Week 10: Why I Came in the First Place

I try to make a habit out of not geeking out very often, but every now and then, I have to indulge my inner nerd. Today was one of those days. Averyl and I took the chance to see the Writing Britain exhibit at the British Library, and it was just stunning. Something I didn't expect to discover while in the U.K. is what makes a good museum or exhibit (believe me, I've seen some terrible ones). I suppose Writing Britain had a leg up on most of the other things I've seen. I've obviously got a natural inclination to the written word, and I often feel a little faint at bookstores because I just enjoy them too much, so seeing books—some really, really, really old books—preserved and displayed beautifully and kept under tighter security than some jewelry stores ... well, let's just say I was happier than a pigeon with a french fry. Er, chip. (My British English is still a disaster. I say "pants" instead of "trousers" daily. No joke.)

When I started thinking about doing a field study in London, I kept thinking, "There has to be something in the water there that produces good writers, because England is just chock-full of them." I wanted to see what this place was that had inspired so many people to write such high quality literature. I mean, this is a relatively small island and yet it's the nation that has produced some of the most inspiring stories ever known. I mean really, what on earth is going on here?

I'm sure there's some kind of scientific or historical or sociological or whatever study that could be done to justify the massive proportion of British writers (and more importantly, outrageously successful British writers) in the whole scheme of world literature, explaining how things involving the climate, politics, health, spirituality, and economic qualities of this small corner of the globe somehow propelled it in literary production. I, however, am not doing that kind of study, nor am I interested in ever trying to possibly do such a one. (If I'm honest, I probably wouldn't even be interested to read anything other than the Spark Notes of that research because it would be an enormous beast of work.)

At any rate, London has left me with something of an enormous question mark: how could this possibly be the inspiration for so many people? Culture shock left me bitter, blaming modern London for being creatively destructive, as well as being filthy, stifling, and tourist-plagued to boot. I saw somewhat in Scotland what I'd hoped to find in London—that sense of the magic, the mystical, the fantastical. That was gratifying, but I still wondered how on earth London could continue to be a creative resource, having clearly lost that magical feeling that seems to be present in so much of the British literature from previous centuries. (I obviously can't comment on the areas of the UK outside of London.) I have so many happy memories of reading these stories, and I felt a little gypped that I wasn't having visions of teenage wizards or orphans coming into inheritances or period romances that could someday be spun into tales that could place my name indelibly among the Literary Gods. 

In all seriousness, my time in London has been so far from skipping around town on cloud nine just because I'm here; it's been a lot of the opposite. I'm not trying to be a downer or anything, because I have had some incredible experiences here and I'm happy a lot of the time, but I've been surprised at how hard it has been to be here. Lack of literary inspiration has been remarkably low on my list of troubles (although, being somewhat involved with one of my classes, it has been a little higher than it would otherwise be). Though it's not a problem, per se, it has been frustrating. I've asked myself, "Why doesn't this city have magic for me the way it has for others? How am I ever going to write my essays for my classes when things have been so difficult and I haven't been running around worshiping London for the past nine weeks?"

This is why I loved Writing Britain so much. (You thought I was never going to get back to it, didn't you?) Writing Britain is very much what it sounds like—an exhibit of how different people have written about Britain, how they've written its very landscape and character into their work, including the city, the country, the water, and London specifically. Not only was it fascinating, I was getting all kinds of nerdy over the various books and manuscripts and things they had on display. But I also loved it for another reason, and that's because I realized I have a lot more in common with those writers than it initially seemed to me, and that maybe I'm not having an overly pessimistic perspective of London after all. 

I realized that writers have been dealing with a Britain that they've seen progressing downhill for literal centuries. To illustrate that, one of the major sections of the exhibit, and the main face of the advertising campaign, was this:

Yes, "Dark Satanic Mills" and a landscape with a bunch of fire in it, emphasizing the hellishness of Britain's dive into the Industrial Revolution. Talk about dark. I started thinking about the stories I loved so well—Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens, North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell, Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy—not all necessarily featuring London, of course, but I think they still count. You know what I realized? These are dark, dark, dark, dark stories. I mean, lovely and beautiful, but not at all ignorant of the injustices and industrialization and injuries that are very much a part of the real world that we live in. They aren't sugar-coated fairy tales by any stretch of the imagination. As for London itself, I began to recall that it is often shown in an unfavorable light—because it's city instead of country, because it's full of seedy characters, because it's filthy. 

