Where The Wild Things Are

With the exception of certain dates, here is a memorial plaque with the vaguest possible information about the late hero. Allow me to summarize: he was born he did brave things and then he died we don’t believe in punctuation too much hassle

I might have mentioned this before, but I live across the street from the exact spot where William Wallace (yes, Braveheart), and the Protestant martyrs were executed. In fact, in the 1300s, this area of London was the go-to place if you were bored  and wanted to see a good killing.  Fortunately, and to the best of my knowledge, that doesn’t happen here anymore.  Instead, there is a park ideally located for writing, weather permitting.  It has a formal name, but for our purposes, I’ll refer to it from now on as Wallace Park.

Wallace Park is small, but it’s lovely, with plenty of benches and a fountain monument, and enormous oak trees that even now, in mid-November, have retained much their green foliage. The area immediately around us is, in the main, corporate, so I often see men and women having lunch there in the middle of the work day. Just as often, though, I’ll see families, dog walkers, people who go there just to sit and think and enjoy the quiet.

But the park is also a magnet for something else. Something I can only classify as ‘The Eccentric.’ The Eccentric is not any one person or thing; rather, it is the amalgamation of strange individuals and strange happenings which seem to occur or visit independently of one another at this park. The Eccentric is an experience, a multi-faceted thing, and from my window, I humbly deputize the role of grateful witness to the treasure trove of weirdness God has allowed to unfold here.

Wallace Park: where the stuff that went wrong went down.

It would be nefarious, truly morally wrong, for me to keep these observations to myself, so every once in awhile, I’m going to write an entry under the category ‘Wallace Park’ on this blog where I will attempt to chronicle the more colorful goings-on.

I’ll add a picture of an elderly woman riding past the park gates on a motorized dishwasher to whet your interest. I actually have a video of this, but I can’t upload it, alas.

Whatever her reasons—she’s totally justified.

Stay tuned.

Outlandishly yours,

AC

Storming the Castle

All of the cool kids have unicorns in their family crests.

THE NEW WASHER/DRYER ARRIVED TODAY.

I toured Buckingham Palace a few weeks ago.  Actually, a couple friends and I went the day I moved here.  I was trying to think of ways to stay awake that afternoon —jet lag always seems to descend around 4pm when you’re coming from the States— and I realized there’s probably no smarter solution to the problem of remaining conscious when you’re running on 1½  hours of sleep than putting on your classiest pair of jeans and wandering around where the Queen lives.  With this (unequivocally brilliant) idea, and two tired friends semi-reluctantly in tow, I set out for the palace with only luck and my unreliable inner compass as guides. (OK—I also had the ‘Maps’ app in my iPad, but no wifi, so really that doesn’t count.)

I live just under 2½ miles from Buckingham Palace, so the walk should realistically have taken about 40-45 minutes, but thanks to some not inconsiderable confusion resulting from London’s splendid penchant for changing the name of a street every few blocks (an affectation of being a city that’s over 1,000 years old, I suppose), it was an hour and a half before we found deliverance in the form of the shining golden beacon that is the Victoria Monument.

The Palace offers audio tours in just about every language imaginable, including Klingon, Elvish, and Baby Talk.

By royal standards, and certainly by comparison to the grandeur within, the outside of Buckingham is rather modest.  Massive, definitely, but not in the grand, breathtaking style one might expect of a palace exterior.  I appreciate that level of unpretentiousness. Tré Britannique.

We took pictures of the gate and the guards within, and after 45 minutes of waiting around, we made it through security, had our phones turned off, and cameras checked in (they weren’t allowed inside, alas).  I was allowed to keep my purse with me though, because security could tell I was harmless. (It’s my sweet disposition.)

We ascended the grand staircase and began the most interesting tour I’ve ever been on since that open top bus tour in Montréal when my shirt flipped over my face courtesy of a rogue gust of wind and the poor decision to stand for a photo as we drove atop a busy highway overpass.  Put another way, the Buckingham Palace tour was as delightful as accidentally flashing dozens of French Canadian motorists was humiliating.

