Register 5

There are times, neither predictable nor regular, when I am overcome by an overwhelming sense of petty awareness and directional anemia. Everything comes into painful focus, and I am forced to evaluate my every action on the basis of its eternal worth. Trouble is, this sensation is unaccompanied by any strong feelings of resolution or resolve to compensate for the sudden heaviness of my existence. Tonight, for instance, I stood in front of a wall of lettuce for ten minutes debating whether or not I needed two bags or one. I’m using my parents’ money to buy this I reasoned, so it’s not like I’m incurring the financial deficit of this decision. Still, it would be a shame to let lettuce go to waste if I didn’t eat it fast enough or simply forgot about it in the fridge. On the other hand, what if I became ravenously hungry for salad over the next few days? Wouldn’t I be annoyed with myself for only getting one meager bag? Maybe if I get two I’ll be forced to eat more salad, if not for the sake of health then from the dread of being a wasteful slob. There were worse things than force-feeing oneself salad, right? I decided to give myself a chance for greatness, a chance to excel both in nutrition and sustainability; I got two bags. Naturally, the next item of interest was salad dressing. My perusing of the appropriate isle yielded a very disturbing result. I couldn’t find my usual bottle of Girard’s Italian dressing, the very pinnacle of salad dressing engineering. The only Girard’s available was of the Caesar persuasion, a flavor that I had never tried from this particular brand. This was a real problem. Of course, I could opt to get an Italian dressing from another brand, but I knew I would be sorely disappointed by the discrepancy in quality. Then again, I’d really be putting myself out on a limb by trying a variety of dressing I had never tried before. This was a big commitment too; I had already signed myself up for a king’s portion of half Spring Mix, half spinach salad. Time was no longer measured in minutes or hours but in lettuce bags, and I had two of them. Could I live with a new dressing for that period of time? What if I hated it? All that salad…wasted. I supposed I could choke it down even if it was horrible, but then, my enjoyment of salads might be ruined for life. My future happiness depended on this decision. Fortune favors the bold I finally thought, and bravely, I reached out for the unknown.

            At this point, I was beginning to regret not getting a shopping cart or even one of those carrying basket things at the beginning of my venture. I still had two half gallons of milk to get, one regular and one chocolate, and I knew I’d have to get crafty in order to hold everything. Deciding on the chocolate milk was easy; there was only one brand to choose from and I knew I didn’t have to worry about the expiration date given my strong affinity for the stuff. It was turning to the regular milk that I suddenly remembered a conversation I had just had with my roommates. I had asked them what grocery store was closest, Publix or Wal-Mart. After some discussion, it was determined that Publix was closer, but Wal-Mart was cheaper. “I gottcha,” I had said, “I’ll probably just go to Wal-Mart then.” But here I was like a giant hypocrite standing in front of a Publix milk display, balancing my two bags of lettuce in one hand and clutching my chocolate milk and dressing with the other. I can’t buy the Publix brand I thought to myself, my roommates will see it and know I’m a liar. Or worse, they might think I’m some spoiled rich kid who can afford to buy his milk at Publix. Too good for Wal-Mart, milk elitist: these were the titles I was risking by making such a purchase. I spotted a brand I was sure had to be carried in Wal-Mart too. Problem solved, right? But that price…way more than the Publix brand. I tried to remind myself that I wasn’t spending my own money, but the little part of me that will always be aware of any financial undertaking in which I am involved cringed at the idea. So here was my predicament: either accept my badge of milk snobbery or become an extravagant anti-thrifter for the sake of reputation. Instead of making a decision, I began to reason how far of a drive it might be to Wal-Mart. Twenty minutes maybe? Then I could buy the generic brand there and still be frugal with my parents’ assets. The perfect plan. It took about three seconds for me to kick this idea to the curb on account of stupidity, leaving me face to face with the wall of dairy that was not offering any assistance in my decision. So at the end of the day, when I’m looking myself in the mirror, what decision will I be able to live with? What kind of person are you going to choose to be? There was a ten second pause before I decided I would put my relationship with my roommates to the test and get the Publix brand. Now somehow holding two half gallons of milk, two bags of salad, and a bottle of salad dressing, I approached the front of the store, desperately hoping they had a self-checkout. The thought of some employee seeing me carrying all this crap without a shopping cart made me feel absurd, and all I wanted was to be able to slink away without anyone scrutinizing my grocery gathering decisions. A quick scan of the front of the store and a smile from a girl in a green apron confirmed what I had feared: no self-checkouts. Shuffling forward in the sad recognition that any reputation I might have had as a savvy shopper in this place was sure to be destroyed, I approached register number 5.