As I thought about and read through the different writers' work and experience, I began to realize that many of them were very much like mine—tending towards the melancholy and pessimistic. (Please don't let that make you sad, especially not for me; I'm only explaining this because it's clear to me that these emotions I've been having actually are connecting me to the city and its inhabitants and its history, not driving me away.) I realized that it hadn't been the writers romanticizing the sights and landscapes they were describing; it was me doing the romanticizing, because I didn't understand what this city is truly like. I thought it had been my fault, my pessimism, my homesickness, my culture shock that was unfairly perceiving London and casting it as the villain in my field study story. But that might actually be closer to the truth. 

A couple of hours ago, I ran across a quote that is extremely relevant to this whole subject. It's from Peter Cameron's book, Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You: 

“People who have only good experiences aren’t very interesting. They may be content, and happy after a fashion, but they aren’t very deep. It may seem a misfortune now, and it makes things difficult, but well—it’s easy to feel all the happy, simple stuff. Not that happiness is necessarily simple. But I don’t think you’re going to have a life like that, and I think you’ll be the better for it. The difficult thing is to not be overwhelmed by the bad patches. You must not let them defeat you. You must see them as a gift—a cruel gift, but a gift nonetheless.”

I've begun to realize how much struggling in this city has been a more real, true experience than being a happy-go-lucky student going crazy and having a fun time all the time.

Yes, it's been the grit of the city that has contributed to my challenges; but it's been the very same grit that has forced me to see a side of life that I often like to pretend doesn't exist. As unpleasant as that has been, I think I'm the better for it. 

Maybe what I thought I'd find in London is something that isn't actually there.

Maybe I've found real London after all.

***

This post is done, but I need to take a moment to brag. Today I saw the 1,000 year old Exeter Book. I read text directly from the notes and manuscripts and proofcopies of George Eliot's Middlemarch, Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre, Jane Austen's Persuasion, George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion, Charles Dickens' Hard Times and Our Mutual Friend, Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, Robert Louis Stevenson's Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Thomas Hardy's Far from the Madding Crowd and Tess of the d'Urbervilles (my favorite book!), Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures Underground, and many many more. 

Oh, and I read a section of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone directly from the paper on which J.K. Rowling originally wrote it. It's okay to be jealous, because the fact that I was able to do that is awesome and I would be jealous too if it wasn't me that did it. 

Did I almost burst into tears a few times in the exhibit? Okay, yes. What can I say? I'm a lit nerd. I'll defend myself and close with the words of one of my favorite present-day authors, John Green, whom I have quoted here before: 

"Nerds like us are allowed to be unironically enthusiastic about stuff ... Nerds are allowed to love stuff, like jump-up-and-down-in-the-chair-can't-control-yourself love it. ... When people call people nerds, mostly what they're saying is 'you like stuff.' Which is just not a good insult at all. Like, 'you are too enthusiastic about the miracle of human consciousness'."

"Saying 'I notice you're a nerd' is like saying, 'Hey, I notice that you'd rather be intelligent than be stupid, that you'd rather be thoughtful than vapid, that you believe that there are things that matter more than the arrest record of Lindsay Lohan'." 

Maybe it's okay to fly my nerd flag a little more often. :)

Week 8: Romance & Public Transportation

So because of my A/C adapter going the way of all the earth last week, and then because of our mid-semester retreat to Scotland, this is coming a week after I intended to post it. But whatever. Here's a post from my personal blog, describing a few of my London discoveries:



This past Wednesday night (June 27th), I made a most astonishing discovery. It came upon me as we were walking from The Globe after a particularly risqué performance of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Loathe though I am to admit it, I prefer the Heath Ledger/Julia Stiles interpretation, most especially, now, for the lack of blinding white full-moon-light (if you catch my drift …) involved. At any rate, I think 10 Things I Hate About You injected a fair portion of romance that the original play lacks, and this lack of romance, in combination with the aforementioned moonlight, left me feeling somewhat less than amorous.