The audio tour was a superb accompaniment to the next couple hours of slack-jawed admiration for John Nash’s architectural genius, and the incredible amount of history, priceless art, and stateliness the monarchies managed to fit in there.  We walked through the Throne Room, the Ballroom, various Dining Rooms…all of which are considered public “State Rooms” when the Queen is not in residence at the Palace (like most of us, she usually summers in Scotland).

“And since we don’t want to detract from the whole point of the music room, which is to say the chandelier, let’s just go ahead and shove that piano all the way over to the side…perfect.”

My favorite room is the music room.  It’s a giant, semi-circular expanse with an enormous chandelier (surprise), and giant french doors that lead out onto the back lawn and gardens.  I’m including a photo from Picasa, but no picture does it justice. When you’re actually standing in there, you can see all the green from the windows beyond.  This is probably crass, but it reminded me of the scene in Beauty and the Beast where Belle and the Beast put on the Ritz and dance as they’re serenaded by the clock and the candle and some plates. I’m just now realizing how totally bizarre that story is.

Just beyond the music room is the actual formal dining room, though plenty of other rooms are used for that purpose. The room is long and rectangular, with massive windows lining one side, and on the other are five or so oil-on-canvas paintings of nobility that preceded the current monarchy.  The décor is almost overwhelmingly red, except the ceiling, which is white and intricate, and trimmed with gold detail. The Queen loves entertaining in this room, and she likes to inspect it herself before the guests arrive, according to the man on the audio tape.  She also likes to go over the seating arrangements to ensure that everyone is comfortable. If, while inspecting the seating arrangement, she happens to glance out of one of the windows, she will see the sprawling green lawn that was bombed by the Nazis during the Second World War, when her father was King.  As the story goes, King George VI and his wife generally remained at the palace despite the worry that it would be a target (which, evidently, it was). It has also been said that after the bombing occurred, they went around to make sure no one has been hurt, and to survey the damage.  Pretty epic.  Not even Winston Churchill stayed at 10 Downing Street during the war.

The Palace Dining Room. Elbows OFF the table.

Oh, Churchill! I forgot to mention I also saw the underground rooms where Churchill led the war. That deserves it’s own entry. Stand by.

Back to Buckingham: Once the tour was concluded, we were led to the back garden/yard area.  It’s a massive lawn flanked by many beautiful trees and flowers.  Contrary to what I would have expected, the “garden” section is rather wild-looking, sort of like a park.  I’m sure it’s very well-tended, but it doesn’t appear to be heavily manicured; there is no suggestion of an unnatural facade, which I rather like.

Of course from there, we were ushered into the gift shop, where for an exorbitant amount of money, you can buy washcloths and tea sets and pens with crests on them or, if you’re like me, you can buy 15 postcards for £2.

There’s even a royal ice cream stand. No, you didn’t misread. Royal. Ice cream. Stand. As in, a stand where you can buy an ice cream cone that is presumably ‘royal’ by virtue of being sold at Buckingham Palace. When we passed it, I stopped and did a double-take to make sure we weren’t at a theme park—Buckingham Palaceland or something— we were not. They actually sell ice cream at Buckingham.  I hope you appreciate that as much as I do.

Upon exiting the premises, there was a booth where we could have our tickets validated for the next year, meaning when the State Rooms are open, I can go back in for free for the next 300-something days. And that’s awesome, because I’d definitely like to return.

So now that you read all of that, long story short, the moral of the story is this: the best cure for jet lag is to tour a palace. You’re welcome.

Regally yours,

AC

The Great Flood

I had a kerfuffle with an appliance this week.

It was my intention for this entry to recount my tour of Buckingham Palace this September, and also to go to St. Paul’s Cathedral for next week’s blog.  But these things have to wait another couple of days and I will now explain why.

Here are the facts leading up to the rumpus as best as I can recall them:

1.) I did open an umbrella in the apartment.  It’s a little temperamental, the umbrella, and I was going out in the rain; I wanted to make sure it was working properly.