London Blog VI: The Conclusion

And so it happens, as it so often does, that the journey ends precisely where it began. Back home with friends and family, on the day after 4^th of July nonetheless, I find myself needing to submit some kind of closure to my time in Europe if for no other reason than to confirm that I did, in fact, make it back to land of the free and the home of the brave. The strangest thing about being back, more so than the different accents and food, is the fact that London still feels so close even though an ocean now stands between me and it. I feel like if I were to walk outside I still might be able to make it to Regent’s Park if only I would walk long enough. Sometimes I go to sleep and wake up thinking I might be in my dorm room still about to get up and grab a bite at the Refectory before going out and making a day of it. Thankfully my mom’s cooking is fifty times better than the food at the Refectory, so it’s actually a nice surprise to realize I’m back home after all.

            My last week in London was an eventful one to say the least. From finals to last minute sightseeing, I had my plate full at almost any hour in the day, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Some final destinations of note that I hit before leaving were the Tower of London, one of the Olympic parks, and of course, the shopping monstrosity known as Harrod’s. Out of these three, I think the Olympic park will stick with me the most, merely because the athlete in me was geeking out the whole time I was there. I can’t wait for the end of July when I can watch on TV the venues I saw in person come to life with all the competition and energy that comes every 4 years during the games. The Crown Jewels in the Tower would definitely contend as a close second, however. When I saw them I could hardly believe that everything I was looking at was actually real diamonds, gems, and gold; it looked like some overzealous kindergarteners had gone overboard during craft time and stuck as many sparkly things on each crown and scepter as humanly possible. I finished off my tourist adventure by finally watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. You would have thought I would have gotten around to this a lot sooner, but no, I enjoy waiting until the last minute to cram in more things than is healthy. The little ritual they have for changing the guard is pretty amusing what with the marching around, stopping, staring at one another, playing music, marching some more, riding horses, and then eventually shutting the gates knowing the queen is now sufficiently protected by red jackets and black puffy hats. In real life, though, some of the guards pack some pretty serious heat, so I would think twice about a mad dash for the palace if I felt so inclined.

            After it all, the time finally came to say goodbye to the streets, buildings, and blessedly cool air that we had grown to know and love. Suiting up with our obscenely large bags, we made our way back through the tube stations and train platforms just like we did at the onset of the trip, only this time not being quite so burdened with crushing ignorance and general state of confusion amidst the crowds. I didn’t believe that I was actually leaving. This was just another weekend excursion and I would be back at Regent’s by Monday ready to go for another week. Sadly, the nine hour plane ride and border security begged to differ. As I was in the air approaching America, I couldn’t help but remember a thought that had popped into my head during the plane ride over to London as I looked out of the window and caught my first glimpse of Europe. Watching little rivers snake across the green spaces of the ground below and hills and valleys cast their shadows like flecks on a canvas, I thought to myself “This could be anywhere.” From way up there you can’t tell where one country ends and another begins, it’s simply a place. Only once I had touched down and lived in that place for a month and a half did it become something more, something real, something I’ll be able to remember for the rest of my life. In the same way as I flew back over the fields and lakes that all look the same from 30,000 feet, I knew that what I was looking at wasn’t just some place: it was home. After all the sights, all the sounds, all the tastes, all the experiences, I had made it back to the one place on earth that I can place the four lettered label on. I count any trip a success that comes full circle to a warm bed, loving friends and family, and good old fashioned southern cooking. I hope this isn’t goodbye forever, but I’ll miss you, London. We had a good run together.

