Ann's Adventures in London!

June? Where have you gone?

2012-06-26T22:17:00.000+01:00

'Um, Ann? Where have you been for the last month? You've disappeared.'

Theatre. I read about theatre. I write about theatre. I think about theatre. And when that's done for the day, sometimes I go to the theatre. And on the weekend? I go to an exhibition of theatre.

In the last month, I've seen three different productions of Shakespeare at the Globe in three different languages: The Comedy of Errors in Dari, Hamlet in Lithuanian, and Henry V in English (less exotic). Next week I'll see The Taming of the Shrew (also in English). To complement these highbrow entertainments, I also saw Noel Coward's Hay Fever (a favourite) and The Mystery of Edwin Drood (I love that show).

Lest you think these will make me far too pretentious (more pretentious), I then saw Rock of Ages - possibly the dumbest show on the planet (even though I do like 80's hair bands). It does acknowledge its own ridiculousness, though. The meta-theatre dialogue where the narrator talks about his role and pulls out a program to show the other characters is priceless.

The two frontrunners in my recent excursions, however, have been One Man, Two Guvnors and Matilda the Musical. Loved, loved, loved both of them. (Matilda is coming to Broadway in 2013, so you'll get your chance to see it, Americans.) Thursday night I'm going to see The Woman in Black - a show I've attempted to see on every trip I've made to London since 2001. This time it's happening. IT'S HAPPENING.

Look at the size of that crowd!

But perhaps the most surprisingly delightful theatre experience lately was West End Live. Last Saturday and Sunday, every single West End musical (there are 39 at present) performed a song or medley for free on stage in Trafalgar Square. I had known this was happening, but had sort of put it out of my mind. One of the things that has really disturbed me this year is how very similar Broadway and the West End look at present. I know there's a whole study that could be done on this dealing with the corporate and capitalist nature of the mainstream theatre industry, but I'm busy with another one at the moment - so I'll register my disappointment with this state of affairs and move along. My neighbour Matthias reminded me of these performances and was quite keen on going, so I figured we might as well.

Matthias fell a little bit in love with Dorothy.

I underestimated the popularity of this idea in London. I find something so heart-warming about having to queue for over half an hour merely to enter the enclosure around Trafalgar Square and stand at the back of a massive crowd all gathered to enjoy musical theatre. Some of the shows (the jukebox musicals) were obvious crowd-pleasers with their flashy performance medleys: Mamma Mia, Thriller Live, Rock of Ages, Jersey Boys, and We Will Rock You all had the crowd moving and singing along with the familiar songs. But the crowd were equally mesmerized by solo performances from Matilda, Billy Elliot, The Wizard of Oz, and The Lion King (not a song from the film). Even when it started pouring rain on Sunday, the crowd gamely put up their umbrellas (brollies) and kept right on singing and dancing. It was really marvellously good fun.

Most of the time these days, I'm occupied with reading (and attempting to write) about The Commodification of Feminism in Contemporary Mainstream American Theatre. Only two weeks left to work here before I get swept back into the distractions of my real life.

Brandon and Sunny's meeting

Side note: theatre is also a useful distraction from the sadness of friends leaving. Instead of sitting in a very quiet dorm, I get to go places with lots of people and singing and dancing. There's a constant balancing act in my head these days between things I'll be really glad to see when I get home and things and people I'll be heartbroken to leave behind in London. When it's a little bit grey and rainy, I tend to lean towards the more melancholy reflections. Yesterday I was delightfully jolted out of that when I got to have dinner with a former student who's here on a summer program through Wheaton. Brandon Wold and I enjoyed fish and chips and conversation, and he helped to remind me of some of the amazing people I'm looking forward to seeing again very soon. (Incidentally, Brandon is also writing a blog of his experiences in England: read it here.)

And a special treat: Andover Theatre peeps on the 2006 trip to London, I took this little video for you. I think you'll know why, even if the quality isn't great.

The woman standing next to me was super impassioned with singing along to this one. Why do Brits love this show so much? (The world may never know.)

Transience

2012-05-25T14:03:00.000+01:00

Spring has always been my favourite season. This is an unfortunate thing for a girl living in Minnesota where spring lasts maybe two and a half days before either a miserable return to a seemingly unending winter or a leap to oppressively unbearable heat. (Sorry, Minnesotans - much of the year your weather is not really my thing.) Growing up in Nebraska, I thought spring was a glorious time of wonderful, fresh smells of new grass and lilacs, coupled with a giddy excitement about school coming to an end in May. (Again, Minnesotans, sorry - keeping kids (and teachers) in school until mid-June is rough.)

In London, I've enjoyed something of a return to my Nebraskan roots and love for spring. Flowers were blooming in early March and I got to enjoy being outdoors much sooner than Minnesota ever allows. Even though we had a relapse to a very grey and rainy April and dreary early May, the weather this week has erased any misery that caused. Sitting in the park eating lunch or reading a play for my dissertation, I recognize my good fortune once again to be in this lovely place.

These days are not without their emotional pitfalls, however. Even though I'll be in London for another few weeks, this most surreal year of my life is nearing its close. Messages from home are coming more frequently and thoughts (of work, classes to prepare, theatre to direct, students to teach, an apartment to find, a cat to reclaim, friends to see, bills to pay, and the like) break into my work more often and insistently than they have done since October. Dissertation pressure is beginning to mount, and I foresee a smothering level of stress in my near future.

Mostly, though, I'm getting a little sad about the lovely people I've met here who will soon no longer be a part of my daily - or even weekly - life. When I thought about spending a year in London, I imagined all the wonderful things I would get to see and do, but I could not have imagined the people who would do so much to shape my time here. Last night a group of my friends got together for the last time before we begin to go our separate ways. Typically, the evening was characterized by laughter rather than sadness, and the talks of philosophy, art, literature, and life didn't suffer because we knew it was the final time. If anything, they became more important.

Sigmund Freud's essay 'On Transience' deals with exactly this idea. He discusses that time limits placed on enjoyment of something should increase its value rather than diminishing it. Because an experience is temporary, we should relish it all the more; many people let the mourning for the impending loss lessen their joy in the present. If you've never read this essay, please do. It's not long, and Freud says all this more eloquently than I can.

Spring's ephemeral nature is partially the cause of my love for it; the first beautiful days after a grey and chilly winter call to me with their blue skies and sunshine, creating an intense longing to make the most of those precious gifts. And part of what I find so precious is knowing that my heady euphoria is entirely temporary as spring flowers and delicate breezes inevitably make way for their heartier summer counterparts.

Tavistock Square

This is how I feel about my stay in London. It was always fated to be of short duration, so appreciating its wonders is that much more important. The friendships I enjoy won't be ending because of physical distance, though they will be materially changed. That does not make them less valuable. I find myself occasionally mourning these changes that will soon come, but the incredible quality of these people and our time together won't allow me to mourn as it happens. In this case, as in the spring, beauty triumphs over transience.

Gordon Square

As I write this, I'm looking out my window over the house where Virginia Woolf lived; I see a perfectly blue sky only marred by a single airplane trail (insert Mrs Dalloway reference here). I'm in the middle of research into representations of females in contemporary mainstream American drama, and I'm about to do some more reading in the park. My work in 21st-century American drama means that I'm rereading Henrik Ibsen's 1879 play A Doll's House today (obviously), and the sunshine is calling me to come out and enjoy it. My hands and ego are a little bruised from falling up some stairs last night (the name Ann means graceful, also obviously), but nothing will diminish my enjoyment of these last weeks in London and this surreal and ephemerally beautiful year.

Mediocrity: A Rant

2012-05-18T23:56:00.000+01:00

I might be an incredibly naïve person.

There are lots of people who wouldn't describe me this way, but those who know me best know that, at heart, I'm an optimist. I do genuinely believe that everything will work out for the best. Sometimes this is incredibly silly and it can be terribly hard to hang onto, but it's the way my brain is wired, so it's what I think.

My childhood was full of people telling me I could do anything I wanted to do, and I can't thank them enough for that now. Even when I wasn't particularly good at something, no one around me would ever discourage my attempt. As an adult, I know the impulse is to protect kids from making fools of themselves - as a teacher I've been guilty of this myself - but as a kid I relished the opportunity to try things for myself. If they didn't work out, well, I generally figured out something about myself or my limitations, but I figured it out on my own.

As an adult, I understand that the world places an incredible premium on money. Those who have it are somehow worth more than those who don't. Let's be honest: I'm a teacher - I don't have all the money, but it's never been what's most important to me. The concept that 'those who can't do, teach'? It's incredibly offensive, and yet it's staring in my face all the time: at parent-teacher conferences, in universities, in a casual conversation with friends or at a bar. 'Oh, you're a teacher? What did you really want to be? A writer? An actress? You're pretty smart. You could make more money doing something else, you know.'

Yes, I do know. I also know that teaching is my gift and my passion. Money is not, and it never has been. If it were, I definitely would have made different choices; I am smart enough for that. Making more money does not inherently make someone smarter, more deserving, more educated, more talented, or more anything, really. Because how did all the major money-makers of the world get to where they are? Someone taught them what they needed to know.

Recently a friend said to me that 'a completely fulfilled life isn't possible' and 'I long ago accepted the mediocrity of my life.' On one hand, it would probably be smart to agree with my friend. Expecting to get the best from all aspects of life is overly optimistic and, probably, unlikely. On the other, this is heartbreaking. I will not accept that mediocrity is what I deserve. I would never expect that for my students or my friends, and I won't expect it for myself. Mediocrity is not what my family raised me to expect. Mediocrity is not what I uprooted myself from a very comfortable life in Minnesota and moved across an ocean to seek. I will not accept that mediocrity is the best I can achieve.

And why should I? There is a point when settling for less is probably the prudent course, but I don't have any idea when that will be for me. I am a teacher because I want to be, and I'm really good at my job. I will continue to look for happiness and fulfilment in all aspects of my life because that's what I deserve. And why would I dare to let anyone tell me differently?

Perhaps I'm naïve. Maybe I'm just stubborn. I know that I can't honestly tell students to pursue their dreams if I don't continue to do it myself. And maybe the refusal to settle will doom me to a life spent alone in the quest of something ... more. I'll be honest; I'd rather that than know I settled for less than I deserve. As a teacher, my students require a better example. As a person, so do I.

Mantra for the Week: Pudding!

