Herne Bay: Sunset and the Sea

It is only a short bus ride to Herne Bay; we spent a lazy Sunday there, equipped only with a picnic lunch of fruits, nuts, PB&Js, and digestive biscuits. I took this picture, pressed up against the bus window as we made a brief stop for a few pensioners; I wanted to remember how the sky turned into the water so seamlessly I felt like the world was floating. 

If you squint really hard, you may perhaps be able to make out dozens of snowy white windmills floating off the horizon, spinning gently. Well, you won't be able to see them spinning. As a matter of fact, neither could I. But they were still lovely. 

Although we did not realize it at the time, this photo was probably taken about the time that every greengrocer, thrift shop, and restaurant began shutting down. Had we realized this, perhaps we would have made more of an effort to stroll the streets instead of eating candy floss and wasting 50 pence in the seaside arcade. 

I know I should wait until my upcoming "Isn't Britain funny?" post, but could not contain myself. This place didn't even specialize in hot dogs. 

A shared bottle of wine on the pier as we watched the sun set and all the other day trippers disperse.

Paritally Hidden Canterbury

A view of a city park from the walk around the still-standing stone walls and towers, which encircle the city center.  The wooden structure at the base of the hill is a child's playground version of a castle labyrinth. 

The Wildflower Meadow, which is notably bare of wildflowers at the moment. The cathedral is almost completely washed out, but is peeking out from between the clumps of trees. 

This building, once used by the Dominican monks, straddles a slender canal. I wouldn't be surprised if it were still owned by the Dominicans. (The monks, not the people.)

Canterbury is not exactly an unknown gem. A gem, yes, but one with a certain name-recognition factor. Even if this recognition is usually followed by, "There's a cathedral, right? And that medieval poem thing?" Well, yes, and yes. But the pilgrims of those eponymous tales never actually reached the city itself; the cathedral, however, is worth exactly as much hype as it is given. Waiting for a bus last night, I caught sight of it, lit from below, over a mile away down the sloping hills; it seemed impossibly impressive and ancient and jarring. 

I suppose what I'm saying is that while Chaucer's legacy and Thomas Beckett's resting place are both fascinating parts of the city, those aren't the things we think of when we spend a free afternoon there. It is the high street, the shopping, the pasty shops, the tiny gardens that close at 4 in the afternoon, the gently aging church graveyards, the side roads that spider off to meander away into residences and corner shops. It's the shirtless dread-locked young man juggling every other day in front of the library, disregarding the previously mentioned "No Street Performers Allowed" sign. It's the swarms of preteens in pleated skirts and jumpers who appear after 3 o'clock. At the same time, it's indulging in any and all tourist sites, from Tiny Tim's Tearoom, to an interactive Chaucer exhibit, to the Rupert Bear museum. No one should refrain from these pleasures in the name of immersion. And I don't. 

Some Norman relics, and: tombstones of Canterbury

The Norman walls that cradle the city

I'm trying to avoid morbidity, but life sometimes conspires to thrust it on me. If cemeteries are your sort of thing, then consider this post instead to be a hint of things to come in my next London update. I agree they are lovely, in their own way. 

I like the one who looks tired from years of standing watch; he is just resting a moment on his partner's shoulder

A shining day, lying on the grass, and a run to catch the bus before we get left behind

Back to London-town: where it poured all day

I just can't keep myself away for too long from London. As a matter of fact, in the time between this trip and the writing of this post, I have already gone back and spent the weekend there. As another matter of fact, I will be going there again this coming weekend (It is the BFI Film Festival, however: so, business+pleasure. Okay, perhaps not technically business. But it is with my film society. And I hope it will be a pleasure.) 

So, here it is; my second London trip in the space of a few weeks! One of the friends I went with had never been outside of the US, so we decided to do a very touristy, traditional day.  This means...yes, the Tower of London. It was inevitable. The crown jewels, the furry hatted solemnity, the intimidating ravens...all were comfortingly familiar, like a favorited you-tube video. 

It also meant strolls along the Thames. As I noted before, the weather was all we could have hoped for; at least in a shoulder-shrugging, plus ca change, plus c'est la meme way. There I am in the center; and actually quite warm, if a little damp, thanks to a life-savingly perfect heavy coat. I've been living in it. Some friends doubt I even have any other garments. I wouldn't care if I didn't. 

I had to. Come on. 

