11/1/19: an idiot abroad: i break things

I KNEW I was not going to bounce out of bed at 5:45 and be out the door by 6:30, I mean, EVERYONE knew that, and I’ve known it for years, but even still I did zero packing or other preparation for departure the night before my not unreasonably early but still somewhat early (okay, fine, 9:25 am) flight. Therefore let me be clear that I had only myself to blame when I was “sprinting” through London-Gatwick Airport just a few short hours later and the fact that a) I made it to the gate at 9:06 and b) they were of course still boarding only serves to reinforce my conviction that all this “arrive early” bullshit is exactly that. I won’t say I enjoyed the early morning workout, but…I made the flight.

Side note: I no longer find a British accent charming. At one point during my airport mad dash, I got caught in a bottleneck and was trapped next to a man and his two children and he was exclaiming to them, over and over again, about how they’d gotten to the airport EARLY, can you believe that, they were so EARLY! He had a British accent that made the word sound like EHHHHHHHHHHrly and by the 15th time he said it I was about to punch him in the nose. Ok, buddy, I get it—you’re EHHHHHHHHly. I was, however, decidedly not, so I swallowed what tatters are left of my pride and yelled Excuse me and I’m sorry and the knot of people broke up and I ran past.

It didn’t help matters that the train to the airport arrives at the South Terminal and I had to go, of course, to the North, or that my bags were flagged, one for the hand sanitizer I carry everywhere and which has NEVER been detected at ANY airport, EVER, and the other for an extra tube of toothpaste I forgot I had. Then I had to get to gate 49 and it was comically far away, like I’d come around a corner and see a long corridor of people movers, no gates at all, then turn the next corner and people movers again, still no gates, now a long ramp up to another corridor, I would have sworn someone was playing a practical joke if I didn’t know this was just the standard consequence of my idiocy.
So, London. It got better but still, overall, meh. II went to look at the Tower of London and that was GREAT: I love shit like that and though it’s a bit disconcerting to go up on the battlements and look directly into a WeWork, getting to stick my head in the very crevasse where they found the bones believed to be of the two princes, imprisoned and likely killed by Richard III as he bulldozed his way to the throne—that was super cool.

I rented an audio guide because OF COURSE and as I wandered around in the White Tower I learned it was built by William the Conqueror in 1030 and deliberately constructed of stone (and white-washed) so it could be seen from miles away (everything else was a like a little hut of wood, this thing must have looked BOSS) and impress the heck out of all the people he’d just conquered with his might and his riches and his ancestry and from one of those little arrow-slit windows I could look down and see the completely unironic, hilariously long line of people waiting to get in to have a look at the crown jewels.


On the way to the Tower I had my first real subway confusion and as I was studying the map, trying to figure out where the fuck “Barking” was, a lady came up to do the same. She turned out to be from Edmonton, Ontario, and at one point she told me she was going to guess I was from New York City and I used to take that as a compliment but sometimes I am not so sure anymore.

From the White Tower I had to speed-walk over to the area where they keep some ravens and made it there just two minutes before a yeoperson was supposed to show up and talk about them. I jockeyed for position with some 8-year-olds, not hesitating a bit to leverage my size and, more importantly, my experience—those kids had no idea who they were dealing with. Alas, the yeoperson never showed and though us stalwarts lingered for a while, we all eventually gave up (me last, of course). The ravens were in these weird cages and this pamphlet I found did an awkward dance around whether or not they were free to come and go, saying coyly that the Ravenmaster trims their flight feathers just on one side so they can still fly but the unevenness makes them not really want to, and, with lots of food and tender loving affection, they “encourage” the birds to stick around. I was not able to speak to a bird to get their take on things.

I also went to the British Museum and just thinking those words gets that damn song in my head though it was not a foggy day in London-town, just chilly and windy. The British Museum has an unbelievable collection, largely because for hundreds of years they’ve been going around the world and just taking shit.

They’re pretty much unrepentant about it, too: the placard next to a head from Easter Island explains that it came to be in the museum because some British dude was sailing around in 1868, saw the giant heads, picked his favorite and “decided to bring it to Britain.” I guess you can’t build an empire without being willing to walk around and say, “That’s mine now,” but still. The placard also notes that, in 2018, the Easter Islanders worked up the nerve to ask for their head back. “Dialogue,” the placard said carefully, “dialogue with the community continues.”


