Well, of course, like everything else in London (’cept the Tate) it cost money. £8 is roughly $16, and more than I would usually pay for access to a church. But this was different, and it was very worth it. Inside looks like where the gold and marble fairies go to die. And they all die by exploding. All over the walls, floors, and unbelievably high ceilings. I can imagine what it must have been like when that place opened for the first time. People must have gone inside and just fallen to the floor. "That’s it. It’s the end of the world. I can die right here, because there’s nothing left to see or do." "Thump," the person behind them says. I picked myself up off the ground and staggered to a nearby chair. I dunno if it was built on a mystical site, or if the giant dome channels god’s energy upon the clergy, but I felt a disturbing tingling in my groin. What that means, I do not claim to know. Perhaps it was divine ecstasy. Anyway, after a while I noticed bobbing heads way (way) up along the bottom edge of the dome. I wanted up. I found a curious opening with a sign saying "532 steps to the top, NO LIFT ACCESS" that sounded promising. I don’t know if you’ve ever walked up 532 continuous spiral steps, but it is quite a workout, especially because after about 15 steps you are so dizzy that every third step moves out from under you and you slam your nose into the butt of the person in front of you. At least I did. That walkway I had seen was only about a third of the way way way up. The top is a round walkway the size of a balance beam that surrounds the outside of the top thingy on the dome about 100,000 feet in the air. They give you space suits before you step outside so you do not pollute the interstellar vacuum with your foul breath. From this vantage point you can see the lights of Las Vegas and the Great Wall of China, including of course most of the city of London, which appears as a speck of concrete dust on the palm of Atlas. Anyway, it’s tall. So, 532 steps later, I was back on the ground floor again, legs shaking, but I decided to keep going down to the crypt. I would like to announce that I stood next to the tomb of King Arthur. Yes, he was there, waving. Okay, I’m not sure if that’s actually where he was buried, but there was a massive stone thing that said his name on it in the center of the crypt, so it must be true. Anyway, I was beat, and needed to sit down somewhere, so I spent the next hour and a half following incomprehensible directions to the nearest internet cafe, "a place called a Kinko’s", whatever that means (that’s how it was always explained to me, and it took all my energy not to laugh at the nice incomprehensible people with their funny voices). Wherever I went today I found Americans. I swear there are more Americans than Britons in London. Ok, so now you’re here with me, and I’m going to go back to my room and eat and sleep. Talk to you soon! -c