2012-05-08T21:14:00.001+01:00

In Thornton Wilder's play The Matchmaker (or the musical version Hello, Dolly! if you prefer), the lovable bumblers Cornelius Hackl and Barnaby Tucker leave Yonkers, NY, where they're supposed to be minding Horace Vandergelder's store, and spend the day in New York City (I think these names are hilarious, by the way). They are afraid they won't know if they're having an adventure or not, so they decide on a code word to let them know: Pudding. For Jill and me, this week was definitely pudding.

Jill and Sunny at Tower Bridge

Jill left this morning and one of her requests on the way to the tube was that I write a blog entry about her time here before she gets home to read it. After taking a three-hour nap, I'm ready to oblige - seriously, this touristy stuff is hard. I know I've said it before, but it's really true.

What have we done in the last week? Just about everything we had time for. The weather didn't much cooperate with her visit - it was pretty grey and rainy the whole week, and the temperature was a bit chilly - but we managed to do a lot of fun things, including some I hadn't done before. Probably my favourite new thing was climbing to the top of St. Paul's Cathedral. Typically I'm loath to pay the admission to get into London's big churches (but as I'm a good guide, we went to both Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's), so I've only been into St. Paul's once before and it was a very quick visit a decade ago. This time, we spent the time (and the £15) to do the tour justice and climbed to the top. Even though it was a pretty dismally cloudy day, the views were spectacular and the cool breeze felt really good after all the steps. A word to the wise: when there are seventeen signs saying 'Watch Your Head', you should do that. Right, Jill?

One view from the top of St. Paul's

Another highlight to the last week was renting a car to drive to Stonehenge and Bath. I'm not going to pretend to describe the whole day. Suffice it to say, getting out of London in morning traffic takes a long, long time; when it's windy and a little rainy, Stonehenge is not the warmest place to be; and there is never enough time in Bath. I think I've been there at least four separate times now, and I always feel rushed and like there's still so much more to see and do. It's such a beautiful city and it's a shame there aren't ever more hours to do it justice. At some point I'm going to have to spend a couple of days there rather than always making it a day trip out of London. We did manage to squeeze in a quick visit to the Jane Austen Centre, though - this is what happens when I'm your tour guide.

At cold and windy Stonehenge

Bath (photo courtesy of Stephanie Sinclair)

Sunny at Stonehenge

Renting a car was a definite adventure, and trying to get it back to London on time was more than we had bargained for. Nonetheless, a successful and hilarious day in the English countryside. What's better than that?

One of my biggest challenges this year is not having a smart phone. I didn't realize how much I unconsciously relied on it until it wasn't there; as Jill put it, we were suddenly living in 1997 again. Jill didn't have a phone at all this week and mine is, well, a not-smart phone. In the spirit of 'pudding', Jill and I left London last weekend for a quick jaunt to Paris. The morning had a somewhat magical start (my alarm didn't go off at 5:45 when I wanted it to and I still managed to wake up by 6:00 so we didn't miss our train), but we were a little less organized leaving for Paris than one might wish. The post-it note with our hotel information spent a lovely weekend alone on my desk in London. So with no way to check email for our hotel information, no GPS or maps with us, and my phone which died on the train, we arrived at the Gare du Nord in Paris. We knew the area of our hotel, so figured out the Metro and guessed which stop to take, found a map that gave two possibilities for our hotel, and picked one. We guessed right.

Although the weekend had a somewhat bumpy start, we had a wonderful time wandering Paris, the Champs-Élysées, visiting the Arc de Triomphe, Sacré Cœur and Montmartre, the Louvre, Notre Dame de Paris, and the Latin Quarter. Even the weather cooperated.

On the Champs-Élysées

You know, I did a report on the Arc de Triomphe in fifth grade.

I spend much of my travelling life on guided tours, usually with students, but the freedom to walk and see things as we chose this last week is much my preference. Although there were still things we wanted to see and do, the flexibility to change plans, sit down for a pint, or enjoy something for an extra hour is so much fun. Additionally, the gift of reconnecting with a childhood friend for a week in two of the world's most fabulous cities is one whose value cannot be overstated. I've been a lucky, lucky girl this year: I have wonderful new friends I adore and with whom I've been able to explore, I live in my favourite city and get to see it every day, and lots of my favourites from home have been able to visit me. Don't get me wrong, I spent my fair share of time thinking about my life in Minnesota this week - partially because Jill and I went to see Singin' in the Rain last night, a show that's made me tense with fear since I directed it in 2004 - and I miss lots of things and people there, but there are no words for how much I love where I am today. Pudding!

More pictures from our week are on Facebook here. The album is public.

A Fleeting Impression and a Request

2012-04-29T22:02:00.001+01:00

There is something inexpressibly melancholic about a single balloon floating away in the sky. When thousands of balloons are released at a sporting event it is joyful, triumphant even. But when there's just one - floating off alone - it seems so sad. Perhaps I'm thinking of the child who lost this balloon and is, even now, looking up at it hopefully, trying to recreate that moment when she let the string slip through her grasp. Obviously the balloon I saw float over the building opposite just now didn't have this story to tell me. I don't know if it was from a child or a couple in love, a birthday or a new car. I only know that, as I saw the solitary balloon floating in the twilight, I felt the wistfulness of lost opportunities.

This melancholy doesn't reflect my mood today, it was just a fleeting impression. On the contrary, I've had a lovely few days enjoying a reprieve from massive deadlines and a mountain of academic work. This weekend has been relatively quiet as I've been getting ready for another visitor from home; my friend Jill is coming to see me and I'm determined to show her a fun time for her first trip to the UK (no pressure). While wandering around my reasonably simple life in London this weekend, I've only had occasional twinges of sadness/joy/regret/pride that I'm missing the opening weekend of Annie, Get Your Gun at Andover High School. There are (right this moment, in fact - there's a matinee happening as I type) students on that stage I've seen grow from the awkwardest of fourteen-year-olds into truly delightful people I'll be proud to continue knowing as they leave high school, and I don't like missing their final shows on a stage that has played an important role in many of their lives. That said, I know they're giving the best performances they can and that they're making me proud from 4,400 or so miles away. Really, they make me proud always, I just happened to think of it today.

To stop the self-indulgent turn this entry has taken, I'll include another picture. This is me and my new/old friend Paddington. (If you've ever been in my classroom, you'll notice the wall behind me is starting to look eerily similar to that wall of playbills...it's apparently my thing.) Isn't he super cute? He and Sunny are friends now, although Paddington's much better-equipped for the never-ending rain London's been enjoying as of late. I've been considering trying to jam my sasquatch-sized feet into those adorable tiny rain boots.

SO, now it's your turn, blog reader. Are there places you'd like me to visit and chronicle on my blog? I've got lots of ideas for Jill's visit next week, but if there's something you want to see and you think I've been remiss in not showing thus far, let me know. I'm delighted to do what I can. I can already promise we'll be making a trip to Stonehenge and Bath...and RENTING A CAR to get there. This is, incidentally, why it's important to always make South African friends in London. They also drive on the left and so are less afraid of turning into oncoming traffic.

That's all for me this final weekend in April (seriously, where on Earth has this year gone? Didn't I just get here?). Let me know if you have any London-y requests for my tour guiding!

Being a Tourist

2012-04-16T00:14:00.000+01:00

You know when you're on a trip to a place you've never been and you feel the urge to see all the sights and do all the things and eat all the food and find all the culture and walk all the places and ... ? You've done this?

Well, I do this. In my heart of hearts, I am a traveller - there are few things I love as much as walking in a new city, smelling its smells and feeling its rhythms. If there are historically interesting sights, so much the better. But occasionally I embrace being a tourist and I can't stop until I see and do everything.

It turns out, even when I live in the city in question, I feel a compulsion to do this. London is a great place to visit, but it's seriously exhausting.

Ex.Haus.Ting.

My family has been visiting me for the last couple of weeks. Because they had been here before, they weren't interested in seeing the 'normal', first-time touristy sights. Instead we went a bunch of places where none of us had ever been, meaning that I was just as rabidly taking in the sights as on my first visit here (when I never put down my camera and didn't see anything that wasn't through a lens). For me, this was a wonderful reminder of why I fell in love with London over a decade ago.

Favourite new place: Kew Gardens. I had honestly never considered going there before - partially because it's in Zone 4 (that means it's both too far for me to walk and an inconvenient amount of time/train-changing on the tube) and I rarely venture beyond Zone 2. In fact, I rarely venture to Zone 2. The neatest thing about living in a dorm again is that the location really couldn't be any better. I won't pretend there aren't drawbacks, but the good far outweighs the bad (of course, I'm only speaking for myself. My neighbours may have a different opinion about sharing a wall with someone who sings show tunes all day). Anyway, Kew Gardens is really lovely (and massive), so if you're interested in plants/climate zones/walking outdoors/looking at pretty things, you should check it out.

Second new destination: the construction for the 2012 Olympics in Stratford. This was also an adventure to get to - mainly because we tried to do it by staying in Zones 1-2 because of the limitations of my parents' travel cards. The stop we wanted is right on the border of Zones 2 and 3, so it meant a little more train-changing to get there, but it also meant more time above ground (we took the light rail). Here's something I can say with a great deal of confidence now that I've lived in London for a while: if you've only ever been a tourist in London you probably know the Underground system pretty well, but that is really not a good way to get to know this city. It took me weeks of living here to figure out some things were only about a seven-minute walk apart but a twenty-minute tube ride. Also, London is better viewed from street level. It's fantastic to pop out of a tube station and have something breathtaking suddenly in front of you (my favourite place to do this is Westminster), but it's so much better to see all the crazy alleys and unexpected bits that are between tube stops. The Olympic construction site, aside from being cold and super windy the day we visited, was also massive (expected) and interesting in the maps and discussions of post-Olympics usage of some of the facilities. When I'm at home (weird that I don't know where that will be...) watching the Olympics on TV this summer, I'll certainly be saying 'Hey! I've been there!' Just wait. You'll hear it.

'We're going to Paris for the day': what you should always be able to say on a random Tuesday. This was a very short, but terribly fun trip. Though I had been to Paris before (best trip ever - ask me about it some time), none of my family had. And though I had been there, the city is so beautiful that I took pictures of the sights all over again. The pictures from both trips will surely look startlingly similar. It was a wonderful day, however, made better by running into one of my favourites in the Musée d'Orsay a week before he came to London to see me.