A charming feature of the walkways along the Thames is the cobblestone paths. Charming, that is, until one tries to navigate them wearing high heels. This photo doesn't do justice to their true black-hearted, broken, crumbly danger. I would say "lesson learned" but that would be an outright lie.

Oh, St. Paul's Cathedral. I thought you would be a stable, reliable destination; eternal and stolid. Instead, you have joined a long line of very old buildings who have failed me by either closing at 3:30 in the afternoon or being in a state of not-openness on a Sunday. Westminster Abbey, I am directing a portion of my ire and my seething glare in your direction. 

But at the rate I'm going, it won't be too long before I see your both of your grand innards anyway; before I come crawling back here for more. I have time, and desire, and in a few days I'll be boarding that now-familiar Victoria train. Yet again, London-town, here I come!

In Which I Visit Leeds (the castle, not the city)

A bit confusing, isn't it? Leeds Castle is not, in fact, anywhere near the city of Leeds, which is half a country away, but rather near Maidstone, Kent, which is half an hour away. This is very lucky indeed, as I was in no mood for an endless bus ride on the day before classes started. 

Our first sight as the bus pulled in was that hot air balloon rising over some treetops. "Leeds Castle" the print on the side proclaimed, and it was visible from almost every point of our trip. From what we could gather, it was tethered in place and shuttled paying patrons up a few hundred feet in the air, then straight down again. 

We tried to stay casual and nonchalant as this proud fellow strolled between the tables in the cobbled café courtyard. It was difficult. We sat very still, quietly licking our soft-serve cones (complete with a Cadbury's Flake Bar planted deliciously in its soft peaks) and pretending not to be gaping at the real, live, peacock not three feet away. The ice cream selection, by the way, was wonderfully different, and included at least four products that I had to ask what they were. (Mini-milk, anyone? Or perhaps a Magnum?)

Vegetation one can get lost in

Had I visited a castle that lacked a labyrinth, I probably would have turned right around and marched back home with disdain. Luckily, Leeds possesses one, as does every English castle worth its salt. This photo was taken from our position of victory on a vantage point at the center of the maze. 

Okay, so we didn't make it completely on our own. I felt we were making progress, but were apparently confidently striding in the wrong direction. A castle official who looked exactly like Steven Spielberg spotted us from his perch in the center, took pity on our wanderings, and asked if we needed help. We accepted. 

A few moments later, we reached the center (I could say "centre" but really, that would be intensely irritating), snapped a few shots, and descended down through the grotto. There are no photos from these subterranean and mystical manmade caverns, for two reasons. One is that I'm sure they wouldn't have turned out, since the whole point is mysteriosity, a flash would have completely bleached out any of its distinct charm. The other is that I felt that taking pictures would, somehow, dissipate the mood. Let me try to convey the atmosphere instead: first off, it is damp. It is quiet, but for a recording of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner softly playing from invisible speakers. There are seashell mermaid statues standing in deep alcoves, lit from underneath in changing colors. The central pool of water is presided over by an enormous bearded face carved from the rock, and the ceiling is covered in concentric circles of shells and stone. 

So, yes, a very cool place. But it didn't hold as special a place in my heart as you might think from that long description; that was a case of artistic overkill. For a truly special place to me, I would instead pick the long, grassy lawn that rolled up away from the lake, near the maze, the bird aviary, and the dog collar museum. It was very slightly damp but we all lay down on our coats in the beautiful warming sunlight and took a nap. It was lovely. 

Canterbury: City of Cathedrals, Canals, and Cuppas (but not street performers)

Our tour guide-more on this picture below. Honestly, when will I learn how to format photos?

Taken from a tour boat, on the narrow canals. 

Quietly displayed on High Street in the city. Thinking back, there was a disquieting lack of entertainment. 

More than a little foreboding

The Cathedral was, of course, the first event for international students. No sooner had we attempted to begin unpacking (but really left our open suitcases vomiting their contents onto the floor while we actually took a nap...or perhaps that was just me) than we were forcibly herded into official buses and dropped off in the cathedral parking lot. Being inexplicably fascinated with anything that existed before I did (admittedly, quite a large field here) I was ecstatic at the prospect of being force fed History with a capital Haitch. I read every placard; I actually asked questions of our beer-bellied, competently dignified tour guide; I even brought along a notebook and noted down tidbits I wanted to research in more depth later. Hell, I actually DID research them the next day. 