You can imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered that London is quite, well … romantic. (Or, as Averyl would put it, “ro-tic,” since there was actually no “man” involved.) We had walked out of the theater and were crossing Millennium Bridge (the one the Death Eaters destroy in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which is how I recognized it) when this enormous and potentially summer-changing discovery occurred. 

Death-Eater-ized Millennium Bridge

Real Millennium Bridge

I should point out that Averyl and I had had a conversation a few hours earlier about how sometimes you want to jump off a bridge, just for the thrill of it, but looking at the Thames quashes that desire almost instantaneously. It’s a foul, filthy, brown river with outrageous quantities of rubbish floating in it. I mean, it is really disgusting. The kind of thing that would make you want to bathe in bleach if you ever accidentally touched it. Visually, it has no redemptive qualities, in my opinion.

Anyways, as I was saying, we were walking over the Thames on Millennium Bridge. It was pretty late, as the play had started at 7:30, so obviously it was dark outside which meant that you couldn’t tell that the river was brown anymore. Instead, all you could see were the reflections of lights on the water, just sparkling all twinkly-like. Each of the bridges were lit up and looking ever so lovely, and the absolute treat of it all was looking at St. Paul’s Cathedral sitting right at the end of the bridge. The way it’s lit up at night is like seeing life in high-definition—by which I mean that when you look at St. Paul’s at night, you feel like you’re seeing more of it, crisper details. Maybe it’s just the fact that my eyes have been afflicted by allergies and my contacts seem to get dirty fairly easily and quickly, so it’s entirely possible that my vision is usually diminished. But that cathedral… Wow. It was a remarkable sight.

Millennium Bridge at night

I suppose this whole thing is a little pathetic. After nearly two months of living here, you would think that I’d have discovered the city’s romantic side. I know that, more often than not, I’m the kind of girl that enjoys romance in movies and books and all, but not in real life because I just can’t get into it without feeling Kraft Mac’n’Cheese “The Cheesiest” … but even still. You’d think you’d be able to drop an English major who lives on a steady entertainment diet of Masterpiece and 19th century novels, and expect her to immediately realize the romantic potential of one of the world’s greatest cities.

But not so! During the daytime, I’ve got a pessimist’s eye for tourists (because, as a 3-month resident, I’m allowed to hate them a little bit) and pigeons (sorry Natalie!) and litter and expense … and frankly I’m getting more than a little tired of having Fifty Shades of Grey coming out of my nose every time I've spent a few hours in the city. (I’m also obviously more than a little judgmental of seeing so many women reading Fifty Shades of Grey on the tube. Shouldn’t they be a little more embarrassed to be reading that filth in public?)

As for my perceptions of the city come nightfall, if I’m ever out alone past dark (which happens very, very rarely), I basically feel like I’m walking through a death trap that’s riddled with people who want to mug, rape, murder, or take me and sell me into an eastern European human trafficking ring. Don’t worry—I’ve imagined the entire spectrum of horrors that could potentially befall me on my five minute walk from the train station to my front door.

Anyways, I’m getting away from my point (as always), so I suppose I’d best get to it: friends, it is a curious coincidence that in the very same week that I discover the truly romantic potential in this enormous city, I should also fall in love.

Yes, it’s true: I have somehow, magically, mysteriously, and beautifully fallen in love …


... with buses.

Oh, boohoo. Don’t pretend to be disappointed and get your pants (that's British English for "underwears") in a twist. Just calm down and let me tell you about buses and why I’m hopelessly in love with them.

London’s double-decker buses are iconic—of this you are almost certainly aware. They’re as “London” as Big Ben and probably the most frequent way of establishing modern London as the setting in a movie. When you get to London, you can’t help but smile the first time you lay eyes on that flashy cherry paint … and sometimes you can’t help it even after you’ve seen hundreds of them. (Not gonna lie, I’m significantly more likely to smile if it comes with a Magic Mike advert. I won’t ever see that movie, but I can guiltlessly enjoy the fruits of the advertising campaign.) They’re just cheery, and since much of London is a generally grayish-brown sort of color, that pop of red is lovely. Plus, red is my favorite color. I’m naturally predisposed to love setting my eyes on them.