London Blog V

My apologies, first of all, for being so late in posting this next installment of my London blogs; a combination of schoolwork and the frantic realization that I have no more than a week now to do everything I want to do contributed to my negligence. But I believe last time I left off I was headed for Scotland, so I’ll start there. First off, let me say that there have been very few times in my life when I have stepped outside in the middle of June and fantasized about having a fur coat or layer of whale blubber to keep me warm, but such was the scene in Edinburgh as me and a few hardened companions completed a three hour walking tour of the city through rain, dreariness, and, yes, cold. The in hospitable weather did little to dampen my enjoyment of the city, however, and I instantly fell in love with the quaint pubs and shops, friendly people, and striking landscapes all around. Unlike London, Edinburgh feels much more like a small town even though it is actually pretty large, and the architecture and layout of the streets gives you the sense of being in a more rural location. It also helps that just beyond where the buildings of Edinburgh stop, hillsides of rolling green grass meander around in every direction before jutting up here and there into rocky cliffs, making it easy to imagine yourself out in the wilderness somewhere. These cliffs have played a big role in Edinburgh history, in no small part because the famous Edinburgh Castle sits on top of a particularly impressive and intimidating edifice; this castle, for all you Braveheart fans out there, is the one supposed to be represented in the movie, but whereas in real life this bad boy sits looming up in the sky looking down on you, the one in the movie was on a completely flat plane. Not quite as intimidating as the real thing.

            On our walking tour we visited several places with historical significance, but maybe one of my favorites was The Elephant House, which is the place where J.K. Rowling wrote the first three of her Harry Potter books. We also got to tour the cemetery just adjacent to the café that Rowling was said to frequent when writing, and our guide mentioned that many of the characters’ names in Harry Potter can trace their origins to names found on some of the gravestones here, including a one Tom Riddle. I also really enjoyed learning about Greyfriars Bobby: a little dog who, as legend has it, remained loyally beside his fallen master’s grave year after year until he himself passed away. The city loved the dog so much that he now has his own headstone, statue, and pub named after him. The final thing we did before leaving Scotland was hike to the top of Arthur’s Seat which is essentially just one of the cliffs I mentioned before that affords a great view of the whole city. It was incredibly foggy the day we went up, so our range of visibility was not quite stellar, but the combination of fog, countryside, and city was nothing short of poetic still. Without much competition, Edinburgh has been the most beautiful place in terms of landscape that I have visited thus far on my trip. I had a huge moral battle with myself before we left trying to decide if I should get a kilt or not, but I am sorry to say I left the land of the Scots utterly kiltless but nonetheless in love with the city I only got to stay in for two days.

            Next on the docket was to visit the land to which I owe the color of my hair: Ireland. What I couldn’t get over, both in Edinburgh and Dublin, was the hospitality of the people. I guess London had conditioned me to expect minimal and formal interactions with strangers, but both the Scots and Irish seemed ready to offer a smile and easy conversation if you wanted. I was very much reminded of the Southern hospitality from back home. Being in Dublin, we naturally took a tour of the Guinness factory which was actually really interesting, mainly just for the fact of getting to see each step in the process of how they make it. Later that evening, we went to a popular hangout spot, Temple Bar, where we stood packed in a room filled with people listening to some of the most legit Irish music I’ve ever heard. I found out a little bit later that the guitarist playing in the band that night was actually the world record holder for the longest marathon of guitar playing with a ridiculous 114 hours straight. The guy was amazing. I stood with my jaw hanging open half of the time watching his fingers moving faster than most people can think. Great live music would prove to be a theme in Dublin; whether you were in a restaurant or out in the street, somebody was bound to be playing something and singing along, not only that but well too. The highlight of the night, however, took place when I was conversing with an Irishman I happened to meet in one of the other rooms of Temple Bar. At some point, I jokingly asked him “I look Irish, right?” pointing to my hair. He immediately said “Oh yeah, sure,” and ruffled my hair before clasping a hand around the back of my neck, pulling my face close to his, planting a kiss on my check before releasing me with a hearty “Welcome back, brother.” It seemed that I had found my place among my people.