The Brits are so tired of talking about the Elgin Marbles that there is an actual pamphlet in the viewing area that explains why they’re not giving those back, either. They oversell that one, variously explaining that Elgin had been told it was okay to take them, that art and history transcend the borders of nations, and that they make these pieces available for free to millions of visitors a year, as if the Greeks should be like, oh, wow, thank you—no one would know about the fucking Parthenon if it wasn’t for you dicks taking all the best pieces to your stupid island and then refusing to give them back.

Seeing Hamilton in London was kind of trippy since, you know, American revolution and all that. The show was definitely super cool and I’m glad I finally got to see it (though I was not in love with the ending). One of the key themes of that show is, of course, is how insistent Hamilton is about taking advantage of opportunity. “I’m not going to waste my shot,” is his refrain, over and over again. The irony, of course (this should not be a spoiler since…history), is that he and his son both die because they do exactly that—ol’Alexander might have been all for the notion as a metaphor but when it came down to dueling, with actual shots involved, he counseled his son to point his gun at the sky. Later, when challenged by Burr, he did the same, both father and son wasting those shots, and both of them ending up dead.

Obviously we’re all going to end up dead, one way or another, so it was nice that Peter, the guide I had for a tour of Highgate Cemetery, had a sense of humor about it. We walked all around the west section of the cemetery and he delivered a well-rehearsed but still perfectly fresh patter and while I was (as per) the only person taking notes, I think we all learned a LOT.

For example: Highgate and six other cemeteries were built around London during the Victorian Era to solve the problem of too many dead people and not enough places to put them. Each cemetery was privately owned and since they were all built at the same time, even though we all die eventually, it was initially a competitive market so each cemetery came up with their own schtick to try to stand out. Anything Egyptian was all the rage at the time so Highgate has tons of Egyptian-themed things going on, pyramids and etc. Highgate is also built on a hill, so naturally the spots at the top were the most expensive because they had the nicest views. I was surprised to learn that the Victorians spent a lot of time hanging out with dead people so the views actually mattered—when the whole family would take a picnic lunch out to hang around somebody’s grave, they were also showing off to all the other (living) picnickers the fancy views they could afford.

Peter also solved for me the mystery of how there could be three times as many people buried there as there are graves: apparently the Victorians wanted to make sure that when the resurrection happened,  they’d be with their families, presumably so they could continue whatever dysfunctional relationships they had for all of eternity.  He ALSO explained that it was because so many guys got blown to literal pieces in the first World War that made cremation okay—the church had to swap out bodies for souls as being necessary for resurrection since otherwise not only did your son/brother/husband/father go off to get killed in a war but also because of that he won’t be joining you in the ever after. Even the priests were like, eh, we really can’t tell people that, so voila, g’head and get burned up you can jam so many more people into the same spot that way.

There were a couple of vampires on the tour, or at least some people wearing fangs. They were American, of course, and all dolled up for the occasion though I get the impression those were their everyday get ups, as well. I have pointy canine teeth and once a real brat of a kid asked me if I was a vampire, but these nice people had real, unmistakable, giant fangs. The man was wearing so many rings I wasn’t sure he could get his hands into the pockets of his midnight blue brocade jacket, and the lady was wearing a fitted black coat with a capelet, and naturally I saw them lingering after the tour was over, waiting to get Peter’s attention, but I didn’t get the impression it was because they were going to feed on him or anything, probably just wanted to know which graves had the most people in them. (There was one that went 30 feet down!)

Then again, I had just retrieved my tote bag from the nice man who offered to store it for me in the chapel as we toured, and it happened to be my favorite tote bag, which is black and says “No fucks given” on the side in big white script, so I was really not in a place to be judging anybody else. Thinking back, I realize now that I was also the only person on the tour who was knitting (respectfully) the whole time, though I’d argue knitting in public is hardly the same as—okay, you know what? Never mind. (Also my friend Zoe made that tote bag specially for me (and one in gray!) so however we’re all using this time on earth I am glad some of us are using it for crafting.)