A few days later, a few friends and I took the short bus ride into the city on our own. It really is charming- a mix of youth culture (Topshop, H&M, even Claire's) and that curiously British antique culture. This manifests itself not just in the sale of antiques, although there is that, but also in the numerous tiny, insignificant museums, the informative historical placards dotting the brick walls, and the various ancient buildings where one is politely encouraged to drop a few quid in the collection for purposes of preservation and repair. 

(As a country, England has a higher percentage of scaffolds per structure than I have ever seen. They are established on every street, like mushrooms encouraged by the damp air to begin creeping up store-fronts and cathedrals. A sign of dedication and determination to appearance and heritage, or a symbol of the decay of an aging culture past its prime?)

Lesser known than the canals of Venice, and probably deservedly so, are the canals of Canterbury. This is not to say they aren't enjoyable. Our tour guide was a fetching emigré from Finland with an impeccable accent; he told us his name was Captain Finn. Something makes me suspect this was perhaps not his real name. (He is also a student at Kent; I have seen him several times, and even spoke to him once. It was, tragically, awkward.) The photo at the top of the page shows Captain Finn in a typical reaction to the woman on the right, a highly voluble, warmly intimidating pink-leopard-printed Irishwoman. She delightfully conformed to every Irishwoman stereotype better than I could have wished for.

We visit the city at least thrice a week now. So far, we haven't gotten tired of the cobbled streets, the tacky Oriental goods shops, or the numerous cafés filled with biddies sipping on their cuppas. And as cosmopolitan American students, we will never tire of H&M and Topshop.  I'll be returning to this topic again soon, perhaps after I tackle Leeds Castle; I feel there's a lot left to show. And personally, I just can't get enough of scaffolds. Ta, dearies!

I shall leave you with this canal image- not because it is very memorable, but because I accidentally formatted the page that way.

Home Away from Home

my kitchen: the highlight of my flat

This will be a post light on fabulous goings about town, and heavy on creating an image of my new life and everyday sights. Apologies! But life is very busy just staying here in Canterbury during the week. In a spirit of embracing all university has to offer me, I've joined five societies (translation:clubs) and almost every night of the week I have some obligation or another. But the word "obligation" has a tedious, monotonous, and misleading ring to it. I'm still bright-eyed and bushy tailed, and probably endlessly irritating. (I look forward to re-reading this post a few months from now and groaning.)

my room: quite clean, for now

I love the yellow wall, which is currently pathetically blank save for its cheery colo(u)r. But I'll soon remedy that. The radiator, which is just visible behind my slick roll-y chair, only works at odd hours, or whenever reception decides to turn on the gas. But when it is functioning-oh, what delightful times we have! I turn it on to "MAX" and press my cold body flat against it. I recently noticed that after a snuggle session, I had red marks all over my back. I won't go so far as to characterize them as "burns", as such, since that would be a disservice to the amount of pleasure singing my flesh gives me on those chilly days. 

Lord of all she surveys

Here's a fairly typical view from my window. In certain moods, I actually enjoy the rain-streaked ambiance the weather lends to my room, although the view from the kitchen is much nicer. Actually, the kitchen is nearly flawless. Have I rhapsodized about that kitchen yet?

nice, innit?

And I'll leave you with a look at the last sunny day I can remember. Students make pilgrimages to this hallowed lawn on those rare and most holy of days: the nice ones. I'd like to make a subtle joke here about modern day pilgrimages and Chaucer, but I'm afraid it would fall short. I'll leave that to you. 

A Scavenger Hunt, and: musings upon English weather

One of the seemingly dozens of memorials to Prince Albert. 

Hyde Park

note: not my feet

My spirits have so lifted at the mere thought of London, I'm raring at the bit once again to bring you all up to date. And isn't that a tempting image there up at the top? "Surely that can't be London," you are likely exclaiming to yourself, quietly. "It's too lush, sunny, and generally glorious!" Well, hold onto your britches because it is, indeed, London, and it was indeed glorious. There may be some times in the future when you'll be a little taken aback at how lovely the weather can be here. And there will be some times, such as my melancholy last post, that demonstrate that sometimes the skies are exactly as gloomy as they are rumored to be. 

This day, my last in London for the orientation, was mostly taken up by the London Scavenger Hunt Day, as it was cheerily dubbed in our schedule. And although it sounds cheesy, stop for a moment and think about the possibilities of giving groups of students a day to wander around the city, in the warm sunshine, with only vague directions and a free Tube card to travel with. It was, unexpectedly, wonderful. We ended up completing two or three tasks, and the rest of the time wandering where the spirit took us. 