            Skipping ahead about a week, I hopped on a train for a day trip to Oxford. My primary objective in going, and what was for me the coolest thing I did while I was there, was to visit the Eagle and Child pub: former meeting place of the Inklings (C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Charles Williams among others) and housing to conversations which resulted in works such as the Chronicles of Narnia and Lord of the Rings. I was surreal to be occupying the same space and walking on the same floors as some of the men that have inspired, entertained, and challenged me like few others have. To try and fathom the hours, days, years of fascination and boundless imagination these men provided me growing up would be entirely impossible, yet here I was sitting in the very building where they sat and discussed the very things that so influenced my childhood and adolescence and still continue to inspire me today. Later, I would visit Tolkien’s gravesite, even taking the time to read a bit of The Hobbit next to the author. I wanted to be able to thank the man in person for creating a world and characters that has brought so many people together and quite literally defined an era of my childhood. All in all, my time in Oxford was one filled with literary nostalgia and appreciation.

            Less than a week. It doesn’t make sense at all to me, but that’s all I have. Here’s to making the most of that time, even if it doesn’t seem like any at all.

London Blog IV

This weekend marked the halfway point of my time here in Europe. It’s strange to think that in only a matter of three weeks I can feel like I’ve been here for ages. This place has gotten so familiar that when I was in Paris this weekend, I found myself saying things like “When we get back home…I mean to London…” It’s nice, if nothing else, to feel settled and not quite so out of place anymore, though I have to say people still have a surprisingly easy time picking me out as an American. Nothing short of mysterious, that.

            As I have already given away, this past weekend was spent outside the borders of the UK, but before I get to that, I feel obligated to at least mention the pile of rocks I saw in Salisbury. Stonehenge, as we are all aware, is a prime hang out spot for aliens, but unless they had cleverly disguised themselves as sheep, I was sorely disappointed that I didn’t see any. The way the wind was blowing, however, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the mothership had come in for a landing. In all seriousness, though, it was pretty amazing to stand in the presence of that place that has both fascinated and confounded people for thousands of years. It’s still hard to conceptualize how an ancient civilization could manage to stack 50 ton stones on top of one another with none of the hydraulics or cranes we have today in such an evident design, but however they did it, they knew how to leave an impression. The only other thing of note that I saw that day was the cathedral at Salisbury which I will not try to describe but rather let you look at the pictures if you so desire. As I am discovering with each new cathedral I see, written descriptions can do little in comparison with the experience of walking through and feeling the magnitude of the architecture and seeing the intricacy of stonework and stained glass in person. For anyone who is experienced in cathedral-viewing, maybe you will understand what I’m talking about.

            In a little less than 5 hours after this, I was on a bus headed for the City of Love; a journey, I might add, that was unexpectedly delayed for 4 hours at the port of Dover due to a certain bus driver that proved less than competent and was the object of no small hate group by the trip’s end, but why dwell on the unpleasant part of an otherwise amazing trip? Upon arriving in Paris, we were unable to check into our hotel, so we decided to hit the ground running and visit the nearest site of interest: the Sacre Coeur. Sitting on top of a sizable hill, this church was nothing short of massive in every way. Even compared to the many cathedrals I had seen up to that point, the Sacre Coeur had a certain immensity about it that was breathtaking. This was also the first good view I got of the city as a whole, but it would pale in comparison to where I went next, just a few Metro stops away. The Arc de Triomphe stands in the middle of a huge roundabout (with absolutely crazy drivers) and affords an amazing view of Paris from the top. Conceptually, it might be difficult to understand how an arc is meant to inspire awe and flaunt strength in the wake of conquest, but seeing it in person left no question in my mind. It was here that I also caught my first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, but it was later that night that I would really enjoy the full effect of France’s most iconic structure.

            Timing it so we arrived at sunset, our group took pictures and ate crepes in the green space just adjacent to the tower and waited for the top of the hour when a light show of sorts takes place for about 6 minutes. Being there, standing beside and walking under the object of so much art, culture, and history was nothing sort of surreal. I mean, this wasn’t a model or replica you find in Las Vegas; this was THE Eiffel Tower right in front of me, cutting through the oranges and blues of a beautiful sunset over Paris and leaving me no choice but to gawk in my sad little romantic fascination. I could go on and on about that night, about the lights, the people, and even the air that seemed to be completely permeated by an overwhelming sense that this place was sacred in some way, not perhaps in the way one typically thinks of the word, but in the sense that we all knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that this was the only place on earth that this experience we were all having together was possible, resting in a place and on a history that is momentously, entrancingly, and entirely unique, but I will spare you the pages that that effusion would entail. Suffice it to say that that night, my first night spent in the presence of the Eiffel Tower, was undoubtedly one of the most unforgettable experiences of my trip thus far.