Peter had wrapped up the tour next to a small patch of grass, no headstone or anything on it, just a slight gap between two other memorials. In that place, he told us, were buried ten young women who had died in a nearby house of mercy which was a euphemism for places that took in young girls lured to London with promises of work but ended up destitute, as prostitutes, or in prison. One of those girls was called Frances, he said, and she was just 14 when she died. He gave a really moving speech about how everyone in that cemetery had a story, from the man with the giant mausoleum at the top of the hill all the way down to little Frances, piled in with all those other girls in an unmarked grave at the bottom. It could have been schmaltzy but it came off as authentic and sincere and I was glad he took the time to stress the point.

So between ol’A. Ham and little Frances and with all the insanity going on in the world right now I am not at all questioning my decisions about how I’m spending my time. Exactly a year ago today I was making the run from Te Anau up to Fox Glacier, an absolute beast of a ride, and—like all things—it feels like it was yesterday and forever ago. This past year has been a lot of travel and while I have not managed to absorb any customs, languages, or developed the ability to remember which coins are which, why does everybody have so MANY, I am really really glad that I’ve spent some of that time writing all this down.

As I was making my way from Hampstead Heath all the way back to the station for while I had a “return” ticket but was not, of COURSE, the closest station to where I wanted to be returned from, because god forbid I do anything thoughtful like check a goddman map once in a while, I passed a school. The walls around it were completely plastered with brightly colored signs and notices; there were announcements about where parents could pick up their children, about an upcoming play, about where children could go to be considered for sport, on and on. Directly across the street, there was a graveyard. It was ten minutes to 5, just dusk on a late October day. The were lights still on in the school, shining bright and cheerful. I heard a sound and turned to see a man walking through the graveyard ringing a bell, a handbell, not urgently but as if to announce that it was almost closing time. I did not need to ask, as the poem goes: I know the bell will toll for us all someday. So I walked on into the gloaming as the evening settled down around me, thinking of poster board and those good-smelling markers and how everything feels like yesterday, a hundred years ago, and is just today.

In conclusion, here is the email I sent my AirBnB Support Team the night before I left London; we were on quite familiar terms by this time so I don’t think this email was a surprise to them, but just in case you thought I wasn’t making it weird everywhere I go, please rest assured, I am.

Hey there, ST!

Thanks again for all your help during my stay. It has been absolutely wonderful and I look forward to leaving a 5-star review!

Two things you should know:

1. I broke two glasses AND a corkscrew The first glass was totally my fault, it slipped right out of my hand as I was setting it in the sink, but my hand to god the second one broke as it was sitting in the drying rack, all by its little self, I was at the table working and I heard a sharp CRACK.  When I went to look, the glass was in two tidy pieces.  I cannot explain the corkscrew.

2. I scoured the neighborhood and managed to find some similar-sized replacement glasses at Poundland; they are unbroken (as of this writing) and in the cabinet. There is also a replacement corkscrew in the drawer, which I bought at the off-license by the Shepherd's Bush station, but it looks alarmingly cheap and may well break in the hands of the next Hulk-like guest you have here.

If you want to charge me for anything I assume you can do so via Airbnb but if not, please let me know and I am happy to make restitution. (This is my first time leaving such a swath of destruction in my wake so I am unsure of the proper procedures.)

With all thanks, again, and best wishes,
Casey

P.S. (This was not part of the letter) I’ve traded dreary London for sunny, warm Seville and I love it here already—there are probably criminals everywhere but if you count the way the motorcycles are satisfyingly lawless then I’m all in favor.

P.P.S. (Also not part of the letter) This is a view of London from Hampstead Heath but more importantly I am including a picture of Reggie. A bunch of young men were trying to put a "beanie" on him and while he wasn't refusing it also wasn't working but Reggie didn't care and then he managed to steal the plastic baggie of treats they were using to bribe him with and so then there were three 20-something guys chasing a beagle around while falling down in laughter and they eventually managed to get the plastic away from him but I'm pretty sure he got all the treats. Good on YOU, Reggie.




Comments

  1. See, I KNEW there were statistically significant numbers of bodies buried together. Still the Frances story is precious.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. so, whaddya say? want to go in on a hole in the ground?

      Delete

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