So how did this London correspondent fare with getting back to her humble student life following a whirlwind of sights and sounds and food and trains? Not well. I promptly got sick and used a whole box of kleenexes in two days. There's also a tiny chance I'm writing this entry to avoid writing an essay.

Moral of the story: being a tourist is exhausting even when it's where you live.

See more of my pictures from my family and friends' visits on Facebook: click HERE for Paris and HERE for London. (I really like the one of me as Paddington Bear.)

Tuppence a Bag

2012-03-24T12:11:00.000+00:00

Earlier this year, Sunny and I went to St. Paul's to see the steps from Mary Poppins where the little old woman would come to feed the birds (see the original post here). Instead we found the Occupy London movement at the beginning of what turned into a more than four month stay.

This was unexpected, but I promised to come back and take a picture of the steps soon. 'Soon' turned into several months as the occupiers were first turned out of Paternoster Square and then evicted from the space around St. Paul's itself. Returning at the end of January, I found this unexpectedly desolate scene of cattle gates and private security guards filling the square as the protesters' area was restricted more and more.

When my friends Mary and Sebastian came to London two weeks ago, St. Paul's was obviously on the list of sights. We arrived and found the space totally returned to normal, as though no protesters had ever been there. Sunny finally got his picture.

Sunny and a little old bird woman at St. Paul's. Wasn't she nice to pose for us?

I have loads more visitors coming in the next month, beginning with my family. Anyone I've met here can probably tell you how much I love London (because I talk about it all the time), and when people ask me what food or 'stuff' from home I miss, I'm hard-pressed to answer. However, I can unequivocally say that there are a lot of important people that I miss and I'm really excited that a few of them are visiting over the coming weeks.

In the mean time, however, I'm going to be very boring and won't be having many adventures. This week I'll be in the library and then shut in my room writing a paper on trauma theory and how it's exhibited in some of Toni Morrison's works (that nifty Shelfari widget at the right of the screen always tells what I'm currently reading if you're interested).

So if you're looking for me, that's where I am - seated in front of a window, staring wistfully out at the lovely Londony springtime.

St. Patrick's Day in Dublin

2012-03-18T18:10:00.000+00:00

Everyone has some sort of life checklist, right? Mine includes an assortment of things, some standard and some more unusual. I wish to

be in Times Square for New Year's Eve.
go to all four tennis grand slam events: the Australian Open, French Open, Wimbledon, and the US Open. (Ask me sometime about when I went to the US Open...and only got to eat a burrito. I'm not counting that.)
go to Brazil for Carnival.
attend both the Summer and Winter Olympics. (I know; two sports-related goals. Weird, right?)
go to Germany for Oktoberfest.
live in a foreign country. (Done.)
travel everywhere else, too. (OK, that's vague, but you get the idea.)

St. Patrick's Cathedral

This week I was lucky enough to cross something off my list: I went to Dublin for St. Patrick's Day. My friends Mary and Sebastian came to London for their spring break, and they kindly invited me to come along to Dublin with them. Who would turn down such an invitation? Not this girl.

St. Patrick's Day is a big deal in many parts of the US. I grew up leaving myself notes for a week before the day so I would remember to wear green and avoid getting pinched (I don't have any idea why that's the custom). But I've always heard that St. Patrick's Day is more of a thing outside Ireland than inside.

This is not true.

St. Patrick's Day is a big deal in Dublin. Droves of tourists descend on the city, all wearing green and buying ridiculous shamrock-themed apparel. Leprechauns pop up on the streets for pictures. Bunches of clover are for sale in the flower stands. Public buildings are lit in green floodlights. Irish flags are everywhere: decorating buildings, hanging in strings across streets, and being worn as capes. The city center came to a standstill on the morning of March 17 as streets were shut down for the parade and vendors appeared every ten feet. Pushing my suitcase through the crowds waiting for the parade (I don't recommend this, by the way), I felt like it was New Year's Eve in London again, but with more green than I think I've ever seen in one place. The amount of merchandise for sale and being worn by more than 90% of the crowd made it look like Disney World, but without the mouse ears. It was a truly astonishing spectacle.

All of that said, it wasn't the energy or the crowds or the parade that grabbed a tiny piece of my heart in Dublin. It was, as I suspected it would be, the music. Being able to find six pubs in a three block radius advertising live Irish music is brilliant. An entire pub singing along to "Molly Malone" is an experience you really can't have anywhere else. I so envy Irish culture's integration of song and poetry into everyday life; America, you lost out on something here.

On March 15 (or St. Patrick's Thursday as it was called...fantastic that the festivities last a whole week), we were in a pub called the Merchant's Arch where we'd also been the night before. (We liked the singer and bought his CD.) It was a bit more crowded than it had been on St. Patrick's Wednesday, so we had to join two men already seated at a table. One of the questions our new friend Paul asked between songs was if any of us could sing. When I said I could, he demanded that I sing for him right then. After I declined (because that's awkward), he asked me

"What's your party piece?"

"Um. My what?"

"Your PARTY PIECE. You know, when you're at a party and everyone gets up to sing something, what do you sing?"

"Paul, do you have a party piece?"

"Of course! Everyone does."

This isn't something Americans do, and I think it's a shame. Paul didn't seem like the singing kind of guy (he led off the conversation with the announcement that he had been a professional footballer and then used his iPhone to look himself up on Wikipedia for me. It was the most desperate attempt at impressing a girl I've seen in a long while.) and he agreed that he can't really do it very well, but he does. Because it's Ireland and everyone sings.

America, when we stole the parts of other cultures we liked best and made them our own, I think we missed out on a good one.

Sunny and Oscar Wilde

It was a joy to be caught up in the songs and writing of Dublin for a few days. The overwhelming presence of so many writers in the city is palpable and it made me feel a little like coming home. Seeing the places that inspired James Joyce, the statue of Oscar Wilde, the cathedral where Jonathan Swift was dean, and the Dublin Writers Museum where all of these are joined with Samuel Beckett, George Bernard Shaw, W.B. Yeats, Seamus Heaney, and so many more, illustrates how important their artistic heritage is to the Irish and what an impact they've had on the world and on me personally.

I look forward to a future trip where I can get out into the countryside and meet more of the people and share in their music and culture. I'll even come up with an answer to that age-old question: "What is your party piece?"

Sunny, Molly Malone, and a leprechaun

Click here to see more of my Dublin photos on Facebook.

A Weekend in Norwich

2012-03-07T12:30:00.003+00:00

When even the London friends I see every couple of days have told me it's time to update my blog, it must be seriously overdue. And because it's a rainy Wednesday morning when I should be at the library (but it's raining and windy and cold...so I don't want to go), now is the time.

(Yes, mom, I'll go to the library this afternoon. I promise.)

Photo courtesy of Floor Mulder

I've done a reasonably decent job of getting around to the different parts of London since I've been here. Central London, anyway--I may have become a bit of a snob about that, but I'm working on broadening the boundaries of my wanderings. What I hadn't done, however, was get to the rest of England. I've been outside London before, several times, but always to the same few touristy destinations with my students. Oxford, Stonehenge, Bath, Windsor Castle...these are tours I could probably give myself now. On my first trip to the UK I ventured to Wales and Canterbury and Edinburgh, but that's been about a decade, so it was time to add a new destination to the list. For the latest jaunt outside London: Norwich.

Norwich Castle

I'll be honest, all I knew about Norwich before going there was Julian of Norwich; I read her book Revelations of Divine Love in college. What I learned is that (a) St. Julian's Church is quite difficult to get to, a classic case of "you can't get there from here", and (b) Norwich is kind of a big deal. It also looks a bit like the storybook version of European cities that lives in my imagination: cobbled streets, narrow alleys, close-set houses, lots of church steeples, and a castle on the hill.

Norwich Cathedral

We only stayed a couple of days, but we did a lot of wandering, including two visits to the castle and the cathedral. The best deal in town: Norwich Castle. Admission is £6, but if you go an hour before closing (4:30 in the winter months), you can "Pop in for a pound." This is a great way to decide if you want to go back. And, I'll tell you right now, you do. Aside from the super fun costumes and puzzles and models of the castle and dragons, there's a pretty cool collection of art, wildlife, and other various items representing England's history. Even though we went two days in a row, we didn't get to see everything and I'd be delighted to get the chance to go back.

Inside Norwich Cathedral

Extra bonus to the trip (besides my friend Stephanie's fabulous cooking): the train takes you past the construction for the Olympics. (If we've met, you probably know of my deep and abiding love for the Olympics.)

Extra-Extra bonus for the blog entry: I have a new favourite Englishy linguistic construction. Yep, favourite with a u. There is a tendency here to end sentences with the word "do" in a way that Americans ... don't. It makes me giggle every time. Example:

"Can I write my essay on Toni Morrison's novel Paradise?"

"Yes, I suppose you can do."

"Would it have been OK for me to write about Don DeLillo instead?"

"Yes, you could have done."

Americans either say "Yes, you can" or "Yes, you can do that." We don't stop in the middle.

Perhaps President Obama should make his campaign slogan "Yes, we still can do."

Two Roads Diverged...

2012-02-16T18:04:00.000+00:00

I'm certain that very few people think of the streets of London when reading Robert Frost's poem "The Road Not Taken." Today, however, I found myself quoting part of it on my rambles through London. There was no class this week, so I've had a bit more free time than normal. Generally I read two novels and lots of associated criticism each week, but with no class I had two weeks to do the work I normally do in one. Granted, both classes assigned novels of 600+ pages for this week, but it's still a more relaxed pace. This week, therefore, I've renewed my commitment to get to know London better.

The last three days I've become a huge fan of the "Epic One-Way Walk." Basically, I walk until I'm too tired to walk anymore, and then I find a bus to take me home. The first day, my friend Ane and I were walking to Paddington for Valentine's Day dinner (if you're curious, Lebanese is the appropriate Valentine's Day food. Ya Hala in Paddington. Totally recommend it.), so we had a specific destination and time frame in mind. Wednesday and Thursday, however, I started walking with no specific stopping place and that's much more fun. I accidentally made it all the way home yesterday (long story involving turning on a street that was heading east when I thought I was still going north...), but today I stopped walking after exploring most of Kensington High Street.