2.) I walked under two ladders when I accidentally wandered through a construction zone. (I’m sure you can relate.)

3.) One of the workers at said construction zone yelled something inappropriate in Romanian in my general direction (I’m surmising it was inappropriate because he said it in Romanian.) It might have been a curse. Or, maybe he was just saying “Hey, that woodenheaded blonde girl just walked past all of this dangerous machinery and then under two ladders. Maybe we should call someone.”

4.) I dropped my cell phone and said the f-word in front of a rabbi at Tesco.

5.) Still blushing from shame, I then walked back under the same two ladders and through the same construction zone, where the same guy again contributed whatever it was he felt the need to contribute in Romanian. (Don’t you judge me, it was the fastest way back to my flat.)

Now the rumpus:

I had left the washing machine on when I was out on my errand, and when I came back inside, I slipped and fell on my…posterior. My head hit the floor, but not hard. Still, as I lay there, momentarily dazed but acutely aware that the floor was soaked, for the shortest of moments, I considered the possibility that this was a pool of my own blood and I was about to die. I lifted my hand in front of my face and discovered it was not covered in blood, but sudsy water.

The last bucket of flood water & tears, the ladder I flew up to shut off the electricity and of course, the culprit looming in the background. (You can see where the box next to it took on water.)

I said the phrase “Oh my God” at least eight times as I stood, looked around, and saw that the hallway, the reception, my bedroom, and probably the bathroom (couldn’t tell for sure because that door was closed) were covered in water which was pouring out of my washer/dryer. (In Britain, washers and dryers are often the same machine, to conserve space. It’s a pretty good idea, you know, combining an electric dryer with the same machine that swishes gallons and gallons of water around. Coming soon: the bathtub/toaster!) Anyway, because my electricity sometimes goes out, I’m fairly adept when it comes to whipping out the ladder, climbing it, and making it up to the power box.  This time, I practically flew.

With the electricity safely shut off, the washer stopped turning my apartment into a swamp, and I was able to proceed to frantically call my lettings manager and run to find a towel to begin what would be a four hour clean-up.

But of course, I couldn’t find a towel, because they were all in the washer. I was washing all of my towels.  So instead, I used a washcloth and a bucket.  I did strategize a little; I started along the bases of the walls to try to prevent the water from leaking down them to the distiller/restaurant below me, I flipped all of the chairs over onto the tables, and I made sure nothing valuable was on the floor. Other than that, though, the only thing to do was dunk the washcloth at a random spot on the floor and wring it out into the bucket as fast as possible, and then dump the bucket out in the sink whenever it became too full. It was like a relay race.  A hellish, lonely relay race.

After the bulk of the water had been cleaned up, I used three rolls of paper towels to dry the remainder.  Then I collapsed onto the couch, called my dad, and cried.

Finally dry. “Hey, your floor smells like clean laundry.”

 The lettings manager had a plumber come first.  The plumber was, ironically, Romanian.  He said there was nothing wrong with the water supply itself, which was a good thing.  The next day, which was Friday, an appliance guy came (not Romanian), and he said a couple parts needed to be replaced. He referred to it as a “time bomb.” I emailed the lettings manager to let her know the situation, and didn’t hear back by the end of the day, as expected. I’m hoping it can be fixed at some point next week, but the good news is, miraculously, NOTHING was destroyed or damaged beyond repair, except a couple of boxes I had on the floor that were holding a few of my books, which are wet, obviously, but readable. And no complaints from the restaurant, which I’m taking to mean there was no damage incurred down there, either. Thank God. And that clean-up was one heck of a workout. So that’s nice.

I wasn’t able to visit St. Paul’s because the past couple days have been spent waiting for the plumber and appliance repairman to arrive and take a look. Also, I have to have a piece ready to workshop for Monday, and I’m nowhere near ready, so the rest of my evening and the whole day tomorrow will be dedicated to changing that.  But I will, eventually, see that cathedral.  And I will not be walking under any ladders or swearing at religious higher-ups in the meantime.

