A Traveling Crescendo

Hello dearest comrades. It has been a good while since we last were in contact concerning my reports from the small island in the North Atlantic.

I do apologize for this. But as you might imagine, I have been terribly busy lately. This blog will be dedicated to the events and lessons acquired last week. So they are not terribly fresh in my memory but I will try my upmost to convey them as accurately as I can.

Mind Reading Abilities

Besides being overly occupied with studies and constant exploration of the still alien English territory, there is another reason I have not written in a good while.

After turning in what I had presumed to be a rather decent display of my fictional work, my creative writing professor handed my story back with the following comments splattered over the front pages in mocking red ink: This story does not work. Pretentious, Self indulgent, and Pig-headed. 

Now I found this to be rather shocking. If I had ever received an assignment back with any sort of negative comment, I either could foresee it, or understood the reason for the teacher not appreciating it. However, in this case, with this particularly esoteric and unpredictable professor of mine, it remains a mystery.

After receiving these comments, I made the effort to go and speak with my professor, hoping desperately for some sort of explanation. I pointed to the bits which she had seemingly violently crossed out, gracing the sides of the margins with ambiguous remarks like “No.” I proceeded to ask what was wrong with these while there was still one description throughout the entire piece that she had put a small  and rather unnoticeable check-mark beside. This apparently constituted as the only decent imagery throughout the story. I wished only to know the difference between this particular description and the rest of the oh-so-terrible ones crowding around it in awe.

My Professor’s response: “Oh, I think you know the answer to that.”

Alright. Even though the purpose for my coming in to speak to her was for that I did not know any explanations to her comments, she felt assured that my mind reading powers were akin to those of Patrick Stewart in X-men. 

Admittedly, being American, I’m probably a bit more invested in my ego than my fellow international comrades. However, this suggestion that my general style (when it’s at it’s best) is self-indulgent and too descriptive burned me a bit.

In general, I felt like a bit of a loser. 

Satyagraha-Soul Healing

After feeling a bit crestfallen from the events that week, the brilliant Evanie Parr and I sought out some cultural enrichment—it being readily available in London.

So question: What do you get when you combine Phillip Glass, Opera, Ghandi, Tolstoy, Martin Luther King, and Cirque de Soleil-esque visual stunts?

Awe.

That’s what, awe. 

Satyagraha, Phillip Glass’s most recent creation has burst onto the opera scene, enchanting audiences from New York to London with it’s overwhelming message of compassion, strength, unity and it’s undeniably potent minimalist soundtrack that accompanies the delicate Sanscrit words floating effortlessly out of the singers mouths.

Ok, that was an attempt at explaining it. But really, this production is rather inexplicable; or rather it leaves you with a rather inexplicable feeling.

While the chorus, served not only to flourish and embellish Ghandi’s, message but also physically manifested each delicate sanscrit metaphor displayed in translation across the circular stage, though objects such as newspapers crinckled and molded into shapes and human-oid creatures that danced and fought with one another in an exquisite masquerade. 

It was as if the subtexts of every word spoken, were tangible enough to touch. 

There were about 15 to 20 minutes in the last act, which will remained ingrained in my mind and being. Martin Luther King stood with his back to the audience on a podium centerstage, raised approximately 20 feet in the air. As he silently indicated his passionate speech, seen in the strength of his gestures and the intention of his body, Ghandi sat downstage in a meditative pose, whilst the repetition of Glass’s soothing orchestra lulled the audience into near mediation—touching upon a shred of enlightenment and feeling strengthened by the very idea of existing in a moment.

My favorite phrase of the production: “With senses freed, the wise man should act, longing to bring about the welfare and coherence of the world. Therefore perform unceasingly the works that must be done, for the man detached who labors onto the highest must win through. This is how the saints attained success. Moreover, you should embrace action for the upholding, the welfare of your own kind. Whatever the noblest does, that too will others do: the standard he sets all the world will follow.”

I’ve never considered myself wise, or particularly intelligent for that matter, but if there is any shred of wisdom, I know that I am obligated to use it for the betterment of humankind in one form or another.