I've taken Robert Frost as my mantra during these walks (and the lady next to me at the crosswalk thought I was crazy when I recited aloud): "Knowing how way leads on to way/I doubted if I should ever come back" (ll. 14-15). When there's something that looks interesting or inviting or quirky or charming or ... I go that way. Yesterday I was sort of searching for a magical square my friend Jeremy and I accidentally found in 2006 (no luck yet), and today I wandered through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. I found the houses lived in by T.S. Eliot, J.S. Mill, Randolph Caldecott, Charles Dickens, and so many more. (If you're curious, there is a map of the blue plaques here, or a searchable database here.) I've found delightful cafes, a lovely theatre bookshop, lots of swans and ducks and dogs, and places where I think "Oh, I've got to remember this and come back." I'm not convinced I'll return to them, but I'm much more confident that I could find them if I wanted to.

Incidentally, sorry for the long break between blog entries. The first few months I was here, I was deliberately searching out interesting experiences to write about and then rushing home to do that writing. But there came a time when I no longer wanted to be a spectator of my life in London and I wanted to live it. Chinese New Year, various plays, folk dancing, so many novels, and meeting wonderful people have been among the highlights. I'll try to update the blog more regularly so you can come along on my adventures, but in the meantime there are more pictures on Facebook (the London albums are public).

New Year's Eve in London

2012-01-01T23:55:00.000+00:00

I found myself facing a conundrum on New Year's Eve: do I stay in and watch London's fireworks on TV or go and stand outside in a mob of people for three hours to watch them in person?

One guess which I picked.

Like most Americans, I grew up seeing Times Square on New Year's Eve, so it seemed silly not to go to the English equivalent when I live so very close. Under normal circumstances, I could walk to the London Eye in about fifteen minutes. On New Year's, it took a little longer than that because of the crowds of people and police searches involved, but it was totally worth it. We left the dorm about 8:15, got to our spot on Victoria Embankment (between the Embankment and Westminster tube stations, if you're interested - closer to Embankment) around 9:00, and settled in to wait. At first there was a lot of jostling and jockeying for position, but by 10:00 or so things solidified and people were packed in enough there wasn't much moving.

For the most part, the crowd was in really good spirits and very friendly. About four minutes after we arrived on the street, I knew we'd made the right decision to go. We also made friends with a very nice couple from Dorking who (sometimes unknowingly) shared their umbrella with me when it started to rain. We were right in front of a speaker, so we could hear the music and the announcer very well, and that made the whole experience super fun. This video shows something of the size of the crowd and the fun atmosphere, though it can't capture all of it (my favorite part is the end).

I feel like I've seen a lot of fireworks in my life. Even ignoring that I grew up in the Fourth of July City, there have been a number of other memorable displays, like the Minneapolis Aquatennial and several trips to Disney World. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, compares to what I saw in London on New Year's Eve. It was so well-conceived, well-coordinated, and overwhelming that I found myself with my jaw literally dropped several times.

This spectacular display was truly an amazing way to usher in the year where London will host the 2012 Olympics and the Queen will celebrate her Diamond Jubilee. I'll be honest, I was speechless for a bit following the fireworks, but only for a bit. Shortly after the fireworks ended, "Auld Lang Syne" began playing on the loudspeakers and the crowd joined hands and sang along - and people here know the words. While I love the tremendous spectacle of fireworks, this lovely moment of crowd unity was my favorite, and I obviously joined in the singing. When the song finished and the crowds started to move, the announcer came on once again to urge our patience and cooperation while leaving the area. In his words, "Start the new year by making a friend; shake a stranger's hand. Be polite and orderly. You're in the UK after all." I just love that.

If you have the time, the BBC's broadcast of the fireworks is here (for the next few days, then the link will expire). This video is eighteen minutes long and captures the fireworks as well as a tv broadcast can do. A shorter version of the fireworks is here; it gives an idea of the size and scope of the display, but it doesn't capture the timing or experience quite as well. At one point, I was sure the London Eye had exploded. I bet you'll see why.

A Field Trip to Norway

2011-12-30T17:26:00.001+00:00

I know, I know. This blog is called Ann's Adventures in London. It seems foolish to be in Europe, however, and not take advantage of the relative closeness of all the fabulous places I've never been and always wanted to visit. First stop: Scandinavia.

I've said it before, but I am super fortunate in the friends I've made in England. My friend Ane invited me to come to Norway at Christmas less than a week after I'd met her, so I obviously took her up on that invitation. We've spent a lot of time together in London, and she studied in New York during her undergrad so she's familiar with the US, but I think the first time we really discussed the cultural difference between our countries was when I was in Norway.

The best way to get to know something about a country is to stay with a family. Ane's family was entirely generous and welcoming to this American girl of Swedish heritage who speaks absolutely zero Norwegian. They did their best to make sure I understood why they did all the things they did, explaining the origins of various parts of their culture. It may just be my experience, but I think this is something we overlook in America. Perhaps my favorite conversation occurred less than an hour after I'd arrived in the Bruasets' home in Ås.

"It's too bad our Christmas tree is against the window so we can't get all the way around it."

"Um. That's OK. Why would we need to go behind it?"

"This way we can't join hands and walk around it and sing."

I don't know about you, but this immediately conjures up for me an image of the Whos down in Whoville. They like Christmas a lot. That evening, however, I learned that in Norway it is a common custom, particularly in households with small children, to join hands and sing Christmas carols around the tree. This strikes me as entirely charming. I think I'll try to import that custom.

(Shortly after this I learned about the princess who talks to horses. Seeing my somewhat startled face, they assured me that this isn't considered normal in Norway.)

In keeping with the theme of learning about culture, Ane took me on a day trip to the town of Strömstad, Sweden. This was the obvious choice for a couple of reasons. 1)My dad's family is from Sweden, and now I can say I've been there. 2)Everything is super expensive in Norway (I actually stopped trying to convert things into dollars because it just made me sad), so Norwegians drive to Sweden to buy things like alcohol, tobacco, and candy. (Nebraskans: it felt to me like those giant fireworks superstores right after crossing into Missouri. Except these were for alcohol and candy.) Strömstad is a really pretty little town on the coast, and it was fun to walk around it. Not much was open because it was December 27 and that apparently still counts as Christmas.

When we realized we weren't going get lunch in Strömstad, we drove back into Norway. On the way back to Ane's home, we stopped in Fredrikstad. We spent an hour or so walking around the Old Town inside the fortress. It's also a pretty little town...with nothing open on December 27 because it's Christmas.

Deserted streets in Fredrikstad

We had a full day of sightseeing planned in Olso the next day, but the weather did not cooperate as well. We went up to Holmenkollen for a beautiful view of the city, but it was so foggy that we couldn't even see the turns we were supposed to take. For this day's adventure in Oslo, however, we had a sweet little dog named Luna with us, and she provided entertainment in the car and enjoyed the stop she got to make at Holmenkollen to run around in the snow. (Incidentally, that's really the only snow I've seen since last winter. There wasn't any in the other parts of Norway or Sweden that I saw.)

Sunny, Ane, and Luna at the museum

The only downside of having Luna with us was that it somewhat limited the places we could go. There aren't a lot of museums or fabulous buildings that really like dogs inside. Fortunately, to continue my cultural education, Ane thought to take me to the Norwegian Folkemuseum. Because there's an outdoor section as well as an indoor, Luna got to walk through part of Norwegian heritage with us. Many of the traditional buildings showing Norway's history had been decorated for Christmas and had information on signs about typical Christmas customs in various parts of the country. I learned, for example, that prior to the rise of Christianity in Norway, the Norse celebrated the solstice in December with ritual beer drinking. With the advent of Christianity, the observance moved a couple of days and became a Christmas celebration...with ritual beer drinking to the baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary.

I've always loved museums that set up period houses and rooms, so this one was totally fascinating. If it had been a nicer day (it periodically rained most of the afternoon), I would have liked to spend longer exploring all the buildings and grounds.

Being able to fly to Norway - or many other places in Europe - in two hours or less is something I still can't quite get over. My visit was far too short; I really would have liked to stay in Norway longer. The country is beautiful and I'd like to see more of it, and the Bruasets were very kind in opening their home to me. The moral of the story is that I learned exactly enough about Norway to want to go back. Probably in the summer.

And since I know you'll ask: no, I didn't take butter with me. Ane and her mom did when they flew home from London earlier in December, though. :)

London Is Good at Christmas

2011-12-24T18:32:00.000+00:00

No, seriously. London is really good at Christmas.

Whether you prefer to spend your December shopping like a crazy, with big splashy attractions, or looking at slightly quirky holiday displays, London is the place for you. PLUS, on December 23 it was 55 degrees and sunny. How do you beat that?

I celebrated with two theatre productions: the perennial holiday favorites "Priscilla Queen of the Desert, the Musical" and "Noises Off." Again, I don't know what could be better.

Earlier in December, a couple of my girlfriends and I spent a delightful afternoon at the London Chocolate Festival at the Southbank Centre. When buying hot chocolate at a festival like this, know that the chocolate is better than anything you've ever had. My first wish was to swim in a giant vat of it (or at least submerge my whole face). But unless you're planning never to look at anything sweet again in your life, I assure you a small cup is enough - or share with your friends. Oof.

When we left the chocolate festival, we stumbled upon a charming German-style Christmas market on the banks of the Thames. Again, if you've ever thought that you really needed to buy anything gingerbread/Christmas/chocolate/sauerkraut-related, I cannot recommend this more highly. The whole atmosphere, including the lights on the trees as it got dark (which it does around 4:00pm), was truly delightful.

If your preference is for more traditional carol singing, there are choirs performing in Trafalgar Square in front of the giant tree every night in December from 5-9 pm.

If you like the idea of a large tree, but you don't really feel like fighting the crowds to stand outside, may I suggest the St. Pancras train station? There's a tree here every year made of...something...and this year it's legos! I love that London embraces its quirky side. While I love my stuffy British period dramas more than (almost) anything, the quirk of the real London is way better.

If, like most people, you really want to celebrate the season with a giant carnival, then Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park is for you. Wait. A giant carnival, did you say? Why, yes I did. There's even a scary drunk-looking Santa-clown in front of the fun house. (See video below!) If you prefer the Christmas market to the scary Santa-clown, Winter Wonderland is still the place for you. Warning: a trip on a Saturday or a Sunday will require all reserves of crowd-patience you have.

But if you're a reasonably poor student, you can still have a delightful time making your own decorations out of paper. A whole room of Christmas fun for £2! And I only super glued myself to a tiny cardinal once!