Soggily yours,

AC

Tate Modern

If you have always wanted to see boxes with lights in them and scrap metal hanging from a ceiling in the SAME building, look no further than Tate Modern!

If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to be stoned but aren’t stupid enough to follow through, or if you haven’t had a nightmare in awhile and are feeling nostalgic, then I highly recommend visiting Tate Modern.

On the ground floor, there are a couple exhibitions which are easily categorized as interactive. They all have the same tone, and they produce, on the whole, the same unsettling feeling. For example, there is one room that is totally in the dark save an old fashioned film projector that flickers like a reel has just ended, sort of like seeing a strobe light through venetian blinds. The entire room is filled with thick smoke that smells very distinctly like chalk dust. It feels like walking through a black and white world. But the eeriest thing about that room is the other patrons, because their striped, flickering shadows are visible here and there in the smoke as they walk around.  It immediately evokes those old Hitchcockian horror scenes when shadow of the villain first appears in the fog.

Tate Modern has, to the best of my knowledge, six floors, and I visited all of them.  The ground floor was by and large home to the best exhibitions save a piece or two on other floors. I came to a room that had a huge line (or queue, as they call it here) of people waiting to see what was inside three long, rectangular, wooden boxes with peepholes affixed to them. I waited twenty minutes to finally get a turn and see…a different colored reflector light in each of them. Imagine looking at a bicycle brake light through a telescope, and you get the idea. I was pretty pissed. The majority of the works I saw were like this, with one splendid exception, a piece called “Tree of 12 Meteres” by Giuseppe Penone, an artist who took two enormous industrial, rectangular beams of wood and retraced the natural knots left in them to carve out reliefs of trees. It’s made out of what was once a real tree, then turned into a wooden beam, and then carved back into a real, different tree in the round. It is awesome, and somewhat hyperreal, to recreate natural beauty from something man took from nature.

Giuseppe Penone’s “Tree of 12 Meteres” (1980-2). Easily one of the coolest works housed at Tate Modern.

The rest of my two hours at Tate Modern were spent trying not to outwardly convey my disappointment when looking at other pieces (Let me put it this way: shredded aluminum hanging from the ceiling was one of the more impressive works.)

I admit I’ve always more or less struggled with learning to appreciate modern and conceptual art. Often I find it so vague and lacking in any sort of tenor that it is, to me, essentially non-art. Something that is so self-aware comes across as condescending and trying too hard at the same time. A paradigm of non-art. Maybe that’s the point. But I tend to correlate visual art with some sort of aesthetic; I’m not saying it has to be expressly beautiful, but at least in some way relatable.  I don’t think that’s asking too much; I’m not petitioning for concrete meaning, or even an explanation— just throw me a bone, a point of reference, something. A huge part of appreciating art is finding a way to connect to it. I cannot relate to a clumps of gray play-doh hooked to the ceiling and scattered all over the floor. The closest thing I can liken that to is cat litter.

Fortunately, I was rewarded for pressing on when I reached the sixth floor and discovered it was not an exhibit at all, but a bar and café with a stunning view of the Thames and London. Visiting Tate Modern is worth it just for that view.

View of the Thames and St. Paul’s from the café.

Having said that, admission to Tate Modern is, understandably, free. It costs £1 for a museum map, and there are ample places to donate more, if so inclined. I also stopped by the gift shop to pick up a couple of postcards, which are reasonably priced by London standards. All things said and done, it was an afternoon well-spent for about £10, when I count the tube fare. You can’t beat that.

Millennium Bridge: Slippery and made of metal, but the view is worth the risk of breaking your neck.

Walking back to the station from Tate Modern was my favorite moment, because I had to cross the Thames via the Millennium Bridge, a slippery metal pedestrian overpass that offers stunning vistas of the river, the city, Tower Bridge, and the looming and beautiful dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. I caught a nostalgic whiff of Central Park in the winter when I passed a vendor selling roasted nuts.