            Next on the itinerary was to visit the Louvre, which I must say blew me away if for no other reason than its sheer size. This place was enormous to the point of being obnoxious. If I were to really try and see everything there was to see there, I would need nothing less than an entire week devoted to nothing else. Seeing as I only had a few hours, however, I contented myself to see some of the more prominent points of interest including the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, Winged Victory, and of course the inverted pyramid where Mary Magdalene is buried (shout out to all my DaVinci Code fans out there). I was humbled to be able to see some of the most influential and respected works of art we have today, but I know my own limited knowledge of things artistic did the pieces I saw egregious injustice, though I hope having the decency to admit this at least counts for something.

            Moving right along, I got to see the Inception bridge (the one Juno makes with the mirrors…you know what I’m talking about) as I made my way to the next destination, a little place called Notre Dame. Here, again, I will concede to let my pictures try to convey what my words would only flounder at, but I will say the stained glass there was probably the most impressive I have seen thus far. Something most people probably do not know about Notre Dame unless they have been there is that there is a clump of bushes just outside the cathedral that serves as a home for hundreds of little birds that will eat bread out of your hand if you offer it to them. I am sorry to report that the birds didn’t find me very inviting when I tried to do this, but several other people had flocks going for them. Just across the way from there was one of the “bridges of love” which are easily recognizable by the thousands of locks that are attached to their railings and sides. Basically, you and your boo get a lock and write your names on it, attach it to the bridge and then throw the keys in the river below. Only in Paris, right?

            The other famous places I visited I only got to see from the outside, but they included the Paris Opera House and the Moulin Rouge. I would have loved the chance to go in and hang with the Phantom or chill with Nicole Kidman, but unfortunately it was not so. Maybe if I ever make it back to France I’ll pay the 175 euro cover charge and see what a night in the Moulin Rouge is really like. My time in Paris concluded with a meal of legendary proportions, marking the end of two very full, but very rewarding days.

            Ok, I’m almost done, I promise; this is what I get for procrastinating. Last night, I can sum up my experience in three words: The Globe Theatre. Just so everyone’s on the same page, the Globe is the theater in which Shakespeare used to perform his plays back in the day. The stage is like a small arena with seats encircling the actors in three levels and a space in front of the stage for standing audience members. There is no ceiling, so you keep your fingers crossed that the weather stays favorable throughout the performance, which it did in our case apart from being quite chilly. The performance we saw was Henry V, which is perhaps most famous for the St. Crispin’s Day speech from which the phrase “Band of Brothers” came. Following intermission, I joined the standing crowd on the floor and got to watch the remainder of the play only feet from the actors which was well worth standing for. The play concluded with a full-on jig performed by the entire cast, and I have to say it was pretty ballin’. I didn’t bring my camera, however, so I don’t have any pictures as of yet, but I plan to go back and snap a few for posterity’s sake. I’ll sum up my last experience in a series of words or phrases that may or may not have syntax or coherency, but hopefully will convey what I got to see without drawing out this blog any longer than it already is. Ok, here we go. Westminster Abbey, tombs of Chaucer, Dickens, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Keats, Shelly, and so many more significant literary figures in Poet’s Corner, hundreds of shrines to buried monarchs and nobility, Britain’s oldest door, tomb of Sir Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin. Also, illegal pictures of some of the above mentioned artifacts, but don’t tell anyone. All right, that’s it for now, but seeing as I am headed to Scotland and Ireland tomorrow, I feel that I will have more to tell you about in the near future.

London Blog III

Where to begin? The blessing and curse of trying to keep a blog while in London is the sheer amount of things one can see and experience in only a matter of days; the blessing being I always have something to write about, the curse being I feel like I have to write a short novel in order to sufficiently relate all that has happened. I suppose there’s no other way to go about it then to put my head down and just start from where I left off. I’ll try my best to be concise if at all possible.