Happy Holidays to all! Peace, Joy, Love, etc.

A Thanksgiving in London

2011-11-24T15:40:00.001+00:00

What's better than a hand turkey on Thanksgiving? Surely nothing, you might say. Unless it's a Pilgrim-hatted cardinal.

I'll vote for the cardinal.

(Look, I made a hat!)

This is my first Thanksgiving away from family and friends, so, if you'll indulge me, I decided to make my own list to celebrate the day, London-style.

I'm thankful that today it was 55 degrees and sunny in London, and that I got to take a walk in the beautiful autumn leaves.

I'm thankful continuously that I have the opportunity to study here, and that I have a job and a family that allow me to fulfill my dream to live in England.

I'm thankful that I have supportive family and friends at home who have made a tremendous effort to make sure I don't feel lonely or forgotten, both today and all the other days I've been here.

I'm thankful to have found a website streaming the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in real time. Right now there's a marching band playing a medley of "You're a Grand Old Flag" and "Yankee Doodle Dandy."

I'm thankful that my best friend has found love.

I'm thankful that my artistic abilities stretch just far enough to make a tiny Pilgrim hat. (If you don't think it looks like a Pilgrim hat, I'll only accept verbal complaints. What was that? I can't hear you. The Atlantic Ocean's in the way. You can tell me when you come visit.)

I'm thankful for dorky/awesome theatre friends who immediately recognized the Sondheim reference I made at the start of this post.

I'm thankful to see so many amazing things every time I walk out the door that I start to look past them. Can you imagine? So much history, culture, and charm crowded together...I can't even see it all anymore.

I'm thankful that the British Royal Mail is so unreliable that the second half of my birthday present from my sister arrived today and became a lovely Thanksgiving gift.

I'm thankful to have made fantastic friends here who I would never have gotten to meet if I'd stayed at home. There are lots of reasons they're fantastic, but I'll submit this picture (posted by another American in celebration of today) as an obvious one:

Ooh, look! There goes Pikachu in the parade!

I'm thankful that my cat has a good home while I'm gone (Pilgrim kitty made me think of Lucy). And I'll be thankful to get her back next year.

I'm thankful that tonight I get to go to class and discuss both a fascinating poem and a novel that I found truly beautiful. While I sometimes get bogged down in reading, I am constantly grateful to have intellectually stimulating conversations about literature at least twice a week. (Discussing the same novel two-three times a year for a decade doesn't lead to many new ideas, it turns out.) There is so much new literature to read; I'm glad to have the chance to do it.

I'm thankful for my friends and family. I know I said it before, but isn't that what Thanksgiving is all about? The emails, chats, Skype sessions, Facebook messages, tweets, etc. have reminded me that I have wonderful people at home and that technology makes the distance (though not the time difference) much less.

Today I accidentally slept through breakfast (which always means the day begins with profanity - never a good start), and I'll miss the Thanksgiving dinner planned tonight in my dorm because of class (there are enough Americans living here to justify the attempt at it). But spending part of an afternoon collecting leaves bigger than my hand and making a tiny Pilgrim hat isn't too bad. More days should include elements of whimsy. For now, I'll enjoy the rest of the parade with a cup of tea. Happy Thanksgiving to all!

A Celebration

2011-11-11T17:56:00.001+00:00

Today is the opening performance for "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Andover High School.

There is no accomplishment of which I'm prouder than that theatre program - and to all the people who helped it along the way, I'll be eternally grateful. It would be easy at this point to sound a bit melancholy about the amazing experience I'm missing today. Instead, I'm so very excited for all the students involved who I know will be truly fantastic in this show and will keep the theatre thriving. And to the two former students who stepped up to take the reins this year, I couldn't be more proud or delighted. There is no other way I'd have it.

In the spirit of celebration, I'm going to a friend's flat for dinner (rather than moping in my dorm room alone). Andover Theatre, all that you are and will become is in my thoughts tonight and I'll toast to your success.

Break a leg!

A London Patchwork

2011-11-06T21:44:00.000+00:00

Monday: Halloween and the Jack the Ripper Tour.
Tuesday: Christmas Lights turned on in Oxford Street.

Anyone else feel like we skipped November in there? No? Must just be me.

You know when you're walking down a tremendously busy street and you feel a little like cattle being herded? That was Oxford Street on Tuesday as the lights were about to be turned on. While standing in a crush of people, trying not to lose my friend Ane or get trampled, I looked up and saw Eric Whitacre crossing about fifteen feet in front of me. (If you don't know his music, shame on you, but you can find him here.) If you've spent any time in big cities, you know that they are loud, and in this ginormous crowd on Oxford Street, it was especially loud. So when I saw Eric Whitacre, I thought I said "Oh my God, that's Eric Whitacre" at a totally reasonable volume. Judging by his reaction (head snapping around to see me staring with my jaw dropped), I was a little louder than I intended. He was very kind to come over and talk to me, but I'll admit I would rather have shown a bit more poise. There is some comfort in the fact that I'm certainly not the first choir geek to react like that when faced with him.

Saturday was Bonfire Night. This was fun (though we didn't see Guy Fawkes burned in effigy). My favorite thing about spending extended time in London is finding all the cool neighborhoods I have never seen as a tourist. For the fireworks we went to Primrose Hill. There is not an official fireworks show there (but there were a awful lot of unofficial fireworks going off all around us), but the hill offers a really great panoramic view of London so we could see several displays in the distance. People who planned better than we did made an evening out of it, packing picnics, champagne, and the like, but we contented ourselves with going to find dinner after the fireworks (I was actually pretty proud that I thought to bring a blanket). If you don't know the story of Guy Fawkes, this site sums it up pretty succinctly. They also sell shirts: Guy gear and Fawkesy Lady wear. I've been giggling about that for about ten minutes.

Princess Amneris Gold Atlas Sandals
(designed for the Royal Opera, London)

For this weekend's cultural outing, we branched out of the typical museums a bit. Instead we went to "Shoes for Show: the Sculptural Art of High Heels." The only bad thing I have to say about this show is that it wasn't big enough, but with shoes from 1850 through 2011, it was certainly interesting. But perhaps the most interesting part of the day came when we tried to get to the gallery in the first place. Four different train lines were down today for scheduled maintenance, including every line that went to the three closest stops to our destination. We got as close as we could and then walked the rest of the way. London is endlessly fascinating to me: the architectural variety (buildings hundreds of years old next to twenty-first century offices), the diversity of the people, and the charming stretches of shops and restaurants interspersed with the residential areas are just a few of the things I adore. Sometimes I think wistfully of streets laid out on a seemingly logical grid, but the unique possibilities when streets intersect at all manner of angles are fantastic. Today we wandered for a few hours, saw parts of London we've never seen but to which I can't wait to return, visited a gallery show of amazing high heels, found a craft market and vintage clothing sale by accident, and generally enjoyed the fresh air and autumn weather. That is an exhilarating day in a fabulous city.

Fawkesy Lady. Good stuff.

Diagon Alley!

2011-11-01T00:04:00.000+00:00

Unexpected perk of the Jack the Ripper tour: we walked through the alley where many of the exterior shots for Diagon Alley were filmed. The tour guide told us it was coming and I thought "um, ok." But when we walked in I totally geeked out because it was so completely Diagon Alley.

I'll go back during the day and get better pictures. I was simply too excited not to say something about it now.

Oh, and the Jack the Ripper tour? Gruesome. The tour guide has a projector and at various points he projects on the wall or ground sketch artist renderings or actual photographs of the victims where they were found.

After listening to the description of the third woman being sliced and then "splayed open with her intestines drawn out and trailed over her right shoulder," the man behind me whispered (loudly) to his companion "I don't want the verb 'splayed' to ever be used to describe my body." That lightened the appalling scene for me somewhat because I was trying not to laugh, but it was still pretty horrific.

That said, it's a fun tour. I would recommend it. But when the guide says "if you're squeamish you might want to look away," BELIEVE HIM.

Happy Halloween!

2011-10-31T11:28:00.000+00:00

See? I told you Sunny and I would go back to Trafalgar Square after the NFL vacated it. Conveniently, we were going to the National Gallery on Saturday, so we stopped for a little bit to take some pictures first.

I've been fighting a bit of a cold all week so I was perhaps less ambitious with my sightseeing and general wanderings than I would have been. The true downside to this cold was that I was already exhausted when I arrived at the National Gallery with my friends Ane and Floor. The National Gallery has a very extensive collection, ranging from the year 1250 to the 1900s. This is truly too much to see in one day, particularly if you feel as though your head is being smothered by a pillow on that day in question. Because we knew at the outset we weren't going to accomplish the entire collection in one visit, we probably should have been more discerning when we entered and headed to the areas we really wanted to see. Instead we turned left and landed at the chronological beginnings of the collection and art from the 13th, 14th, and 15th centuries. We did our best to power through, but the section of altar pieces really did us in.

This particular work made me giggle for quite some time, however (maybe not the right response). This work is called "The Abduction of Helen." This is a painted "birth tray," given to women in anticipation of or in celebration of childbirth. In this scene, Helen is being carried away by Paris while her companions stand helplessly and elegantly by. (I'll wait a second while you look at it. Let me know when you're ready.)

In my head the scene sounded something like this:

HELEN: Oh, help. Help. I'm being abducted. (sigh)

GENTLEWOMEN: Oh no.

(Figures at the left can't be bothered to turn around)

The lack of emotion and movement from all the figures in this painting made me spend about ten minutes in front of it enjoying the nonsense. I'm also particularly fond of the tremendously out-of-scale boats at the right. Look at that boat with the GIANT man standing in the stern. And how is Paris possibly going to fit into that tiny row boat with Helen?

Anyway, we skipped to the 18th-20th centuries after we had seen enough altar pieces, and we were just in time to hear a discussion of William Hogarth's six painting series, "Marriage A-la-Mode." The subject of the series was easy enough to understand without the explanation: a noble family had fallen on hard times and had to allow a marriage between its daughter and a wealthy, but "new money," merchant. The Earl's family would get a much-needed cash injection and the merchant would gain respectability and, following the Earl's death, a title. The social commentary Hogarth was making would have been entirely lost without the explanation, however. Even the paintings in the background displayed the merchant's daughter's poor taste as she tried to prove her respectability, as did the antiques from which she failed to remove the auction tags. Moral of the story: New Money is always lower class and the mere addition of a title doesn't fix that.