I would have gone to St. Pauls but admission is a little pricey and I had to allow extra time to get ready for a party in Marble Arch. Also, I had to find Marble Arch. So I’m saving St. Paul’s for a day when I can dedicate real time to appreciate it, plus everyone I know who has visited it has made a point of stressing how bewilderingly beautiful it is.

Until then—

Non-artistically yours,

AC

 

Quick-ish Update

Tip: Cool and quintessentially London, yes, but don’t use those phone booths if you can avoid it. They aren’t often knocked over, but they are often used as toilets.

I love London. That probably goes without saying since I decided to dedicate the next year of my life to living here while I pursue my degree, so I’ll clarify by saying that I love living in London as well.  Initially I worried that perhaps it would be too much of a concrete jungle, too urban sprawl-y, but weirdly the core of London has an almost small-town feel to it.

Not that I would ever say that to a native Londoner. I’ve spoken to a lot of locals who have referred to London as the “New York City of Europe,” and I just nod. The truth, of course, is that London is nothing like New York City, and I mean that as a compliment.

The pace here is much more laid back, and though everyone has somewhere to be, politeness is a part of the culture.  Granted, Londoners aren’t exactly welcoming in a warm-hearted sort of way, but they’re approachable, and they’re kind. Twice now, people have noticed me without an umbrella in the rain (it comes on suddenly) and have shared theirs, when I’ve had to stop and ask for directions, the people I’ve asked have practically escorted me there, and I’ve lost count of how many doors have been held for me.

By contrast, my experiences in New York can be loosely summarized by having been flashed twice in the subway (separate occasions), and chased from Times Square to Bryant Park by a very tall, very angry man in an Elmo costume (long story). To be fair, I do love New York, but it isn’t exactly famous for its genteel nature.

One of the aspects about London and its people that I particularly adore is the widespread intolerance for too much concrete.  There are parks everywhere. There’s even a park across the street from my flat, where I like to read and write and, as I’ll explain in a later post, observe all the weird goings on there from my window.

London has a lot of forebearance for just about every eccentricity. People go outside wearing leopard print coats without thinking twice about it. I notice a lot more people whistling and singing softly to themselves in public, and not in an insane rocking-back-and-forth-and-talking-to-buildings sort of way. There’s just less shame in expressing one’s happiness here, I think.

And speaking of happiness, I love my postgraduate program. I’m in the fiction strand for a Masters in Creative Writing degree, and for the first time in months, I’m around people who don’t look at me like an I’m some sort of idiot when I say I’m in school to write. I really and honestly like everyone in my group. I like them as individuals, and as writers. That alone is more than I dared to allow myself to hope for.

We all go together to the same café for coffee during the break in between classes, and most of us go to the pub together at the end of the evening to actually continue talking about writing and literature. A couple have even become comfortable enough to razz me a little for being American, though I’m not the only one —there are two and a half of us. I add the “half” because one has dual citizenship, spent half her life here, and half her life in the States, and has a trans-Atlantic accent—that only counts as half in my book. But it’s just such a relief to finally be in the throes of getting to know these people, and liking what I find. I had worried about that for so long. The coffee may be terrible, but the people I drink it with are so worth it.

It’s just enough socializing for a writer, I think. By virtue of the craft, of course, writing is solitary, but couple that with the fact that I just moved to a major city 3,300 miles away from everyone I know, and you have a decent recipe for loneliness. School staves that off easily. And as for the rest of my time, I read, work like crazy on writing and sending out material for publication, and explore the city.

I’m going to try to have a new entry each week, and I’ll probably focus on whatever part of the city I chose to explore in the time that has passed since my last entry. London has so much to offer as far as inspiration goes, I’d be out of my mind to just go back and forth from my flat and school without taking advantage of all the history this place has to offer.

So, until next time—

Yours,

AC

The Shortest Piece I’ve Ever Written

I’m Alexandra Cannon. I’ve created this blog to help keep friends and family appraised of what I’m doing while I live and study in London for the next year. (Hey, guys.)