            Beginning a few days back, a few of us paid a visit to the British Museum, being drawn in by the rich collection of artifacts and history preserved there and by the free admission at the door. The building itself was amazing to look at by itself, opening up into a massive lobby area and skylight overhead with totem poles and Roman statues standing right alongside pastry kiosks and visitor information maps. The contrast was almost surreal. The size of the place was a precursor to the incomprehensible volume of artifacts that the museum contains from nearly every time period and culture in human history. If truth be told, the displays were so extensive to the point of being overwhelming, and though I looked at thousands of displays, I probably only scratched the surface of what all can be seen there. The two most memorable things, at least for me, were the Rosetta Stone and a Pablo Picasso exposition which displayed many of his early sketches. I think what I found so cool about both of these was the fact that I was close enough to see each individual etch, each little mark up close. In the case of the Rosetta Stone, I was only feet away from the markings that unlocked the Egyptian hieroglyphic system and proved to be one of the most significant unifying factors in language in history. And with Picasso’s drawings, I felt I could follow each line of ink as he would have drawn it, and though I am by no means an artistic person, I felt a certain connection with one of the most influential artists of his time. I guess what I would say in both of these cases is that being up close to historically significant art or artifacts made me feel more intimately acquainted with, not only the objects themselves, but the histories and stories attached to them as well.

            The next expedition of note would have to be out journey to the city of Canterbury. Though any Chaucer fan will immediately recognize the name, I am sorry to say we did little in regards to Tales while there other than read on shop windows and signs the town’s obvious regard for the literary work bearing its name. We did, however, visit the cathedral at Canterbury, which I was informed is the oldest cathedral in England. Of course the architecture was breathtaking, and of course the history surrounding each stone and room was astounding, but the thing that fascinated me the most was the spot on which St. Thomas a Becket was murdered by order of King Henry II. They had a memorial built in the exact spot he was killed, and I couldn’t help but look around and think all this, all the caverns and windows and columns were the last thing he saw on this earth. Apart from the unpleasantness of being stabbed to death, it probably wasn’t a bad view to go out on.

            Now, finally, I can tell you about the past few days which have been, dare I say it, the most fun up until this point on my trip: the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations. We began our festivities by staking out a place in the middle of street running along the Thames in order to catch a glimpse of the royal family when they rode by on their boat during the river pageant. We took the time we had to wait for the ceremony to being as an opportunity to picnic, which I must say was very nice. The streets were nothing short of infested with people brimming with activity and patriotism with Union Jacks being waved, worn, and generally flaunted about by any means available. There were large viewing screens set up periodically on the streets so we could all see the goings on of the pageant no matter where we were standing. Thus, I was able to see the Queen, Charles, William, Kate, Harry, and all other royal members proceed onto their boat while they were only a matter of walking distance from where I stood. When the boat finally passed our little section of river, I was only able to glimpse the family over the throngs of people, but it was still pretty hard to believe that I was in the actual presence of the Queen and her family at that moment.

            The following day we joined the mob of Londoners that gathered at Hyde Park to watch the Jubilee concert taking place at Buckingham Palace only a short distance away. For anyone who knows much about English culture, you will know that British people are usually content to keep to themselves and not necessarily reach out in friendship to strangers. On this night, however, everyone seemed to be smiling and laughing like we were all best friends at one giant party. It’s understandable, though, when we were enjoying such talents as Will.I.Am, Jesse J, Stevie Wonder, Elton John, and Paul McCartney just to name a few. I even got a little taste of home when a duet sang Lady Antebellum’s “Need You Now,” which just went to prove that there isn’t anywhere in the world that doesn’t like a little country music. There’s nothing quite like dancing around like a crazy person with a park full of people, and I highly recommend everyone try it at some point. The night finished off with a few words from Charles and the Queen coming on stage and lighting the last of a series of beacons meant to commemorate the occasion followed by an amazing firework display. We were close enough to the palace that we turned around and watched the fireworks explode over the tree line behind us, and I don’t know if I will ever be able to say that the Queen and I were watching the same fireworks display ever again. This description of this night cannot ever hope to do it justice, but it will remain in my mind as an irreplaceable and truly unforgettable time, not only because of what I got to see and hear, but also because of the people I got to share these experiences with. My only regret is that all of my friends and family from back home couldn’t be there to experience it all with me. If they had been able to, then I think it really would have been the perfect night.