Unfortunately by this point we were pretty well exhausted and all but ran through the rooms with the Impressionists - this will effectively assure our return to the gallery. Not only would I like to spend more time with my old friends Monet, Pissarro, and Seurat, but those rooms were CROWDED. Fighting my way to a decent view of a Van Gogh would have taken much more perseverance than I had patience for at that point. So we'll go back.

Saturday night we went to one of my new favorite places: Gordon's Wine Bar. It is the oldest wine bar in London, established in 1890, and is down in a cellar. Honestly, I felt like I was temporarily living in something from the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World. I realize that's a ridiculous description, but it's all I've got. If you come visit me, I'll take you there. You'll like it.

Now it's Halloween and, while it's not as much of a thing here as it is in the States, the kids in my dorm took the opportunity to have a fairly raucous party and dress up on Saturday. Because I was at the far more civilized wine bar, I missed it, but I got the description from some of the other postgraduate students who live in my hall at brunch Sunday morning. Because it's mostly postgraduate students who live on my floor, this dorm isn't an awful place to live, but there are certain things that remind me how glad I am not to be a teenager anymore. It's just too exhausting.

Tonight, to celebrate Halloween, we're doing the Jack the Ripper tour. I'm pretty excited about it (and you should go to the website - the creepy music is pretty cool).

In the meantime, I'll finish this week's bizarre postmodern novel: Angela Carter's The Passion of New Eve.

Musings of an English Teacher: Thomas Pynchon

2011-10-25T01:09:00.001+01:00

WARNING: Postmodern Literature ahead.

It's no secret: I'm a little bit of a literary snob. Yesterday an 18-year-old who lives in my dorm asked me who some of my favorite authors are. After he had heard my answer he responded with "But those are all school books. Who do you read for fun?" I don't think he believed me that "school books" and "fun" could be the same thing.

The Master's degree I'm working on in London is in Modern and Contemporary Literature. I feel comfortable with Modern Literature, largely because of what I've gotten to teach over the last decade, but Contemporary/Postmodern literature has never been my focus. When I started teaching CIS Literature (College in the Schools: the first-year Literature course at the University of Minnesota) a few years ago, I was woefully behind my new colleagues and had to quickly read fifteen novels that summer, and I feel like I've been playing catch-up ever since.

In pursuing this Master's degree, it's my goal to fill in some of what I feel is lacking from my own experience as a reader. This week's assignment: Thomas Pynchon's second novel The Crying of Lot 49. I've never read any Pynchon before - I've been debating with myself all day whether I own a copy of Gravity's Rainbow; it seems to me it's on my shelf, but I don't know then why I would never have even attempted to read it. I didn't even know that much about Pynchon until today (and I still don't know much about him as a person, but that's apparently the way he prefers it) except that he's appeared on a couple episodes of The Simpsons.

When I finished this novel today, I didn't feel like I knew much more about it than when I started. The opening sentence, which begins in a fairly straightforward and unassuming manner, quickly turns into the labyrinthine prose that characterizes much of the rest of the book: "One summer afternoon Mrs Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware party whose hostess had put perhaps too much kirsch in the fondue to find that she, Oedipa, had been named executor, or she supposed executrix, of the estate of one Pierce Inverarity, a California real estate mogul who had once lost two million dollars in his spare time but still had assets numerous and tangled enough to make the job of sorting it all out more than honorary." "Tangled" is an apt choice in this first sentence; not only does it characterize Inverarity's finances, but also the journey upon which Oedipa is about to embark and Pynchon's language through which it is told. This passage is neither the longest nor the most confusing, however. That (somewhat dubious) distinction belongs to the plot of the play "The Courier's Tragedy" which is narrated twice in the novel. The first time, it is relayed by the members of the band "The Paranoids" (a group with "Beatles haircut[s]" who sing with English accents because their "manager says [they] should"(16-7)) and their girlfriends, all of whom are smoking pot and trying to collaboratively relate the convoluted plot. The second time, Oedipa goes to see the play, and the telling of the plot is no less confusing (and it stretches for seven pages). The most memorable part of the play (though not the scene Oedipa explicitly went to see) occurs right before intermission: one character entices another into "foolishly bending over and putting his head into a curious black box, on the pretext of showing him a pornographic diorama. A steel vice promptly clamps on to the faithless Domenico's head and the box muffles his cries for help. Ercole binds his hands and feet with scarlet silk cords, lets him know who it is he's run afoul of, reaches into the box with a pair of pincers, tears out Domenico's tongue, stabs him a couple of times, pours into the box a beaker of aqua regia, enumerates a list of other goodies, including castration, that Domenico will undergo before he's allowed to die, all amid screams, tongueless attempts to pray, agonized struggles from the victim. With the tongue impaled on his rapier Ercole runs to a burning torch set in the wall, sets the tongue aflame and waving it around like a madman concludes the act by screaming"(45). When the lights go black Oedipa distinctly hears someone else in the audience say "Ick."

Thomas Pynchon is funny, there is absolutely no doubt about that. I laughed aloud several times while reading, but mostly the laughter was coupled with clapping my hand over my mouth in horror/disgust/disbelief. That's the thing about Postmodern fiction: dark humor isn't uncommon, but it comes with a multi-centered narrative, contradictions, and nonlinear movement of plot. While students reading Samuel Beckett would complain that "nothing happens," the opposite is true with The Crying of Lot 49. This book is full of events, characters, clues, and ideas - more than I could keep track of in only one reading, as a matter of fact.

What did I like about this book? First, there were several references to The Great Gatsby (one of those "school books" I find inexplicably "fun"), from subtle comparisons of Pierce Inverarity to Jay Gatsby to more obvious language choices (the "grey dressing of ash" covering the cars Mucho once sold(8)) to the overall theme of wastefulness in America. I was also captivated by the overall thematic idea of Oedipa's journey from a typical suburban housewife to a woman who hopes she's gone crazy and half-heartedly attempts suicide, rather than dealing with some of the things she's learned. Because, as she puts it to herself with some dismay, perhaps Pierce Inverarity's "legacy was America itself"(123).

What was challenging about this text? Many of the things that define Postmodern literature (as problematic as that term is). There are no either/or solutions, rather there's a continuum of both/and. This is a difficult thing to reconcile for a person looking for "the answer" at the end of the book; fortunately, that's not me. I've read enough contemporary literature to know better than that. I think my favorite, and the most telling, passage comes right in the middle of the novel: "Oedipa wondered whether, at the end of this (if it were supposed to end), she too might not be left with only compiled memories of clues, announcements, intimations, but never the central truth itself, which must somehow each time be too bright for her memory to hold; which must always blaze out, destroying its own message irreversibly, leaving an overexposed blank when the ordinary world came back"(66). There are many and varied ideas, there are no direct answers. At the end of that same paragraph Oedipa "saw, for the very first time, how far it might be possible to get lost in this." Ultimately, it is that labyrinth of possibilities in Postmodern fiction which is both intriguing and daunting (or frustrating) for a reader.

The reclusive Thomas Pynchon on The Simpsons

Will I read more of Mr. Pynchon? Absolutely. I am one of those who finds the nonlinear and multi-centered in literature intriguing. This was not my favorite book ever, but I am certainly looking forward to learning more about Pynchon through his work.

In the meantime, I'll head back to the slightly more certain footing of Modern literature.

Birthday and Other Reflections

2011-10-23T20:25:00.002+01:00

This week I had a birthday. On Wednesday, after spending a wonderful afternoon with Sarah Waters' novel The Little Stranger (shortlisted for the 2009 Man Booker Prize; I totally recommend it), I thought about texting some of my friends to meet for a drink after class, but it seemed too late. Instead, my delightful new friends had planned a surprise birthday dinner for me and greeted me at the door singing happy birthday in masks of the royal family. What could have been an anticlimactic day ended up being one of the best I've spent here. I'm reminded constantly how lucky I am to be here and to share my experience with these phenomenal people.

Culture this week? The National Portrait Gallery on Friday. I hadn't ever been there before, but I found it really interesting. The chronological structure to the galleries gives a nice overview of British history and, for this American girl who hasn't covered much of this since college, it was a good refresher. Start at the top floor with the Tudors and work your way down to the 21st century for the best look at the collections. We didn't buy tickets for the special exhibition "The First Actresses," but there was a free extension of it called "The Actress Now" that caught and held my attention for a long time. Including both photographs and paintings, it reminded me just how many of my favorite actresses are British. Particularly amusing for me was reading on so many of the mini-biographies a variation of this sentence: "Known for playing _________ in the Harry Potter movies."

Jane Austen

Wm. Shakespeare

But what struck me most at the National Portrait Gallery was the shift in focus required of the viewer. Generally when I'm at an art museum I'm focused on the artist who created the work, not necessarily the person shown. The Portrait Gallery all but requires your attention to be on the sitter rather than the artist, and I often found myself not paying any attention to the artist's identity at all. It was only when I looked at Andy Warhol's portrait of Elizabeth Taylor that I really recognized what I had been doing. Paying attention to the sitter allowed me to focus on the historical context of the work and the connections between the different subjects of the portraits, but also allowed me to totally overlook the person creating the work. I feel almost like I owe the artists on exhibit another visit so I can pay them more attention. Additionally, portraits have never been my favorite type of art; I'm usually more drawn to scenes from nature or something more abstract. Yet when I found myself faced with portraits so familiar, particularly those of literary figures, it felt a little like coming home. That happens to me a lot in museums: when I suddenly come upon a work I know so well, it gives me a feeling of comfort and contentment, as though all is right with the world. Even though portraits still aren't my favorite, I can't overlook that feeling of sheer satisfaction that came from seeing some of these works in person.

I had planned to get some pictures of Sunny in Trafalgar Square playing with the pigeons while we were there Friday, but instead I found Trafalgar Square had been taken over by the NFL. This was a touch surreal. I've never been a huge NFL fan (growing up in Nebraska requires one to tend toward college football rather than professional), and I had no idea that the Chicago Bears and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers were playing at Wembley Stadium this weekend. Apparently it's a thing (here's the website). There was a fan rally in Trafalgar Square Saturday afternoon including bands, cheerleaders, and food. I did not go. There have been several small things that have made me miss America in the month I've been here, but this wasn't one of them. I'll be honest: I usually turn on a football game on Fall Sunday afternoons, but most of the time I nap on the couch while it's on. Fortunately Trafalgar Square is only about a ten minute walk, so Sunny will have more chances to play with the pigeons.