I’ve ridden on plenty of buses recently, but during my first month here, I tried to avoid them since they are much slower than the tube, and besides that, expensive, especially considering how long it takes to get anywhere. Because of all this, it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I first got the chance to ride in the front seats on the second deck of the bus. Riding in any of the other seats, even on that second deck, pretty much feels like riding on any lame old bus anywhere. It’s not a big deal at all. The front seats, however, are like a theme park ride. A really slow and lurchy theme park ride, but certainly more exciting than anything else. You’re right up against the glass and you get an awesome view of where you’re going. It’s so much fun to just watch the people down on the street, and the number of times you think you’re going to hit something (or someone) is so high that you almost feel dangerous. Hark back to Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and recall the scene where Harry’s on the Knight Bus, and it squeezes between two double-deckers—you have no idea how accurate of a portrayal that is. Buses are reckless and exciting and I just love them.

Another reason I love buses is that they’re a great way to explore the city without having to walk a million miles. Several weeks ago, I walked twelve and a half miles around London with a hefty backpack and lousy shoes, so I feel qualified to tell you that if you want to really get a good view of London, get a picture of what it looks like and feels like and moves like, you need to spend some time on a bus. Yes, get off every now and then to see the museums and get lunch. (I don’t recommend eating on the bus, both because of the non-optional exchange of hand-sweat from touching the handrails, and because it’s kind of gross to be on public transit and smelling someone else’s lunch, especially if it’s hot and a badly ventilated bus.) By all means, get a closer look. But buses let you see so many interesting things! And they don’t make your feet hurt for days afterwards.

A couple of days ago, I went out searching for this new style of bus that they’ve just developed. I think there’s only one or two in service, and they’re only running on one route right now, but they’re beautiful things. They bring back the old Routemaster style—the kind that lets you hop on the back whenever the bus is stopped, which is something you really come to appreciate after the tenth time you’ve missed a bus by ten seconds and have to wait for another 12 minutes for the next one to come.

Check that back end out. Dat a bootylicious bus right thurr.
...Since I'm being so PC, go watch Beauty and the Beat.

Anyways, I wasn’t bored enough to wait for it to come along the route, so I just got on one of the other buses and took it all the way to the end (though I did catch a few glimpses of this spectre-of-the-transport-gods). I had intended to get off and go to a park to read and work, but then it was raining when I got off so I figured, heck I can read as well on a bus as on a park, so why not get back on? And that’s what I did. I just rode buses around London for a few hours, and it was fabulous. I got to sit in the front seats, and it was a lovely day though I didn't get very much reading done because I was enjoying the ride so much.

I should point out that buses are great for leisurely experiences. They’re absolutely wonderful if you don’t really care where you’re going or when you get anywhere. They are, however, a nightmare if you want to get anywhere at any specific time. Today, for example, we missed our train and so we had to take a bus to another tube stop. (Then I had to take the Underground to an Overground station, take the Overground to get on another Underground line to get to the stop I needed. Talk about your transportation mess.) I was probably on that bus for over half an hour. It was delightfully sweltering outside today which was a grand break from the typical chilly wetness, but the heat is not so delightful when you’re trapped in a metal box with twenty other people. Especially when that box is a single-decker without any of the lovely front seats. If I could have sat in some of those, it would have been much more bearable. Instead, it was a bumpy, lurching oven of body stink that periodically stopped for no reason or person at all. I was not overjoyed because I hate being late, I hate making other people wait for me. It’s a pain in the neck on its own without the added misery of an unpleasant journey.

Perhaps at this point you're thinking me a fool for loving the buses so much. And yet, such is love, is it not? I mean, sometimes you’re just into something that’s great for leisure and entertainment and fun, but not so great for when you’re actually trying to go anywhere with any sort of haste or accomplish anything according to any kind of schedule.

Consider me a hopeless victim of the Transport for London game.

As for the current countdown (which seems to have become customary): exactly four weeks from today I will be back on a plane to the States. I don't know how it's happened, but it has. I've only got a month left. Crazy!!