Thanks to Satyagraha (translated as “truth insistence”). The truth is needed and Phillip Glass carries on Ghandi’s intent effortlessly.

Ev and I pre-production with our marvelously appropriate Hippie juice.

Ev and I post production—newly enlightened individuals. Can’t you just feel the awe?

Heath Morning- Physical Healing

London is a beautiful city with countless buildings that inspire at least a glance in their direction to admire their architectural magnificence. However, one can have cement pavement in their lives for only so long.

Despite London’s appeal being mostly in its civilization and development of human ideas, my favorite place in this town is not the heart of the city but rather on its outskirts, a natural refuge: The Heath.

For whatever reason, whether it be the overabundance of oxygen present amongst the greenery, or the lack of pavement, the Heath has a healing quality to it.

In someways, the feeling that it gives me, resembles the feeling of being home for Christmas: warmth and safety. Sometimes I wish I could just lay down on the muddy ground and have the earth envelop me in some verdant blanket.

I went there Friday morning, and spent the entire morning, straying from the path, treking through forests by myself, and fondly observing the other Heath visitors with their dogs and children, having a bit of a breather themselves. You want some pictures? I shall grant you with some.

View of London, in the early morning fog. You can see Westminster Abby and the Gherkin towards the middle.

There was this man and his six massive dogs. He made me smile.

Cecil Court-Literary Healing

After Heath adventures had been completed. I decided I was prepared to brave the city. I took the tube to Leicester Square, walked around for a fair bit and stumbled upon this little gem:

You know that little old bookstore that you thought existed in London? The one with three signed copies of Lord of the rings behind glass cases and first editions of Great Expectations on the top shelf? Well multiply that by about 10, add in a couple of antique jewelry, art, and coin stores and you’ve got Cecil Court.

I kid you not friends, I spent about three hours going through these stores and gleefully flipping through books that Jane Austen must have touched at one point. You have no idea how happy this made me as I immersed myself in antique delight.

Cecil Court, you’ve captured my heart…

Aesthetic Addictions-Retail Healing

Rather near Cecil court exists a shop that sells beautiful shoes for unbelievable prices. Now recently I discovered that my once beloved Primark has a history of sketchy dealings with manufacturers including child labour, illegal withdrawal of pay, and under minimum wage working. For more information, check out this excellently written article.

So as tragic as it is, I fear I can no longer shop at Primark with a good moral conscience. Thus, I have been desperately seeking more local shops and other stores that are somewhat cheap but legitimately manufactured.

At discovering this shoe store, I was filled with delight and perhaps due to my mirth, I ended up purchasing some rather marvelous black boots for 10 quid. As usual my financial guilt plagued me afterwards, making snide remarks about my spending habits. However, I managed to shut that out and convince myself that as I am in London, a city very concerned with fashion and rather expert at it, I might add. It was entirely appropriate to treat myself to a small purchase.

However, later that evening I was browsing the internet and stumbled upon a UK fashion website that displayed not terribly expensive apparel. I found this blouse that made my aesthetic barometer positively skyrocket. At this point I was considering the fact that I had already purchased shoes earlier that day and that it would just be a terribly financially irresponsible thing to purchase another article. But after I clicked out of it for a few hours, I couldn’t stop thinking about this bloody shirt.

If you think excessively about a specific article of clothing, long after you have had your first encounter with it, it is in my opinion, an indication that it may need claim ownership of it (especially if it is financially viable, which in this case it was). So yes, I claimed it for my own, proceeding to purchase it, feeling slightly guilty about it until it arrived a few days later and we hit it off, right off the bat.

Now the very idea that I speak of an article of clothing as if it were a potential lover may make me sound a bit materialistic and I admit—One of my inherent flaws is constatly wishing for beautiful things in my life.

But then, I think that Europeans are excellently skilled in gathering beautiful things to surround themselves with. Thus, if there is any way to justify this retail therapy, it was that I was simply doing as the Romans do. 

Tower of London-Historical Healing

After our failed attempt at visiting the tower the week before, Ev and I decided it give it another go this past Saturday.

It turned out to be pretty awesome.

The entrance…who knows if we would come out alive.