Living in Bloomsbury is a really wonderful thing: not only is it so central that I can walk almost anywhere I wish, but there's really no reason to leave on a regular basis. Everything I need is right here. Instead of the NFL rally on Saturday, I went to Russell Square to check out the Bloomsbury Festival. The festival took place at several locations within a few minutes of where I live, but I went to Russell Square because so many events were happening there. It was a pretty chilly day yesterday, only about 55 and windy, but Londoners are a hearty people and bundled up to enjoy the cultural events, exhibitions, food, and live music. Probably my favorite part was the Poets' Path. Festival-goers were encouraged to choose three words from three poems of different eras and put them together to make a phrase (sort of like the magnetic poetry I have on my refrigerator); then the phrases were hung from the arbor and people could walk in and amongst them, becoming part of the poetry themselves. Sunny and I didn't create a phrase because there weren't many interesting words left to choose from; they had already been well picked over by the afternoon. Plus, it was really crowded within the arbor with so many people jostling to create phrases and hang them up. It thrilled me in a dorky, English teacher way that an event centered around poetry would be too crowded for me to want to stay and be part of it.

So now I'm 34, I have wonderful friends, and I live in an interesting place where creating poetry is a popular thing to do. What more could I ask for?

Here's something I learned today...

2011-10-17T22:06:00.001+01:00

Apparently this expression is one I've been making for kind of a long time.

(If you're curious, that's Muppet Ann on the right. She's what I would look like if I were blue, dressed like the Statue of Liberty, and still a blonde. She makes the face, too.)

Saturday Wanderings, Part Two

2011-10-17T14:05:00.000+01:00

(Monday update: bank account opened after one more visit to the International Office at school. The poor girl at the bank tried to tell me that the information I had wasn't going to work again, but I think scary Ms Johnson showed up and intimidated her into opening my account anyway. She looked decidedly shaken for the rest of our interaction. Oops.)

After the surprising encounter with the "Occupy London" protest, I crossed the Millenium Bridge (the one the Death Eaters destroyed in the movie version of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince) toward the Globe Theatre and Tate Modern. The Globe's season ended at the beginning of October, but it's available for tours and the gift shop is delightful. I'm glad to have seen two productions at the Globe previously (a very memorable--for most of us (ahem)--"Titus Andronicus" and a somewhat sleep-inducing "Henry VIII"), so I didn't do a tour, but I always like to visit the theatre.

I've always wanted to visit Tate Modern, but it's never fit into a tour schedule when I'm with students. The perception is always that modern art will scare high school students away from museums, but I've found the opposite to be true. The one time I've convinced a tour company to take us to the MOMA in New York, it provided the best opportunities for discussions and opened the door for more discoveries of what art can mean. I was really excited to have an entire afternoon to poke around the Tate Modern by myself, so that if I ever do have the chance to bring students back I'll have some things to say.

Sunny likes Matisse

Every time I have the opportunity to encounter works by artists such as Picasso, Monet, Matisse, Pollock, Warhol, or Lichtenstein in person, I'm thrilled. While seeing them in books can be informative, it's nothing compared to experiencing them in person. The Mark Rothko room took my breath away, and sculptures by Claes Oldenburg simultaneously make me feel happy and a little sad. All of that said, the star of the day for me was an extraordinary exhibition by American artist Taryn Simon.

From a description of the artist's work, partially available on Tate's website:
Tate Modern premieres an important new body of work by the American artist Taryn Simon. A Living Man Declared Dead and Other Chapters was produced over a four-year period (2008-11), during which Simon travelled around the world researching and recording bloodlines and their related stories. In each of the eighteen ‘chapters’ that make up the work, the external forces of territory, power, circumstance or religion collide with the internal forces of psychological and physical inheritance. The subjects documented by Simon include feuding families in Brazil, victims of genocide in Bosnia, the body double of Saddam Hussein’s son Uday, and the living dead in India. Her collection is at once cohesive and arbitrary, mapping the relationships among chance, blood, and other components of fate.

Each work in A Living Man Declared Dead is comprised of three segments. On the left of each chapter are one or more large portrait panels systematically ordering a number of individuals directly related by blood. The sequence of portraits is structured to include the living ascendants and descendants of a single individual. The portraits are followed by a central text panel in which the artist constructs narratives and collects details. On the right are Simon's "footnote images" representing fragmented pieces of the established narratives and providing photographic evidence.

The empty portraits represent living members of a bloodline who could not be photographed. The reasons for these absences are included in the text panels and include imprisonment, military service, dengue fever, and women not granted permission to be photographed for religious and social reasons.

Simon's presentation explores the struggle to determine codes and patterns embedded in the narratives she documents, making them recognisable as variations (versions, renderings, adaptations) of archetypal episodes from the present, past and future. In contrast to the methodical ordering of a bloodline, the central elements of the stories - violence, resilience, corruption and survival - disorient the highly structured appearance of the work. A Living Man Declared Dead and Other Chapters highlights the space between text and image, absence and presence, and order and disorder.

In almost all of the portrait panels, there were several empty spaces for people who could not be included for the reasons listed above. In each of these cases, I found myself returning to these absences as the most important of the family line - particularly when the reason given was "abducted" or "missing, presumed dead." Many of the stories included longer family narratives, like those imprisoned under Francisco Franco's regime for homosexuality, or long-standing feuds between members of a family. One portrait panel included pictures of rabbits in a lab in Australia that had each been injected with a different fatal disease to see the effects - the rabbit is considered an undesirable animal in Australia, to the point where it's no longer an Easter Bunny delivering chocolate eggs to children, it's an Easter Bilby (see this website for the Australian Bilby Appreciation Society, highlighting the Foundation for Rabbit-Free Australia). The "footnote image" for this work was the mass grave of these rabbits who had all died between the time the original portraits were taken and the exhibition.

After so much emphasis on "absence" in the family lines, a very arresting portrait panel for me was one of a family in China where every single member was present. In the family's narrative, the artist noted that she had to appeal to the Chinese government for permission to photograph a family for inclusion and she was told that this was the family she would use. She could not get any details about why this family was chosen and no member of the family had anything to say to her about their lives or personal experiences. In many of the portraits, the absence was the most telling feature about a family and their life. For this portrait, the government-mandated presence of all members seemed somehow more ominous.

The view from the terrace of the cafe.

I couldn't find it in me to write about this part of the Saturday wanderings sooner - there was too much processing I needed to do. I'm still not sure I've done it justice, and I'm not certain I can; this is the type of work one needs to experience on their own and I'm certain I'll head back to this exhibition before it closes at the beginning of January 2012. When I finished with Taryn Simon I bought myself an espresso and sat on the terrace outside the cafe for awhile, because my brain was too saturated to take in anything else.

Because I'm a bit of a glutton for punishment, when I got back to my neighborhood, I - once again - began reading James Joyce's Ulysses. I own two copies of this book, though I've never managed to get through the whole thing. The second copy I bought because I had literally thrown the first copy against the wall in frustration so many times and the binding couldn't hold up to much more; that copy is at school and I read from it as an example of stream-of-consciousness for my students when we cover the Moderns (they always get really mad at it - it's cute). I need to have read a few chunks of this novel by the first week in December for class and, knowing my unsuccessful track record with it, I figured I should start early. Thus far I'm not tempted to throw it against the wall, but I would not be surprised if there's an angry blog post about James Joyce in my future. Regardless, I did my reading in Tavistock Square Garden, the garden in the middle of the square where I live. It's really a lovely spot and I enjoy watching all the people who take the long way around to cut through a garden almost every time they pass one. In the States, I often look at parks as I go by (usually in a car), but I wouldn't go out of my way to walk through one unless I had some extra time. Here, every day I see busy commuters with briefcases, rushing toward the nearest Underground station, who nevertheless take the extra minutes to cut through the garden on their way. Londoners have a special place in their hearts for these gardens - which occur quite often - and it's really lovely to see. I think more city dwellers could use the reminder to take advantage of the green spaces where they find them, and personally, I need the reminder to get out of my car. I glance wistfully when I see a Prius pass me, but I'm very much enjoying the freedom from driving. Regardless, I'm convinced I would fail at driving here - if crossing streets as a pedestrian is difficult, doing it in a car is much more so. I'll leave you with some pictures of Tavistock Square Gardens now. I'm heading out for another bout with Mr. Joyce.

Statue of Ghandi in Tavistock Square Garden

Connaught Hall, where I live.

Saturday Wanderings, Part One

2011-10-15T19:26:00.000+01:00

This morning, after another frustrated attempt to open a bank account in England (another story for another day), Bishop Sunshine Gibbons and I decided we would take a stroll around London. When I've been here as a tourist or leading students, we take the tube because we're usually crunched for time. The result is that I'm super familiar with London's public transportation system, but have really no idea how the different areas of London fit together.

Sunny told me this morning that he really wanted to see the spot from Mary Poppins where the little old bird woman comes to "Feed the Birds." Tuppence a bag. Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag. (Are you singing with me now?) So I set off to St. Paul's, singing show tunes, and taking charming, British-y pictures along the way. The closer I got to the cathedral, however, the more police I saw. When I arrived, I found myself in the middle of the London branch of the now-global Occupy Movement. The protesters had already gathered and the police were just converging. Sunny and I realized pretty quickly that we weren't going to get our picture with the steps today, so we thought about seeing the inside of the cathedral. As I started to weave my way through the protesters on the steps, I glanced behind me. The police had cordoned off the area and weren't letting anyone in or out, nor were they letting any traffic through on the roads around the square. While I had planned on spending the afternoon in and around St. Paul's, suddenly it seemed like a better idea to try to get out of there. I pulled out my camera and my most American sounding accent and batted my eyes at the nearest policeman who let me through after a minute or so. I did hang around a little longer to see if anything developed (behind police lines), but the police started letting people leave if they wished and not much happened. This BBC News version is pretty much what I saw happen.

This was an unexpectedly exciting start to our day, but we continued on to other nearby destinations.

Sunny still really likes St. Paul's. He'll feed the birds next time.

If you want to see more of my pictures, check out the London album on Facebook. (Ann Celeste Johnson) I've made it public.