This wandering included a long stop at the Princess Diana memorial (memorials are plentiful, so much so that I doubt any English citizen is allowed to forget anything, ever). Those feet that are not mine belonged to a fellow student; we sat with our feet dangling in the water and ate sandwiches and yogurt. As memorials go, this one was very friendly (as befits the People's Princess, as I can imagine the architect emphasizing). The flowing water was designed to be touched and sat next to, and families with small, adorable children outnumbered all other groups. If it weren't for the prospect of strolling through Hyde Park, we might never have left.

And that's almost it. We had a farewell dinner, where I had a rather bitter squash risotto and a stunning toffee pudding with burnt caramel sauce. Then, those who chose to could go to the Buttoned-Down Disco at the hotspot nightclub Koko; I chose to, of course. By the end of the night my feet were blistered and aching, I had barely enough cash for my share of the cab, and most of us had gotten lost from one another at at least one point. A fitting end, I feel, although I'm not sure why. 

Tune in next time for: Canterbury, my room, and my new life, at least for a year! 

Day Two in London-town

This atmospheric, if illegible, photo was taken as I walked along the Thames with  a group of fellow student travelers. The river was on our left, bustling with river tours stuffed with tourists (I say this without judgement, as someone who was once similarly stuffed). But that's not what this picture is of, since they turned out blurry(er) and sad. No, this picture was taken as we walked on the riverbank through trees twisted round with lights. It was almost suspiciously lovely, like we were in a cosmopolitan fairy-land. 

It wasn't a relaxed fairy stroll, however, as we had just left dinner and were on our way to Timon of Athens at the Globe; and, of course, we were horrendously late. (This may explain the blurriness of the previous photo.)  We charmed our way in, but most of the group ended up leaving at intermission anyway. I and a few others stayed, and were rewarded with the sight of classically trained Shakespearean actors smearing each other with (hopefully fake) feces. I can't really explain more than that, not out of any misplaced desire to keep this clean, but out of bewilderment. 

Tune in next time for day three; perhaps I won't be in a foul mood then. Word to the wise: awful, awful weather can be more of a depressant than it should be. Hail, Britannia. 

But never fear, on the morrow (indeed, almost too bright and early for a night owl like me) we head back to London! 

Predicted weather: pouring rain. 

Stranger in a Strange Land: or, the first of many posts to come, or: yes, I'm in England now

Hershey's Kiss trees

One of those marvelous courtyards where the grass is so green is hurts

Dearest Kith and Kin:

Apparently I AM the kind of person who writes a blog, despite what I may have boldly declared before arriving here. But don't get too excited; this is a big step for someone who can barely rouse the technological energy to create a Facebook photo album. So this may be a disaster-but I am doing this for YOU, the people. 

(Note: it's difficult to straddle that line between entertaining and overly facetious! I'll work on that.)

So although it seems an eternity, I've only been away from sunnyish Northern California a few weeks, if that. But oh, how much has happened! Upon landing at Heathrow after a pleasant 12-hour flight next to two uncompromisingly dull and silent Midwesterners, I was whisked away to a three day London orientation. No pictures of my temporary home (in a student-type houses in the Bloomsbury district) since I was too busy dragging my three Doberman-sized bags up four flights of stairs, one bag at a time. 

Day One: settle in. Meetings. Dinner at Belgo, a bustling, hip Belgian restaurant. I chose the mushroom tart (or rather, was forced to choose it, as it was the only vegetarian option); it was huge, hot, and slightly gummy. I had a delicious and authentic ("authentic"-the catnip of tourists!) beer, Lindeman's Pecheresse. It was deeply fruity and peachy. (Note to parents: If you become distressed at hearing things like this, let me point out that I am of legal drinking age. Relax, and enjoy.)

Day Two: Day of many wonders, one right after another! First up was Hampton Court Palace. Feast your eyes on some snapshots, assuming I can figure out how to embed pictures. 

UPDATE: No, I cannot figure out how to embed pictures where I actually WANT them to be. So, I guess you've already enjoyed my photos of the court grounds at the beginning of my post.  I had to stumble somewhere, I suppose. 

Well, all of this technological maneuvering has left my fingertips bruised and my cerebellum aching, so that's all for now, my lovelies. Subscribe to the blog (don't ask me how to do that, I can only hope it will be intuitive) and keep in touch! 

And, not being facetious, I miss you all. Peace, love, ciao.