Apparently, Archers still abound waiting to shoot at unsuspecting tourists.

Now (safely??) inside.

Well that doesn’t bode well…

That’s ok. We’ve got some crown jewels to check out.

The last picture I could legally take before we stepped into a world of sparkling glory.

A note on the crown jewels: There is no other way to describe them other than, sparkly, overwhelming, breathtaking, and completely ruining my future husband’s proposal to me. “What? You mean you didn’t get me that ring with a rock the side of my fist?”

There was a conveyer belt that took awed tourists past crowns, scepters and tiaras so as to not leave them standing there too long and back up the other eager viewers.

Needless to say, Evanie and I rode said conveyer belt three times.

The White tower. Basically where all the armory is still stored. Kind of a quintessential view, I think.

Death sentences were a bit different back in the day. In fact, some poor bloke was sentenced to be drowned in a barrel of wine. I felt a bit uneasy about this.

…as did Ev.

It really is quite beautiful for a place where there was so much death.

Speaking of death. That is in fact what you think it is…

On a more pleasant note, Ev had the opportunity to try on some armor. Personally, I think she should add it to her wardrobe, it’s very flattering.

Meanwhile, I finally found my British lover…

In the courtyard, we stumbled upon a relatively new installment and by new I mean it was built in 2000. It was dedicated to the people who were thought to have been beheaded on this spot including Ann Boleyn and another one of Henry VIII’s (what a charming guy) wives.  

We proceeded to head to the prison and review the list of previous prisoners held there. We came across this bloke, obviously proof that Harry Potter exists (a distant relative perhaps…)

The prison window. Not too shabby actually…

Some of the prison graffiti was absolutely exquisite. Who knew prisoners were such skilled artists?

The Tower of London is a really great place to mull around for a few hours especially if you, like myself, are obsessed with the tudor era and everything else English and historical. It really was a lovely day.

Culinary Healing

Monday, Cody (another buddy from UPS) and I headed out to a Spanish restaurant before seeing the long destined Phantom of the Opera. 

The food was DELICIOUS. I’ve never had spanish food before and everything, especially the five quid jug of Sangria was scrumptious to the max.

Did I mention I need to run a marathon to work off all this London food?

Phantom of the Opera was everything I’d hoped it to be. I cried at the end, and it was beautiful.

Then later in the week. IES was nice enough to take myself and a couple other students out for dinner at one of the best Indian restaurants in town. 

I have yet to ever have such a chaotic/satisfying food experience in my life.

Eight of us were crowded into a tiny corner whilst plates upon plates upon PLATES of food came out for us, starters, drinks, food, desserts, sides, salads I’ve never had so much food in front of me before. Also, my view on spicy food and been completely transformed. Before this experience, I shied away from any thing that twanged my tongue more than a bit of ginger or curry. However, after eating a bit of fried something or other with pepperpepperpepper and experiencing the sensation of big fat tears rolling down my face from all of my senses being given a good jolt, I feel transformed.

Good spicy indian food doesn’t just give you a burning sensation on your tongue like lot of quote on quote “spicy cuisine” does. It is richer, rounder, and envelops you with this utter feeling of cleansing. I must say, that after this experience, I may be experimenting with the spicier side of life…

The Greatness of Losing 

After having had a week full of therapeutic London experiences, I felt refreshed after a rather poisonous professorial meeting. However, it was something that my Shakespeare professor said that really turned me about.

He told us that Americans have this idea that they always must be number one, the best, the top, the cream of the crop and that if they aren’t they simply wallow misery at the sound of delicate egos shattering.

However, the British seem to accept losing as a part of life. In fact the embrace it. Apparently in sport growing up, there are awards for best loser: the one who comes in last but showed good sportsmanship is held in the highest regard.

Of course in America, that would never fly. It would only make one’s pride crumble miserably.

But I am not in America anymore.

So a message to my creative writing professor: You think I am a loser, that my writing style is worthless. I thank you for your highest compliment, and I will continue to write in my upmost loserly way.

So dearest readers, until the next blog, (in which I will detail great amounts of (mostly culinary) adventures in Belgium) Tallyho!