Update: (Oct 26) When I walked into Occupy London, it was at the very beginning of their occupation of St. Paul Cathedral Square. There was no true "occupation" yet. That has changed in the last couple of weeks, as this clip from NBC's Today Show demonstrates.

Musings of an English Teacher: Samuel Beckett

2011-10-10T20:43:00.000+01:00

WARNING: Literary references abound in this one. Be prepared.

Sometimes, I'm pretty sure English teachers assign things because it's hilarious for them to watch their students get wildly angry at a text. I'll admit it: part of the reason I insist on teaching The Scarlet Letter is because the struggle is hilarious for me. I've been told this makes me a sadist, but I'm okay with it; I'm convinced I'm not alone here. The best way to improve reading skills is to encounter and overcome the challenges in a difficult text, after all. Nathaniel Hawthorne is not the most difficult author a student will ever encounter, particularly if that student intends to pursue their studies to college or beyond.

That said, I remember the days when I was that high school student really angry at my English (or occasionally Social Studies) teachers for assigning us something that seemed so deliberately obscure as to make me want to blow up my head. The first time I had such a violent response to a work was in my AP Literature class as a senior. The text: Samuel Beckett's "Waiting for Godot."

This play made my whole class angrily question the purpose of reading it. From Estragon's first line: "Nothing to be done," we should have felt our impending doom. Shortly thereafter, we witnessed the first instance of Vladimir and Estragon's common refrain:

ESTRAGON: Let's go.
VLADIMIR: We can't.
ESTRAGON: Why not?
VLADIMIR: We're waiting for Godot.

Because this conversation recurs in various forms countless times throughout the play (fine, they could be counted, I'm just not going to do it here), it obviously leant itself to parodies and became our symbol for hopeless causes through the rest of the year. It's not my goal to ruin this masterpiece of absurdist theatre for you here. Suffice it to say that both Act I and Act II end with this sequence:

VLADIMIR: Well? Shall we go?
ESTRAGON: Yes, let's go.
They do not move.

For high school seniors who are always looking for something to "happen" during a play or novel, this was bound to lead to ... frustration. (Andover Theatre people, I hope you recognize these lines that were parodied in Don Zolidis' hilarious one act "!Artistic Inspiration." Symbolism, Symbolism, Symbolism!)

In my undergraduate time at St. Olaf, the Beckett I ran up against was "Krapp's Last Tape." I remember being only marginally less frustrated--partially because I knew what to expect, and partially because we read the play before going to see a production of it at the Guthrie Theater. Seeing absurdist theatre is a much better experience than merely reading it, but I still was not a tremendous fan.

And now, in graduate school, Mr. Beckett has reentered my life but in prose form. For class this week we're reading First Love and Other Novellas. I'll admit that as a more mature reader I now see the humor in Beckett and I was only tempted to throw the book at something once (that one of the four novellas is going to get another read later this week. I gave up.), and I really did laugh--or at least chortle--aloud in the library today. From talking about how children and "all their foul little happiness" deserve their own sidewalks on busy streets to keep them out of everyone else's way, to tripping an old woman and responding with "I had high hopes she had broken her femur, old ladies break their femur easily," the irreverence with which Beckett's nameless narrators treat other humans perfectly fit my somewhat angry mood today(38).

That is not to say that I found unbridled delight with reading Beckett this time. Particularly, two of his sentences brought back the old "I want my head to blow up" feeling, both of them from the novella "First Love": "For when one is one knows what to do to be less so, whereas when one is not one is any old one irredeemably,"(70) and "It had something to do with lemon trees, or orange trees, I forget, that is all I remember, and for me that is no mean feat, to remember it had something to do with lemon trees, or orange trees, I forget, for of all the other songs I have ever heard in my life, and I have heard plenty, it being apparently impossible, physically impossible short of being deaf, to get through this world, even my way, without hearing singing, I have retained nothing, not a word, not a note, or so few words, so few notes, that, that what, that nothing, this sentence has gone on long enough"(76). The first sentence made me involuntarily twitch and reread it six times. The second made me laugh, but I still had to rest my head on the desk for a few moments afterwards. (If you're curious, it was "The Calmative" that did me in--probably because it was the fourth piece of Beckett's I tried to read in a row. My limit is apparently three.)

I still felt frustration with my reading this afternoon, but this quote about Beckett by playwright Harold Pinter opened my eyes to some things:

The farther he goes the more good it does me. I don’t want philosophies, tracts, dogmas, creeds, ways out, truths, answers, nothing from the bargain basement. He is the most courageous, remorseless writer going and the more he grinds my nose in the shit the more I am grateful to him. He’s not f---ing me about, he’s not leading me up any garden path, he’s not slipping me a wink, he’s not flogging me a remedy or a path or a revelation or a basinful of breadcrumbs, he’s not selling me anything I don’t want to buy — he doesn’t give a bollock whether I buy or not — he hasn’t got his hand over his heart. Well, I’ll buy his goods, hook, line and sinker, because he leaves no stone unturned and no maggot lonely. He brings forth a body of beauty.
His work is beautiful.

There are so many horrific, truthful, agonizing, and beautiful--to borrow Pinter's word--beautiful descriptions in Beckett that I was sorry to have missed them before. They are never descriptions of beautiful things; Samuel Beckett does not deal with happy people generally, but they are people who are so totally isolated and alienated from their society that a reader cannot help but be emotionally moved by their plight. I still think Beckett's language has a tendency toward obfuscation, but I'm willing to forgive him much more of this now.

This morning I was extraordinarily angry at the library's website, various online databases, Amazon's Kindle store, and having to walk to a bookstore to buy an actual copy of a book. My anger was not least because, after spending three hours looking for a particular article in seventeen different places online through the University of London and the University of Minnesota and even checking four London libraries for the hard copy of that journal, I found that article in five seconds when I typed it into Google. Google! (I'm hoping none of my students are still reading, since I yell at them for doing precisely this.) At the end of the day, I'm glad I found the article I needed online, but mad about the three hours I could have used more productively. And I'm glad Samuel Beckett and I have reached an uneasy truce. We'll see if the ceasefire lasts through class discussion on Thursday.

First Week of Classes

2011-10-08T22:31:00.000+01:00

Gordon Square, right by my dorm. Sometimes I read here.

I've learned several new things this week (and relearned several old things, too):

I love the sparkly, rainbow bubbles of my screen saver. Honestly, I hate to move the mouse to disturb their frolicking, but I know that if I wait 60 seconds, they'll be back.

Being a full time student again is fun. Don't get me wrong; college was fun the first time. Saint Olaf will always have a special place in my heart. I also enjoyed my time at the University of Minnesota, but working full time (much more than full time, usually) while going to school doesn't exactly lend itself to all of the experiences college can mean. I was not able to devote enough time to my courses nor to the social aspects of being a student.

This time I'm doing a better job. First of all, I know myself and my work ethic better. I'm really interested in what I'm studying now, so I don't mind doing the hours and hours of reading every day (I'm already planning on talking more about my reading in future posts, so I won't bore you with it now. If you're curious, I'll send you an exhaustive summary of what I've learned this week). Additionally, after years of reminiscing about college and listening to "Avenue Q" sing about all its wonderful aspects, I'm doing a better job with the social parts, too. Too often at St. Olaf, especially freshman year, I didn't take all the opportunities as they came. Maybe I was shy, maybe I was homesick...whatever the reason, things passed me by which I later came to regret. Hindsight is 20/20, after all; at 33 I'm unlikely to make those mistakes. Suffice it to say: college is fun.

Currently I'm in the midst of a phone crisis. For years, my phone has been my only source of the internets away from work, so I'm attached to it all the time. It's always in my hand, on the table, on the back of the couch, by my bed: never out of arm's reach, in other words. In London I don't have a smart phone. I have a phone remarkably similar to the first one I got in 2001, and I'm having to relearn to text without a full keyboard (and no T9 function--this phone can do that for Spanish and French, not for English). I have learned my number--you're welcome to call me--but mostly I give it to people to text me. It's been the strangest cultural experience for me, and I'm waiting to feel liberated from technology. Mostly I feel cut off from the world and inconvenienced. I'm sure the sense of liberation will come. Won't it?

Museums should always be free. London is an expensive city, no two ways about that, but I think they have several of their priorities correct. Yesterday my Norwegian friend Ane and I went to the British Museum for a few hours. I've been there twice before on previous trips: neither time was very successful. The first time the fire alarms went off about 10 minutes after we arrived so we had to leave. The second time I had a monster headache, and it's hard to be interested in learning when you're considering self-decapitation. When Ane suggested the British Museum, I agreed immediately, but not with an overwhelming excitement. Mostly my associations with it aren't the best. Yesterday, however, all that changed. First of all, there was no pressure to see everything in the museum in one shot: it's a six minute walk from my dorm to the museum. Because it's free, I can and will go back. We spent some time in the Ancient Egypt and Ancient Greece and Rome sections and then decided to save most everything else for another day; there was a nearby Mediterranean restaurant beckoning us for linner (Get it? Lunch/dinner? You got it). I'm super excited to have the time to go to the other museums and galleries over the next year at my leisure.

When I got home from linner yesterday, there was a new friend request waiting for me on Facebook. It was from a former student at Andover who graduated three years ago, and it came with this message: "Are you in London? I think I just saw you at the British Museum, but when I did a double-take, you were gone." This world is amazing and vast, but incidents like this remind me of how very tiny it is, too. I know I made this point last week, but we are much more similar to each other than we are different, and, clearly, we're much closer than we think.

Medals for the 2012 London Olympics

My new Canadian friend Justin said something last week that I've been pondering since: cities have moments when things are happening and moving there, and they have moments when they feel a bit stagnant. This is London's moment. Really, this city is the place to be. So many things are happening and upcoming, it is really startling. This relates to what I've been reading about the beginnings of the Modernism movement in literature in the nineteenth century (again, if you want to know, I have things to say), and this city feels like the place to be in the twenty-first century. The Olympics in 2012 (the medals are on display at the British Museum) are only one very obvious example. Walking down the street today, I was stunned again by the beauty of this city. I said aloud "Wow, I live here" while walking (alone), and I'm convince the guy next to me thought I was crazy; it's a small price to pay.

Really, come visit. Things are happening here.

Addendum: Two minutes after I finished typing this I got a very exciting text on my crappy, crappy phone. Congrats to two of my very favorite people! Tyler and Katie, I know you'll be amazing parents! Ethan is one lucky kid!