London Part 3: I'm Done This Time, I Promise

The West Wing of the Highgate Cemetery was bizarrely compelling and fascinating. This had to do in no small part with our tour guide, an enthusiastic retiree. This was only his twelfth tour, but he peppered our walk with the kind of stories and historical anecdotes that I always want to know when wandering alone between tombstones: that this one was the very first grave in the cemetery, that this one is one of the few stones that describes cause of death (fire; a 19 year old woman); that this one has a statue of a lion because the man was London's first entrepreneurial zookeeper. He wore a "Free Tibet" shirt under his windbreaker. Here is is, the lovely man:

This is the Egyptian mausoleum, built by Egypt-mad Victorians. It turned out, surprisingly, to be quite unpopular, or at least quite difficult to fill with bodies; apparently the love of the exotic did not extend to the afterlife, which should be highly Christian and respectable. 

Proper Christian burial grounds. Each door is a family plot; like a friendly, suburban neighborhood of dead people. 

Our guide left us with a delightful story about his enormous mausoleum, resting place of a wealthy merchant and his daughter, who died very young. (That part isn't relevant to this tale, but I found it perversely fascinating how few people lived to grow out of the childrens' sizes. Or, if they managed that, how few lived to retirement age. Strange how we don't see what luck we have to be alive.) 

This man was a merchant, and a wealthy and successful one, but for all that he was never truly accepted in the upper social circles. There were a few strikes against him: he was a German emigré, he was a merchant (so he was not born into his wealth and was therefore inferior) and, last of all, he was Jewish.  So when he began building his family mausoleum, he had resentment to spare. He selected a spot near the top of the hill, and made the building about 25 feet tall. The spot he chose was right in front of the very popular promenades well-frequented by the well-to-do, who would take strolls there to have fresh air and views over the entire city. Well, up to the point when a towering mausoleum was erected directly in the way. The cross on top was also a nice touch-he converted in the later years of his life in order to be allowed into the cemetery at all; it is highly doubtful that it was a sudden belief in our saviour Jesus Christ that spurred this. 

At this point, the intimidating and domineering grande dame in charge of the High Gate tours radioed our guide to inform him that our tour was running late. He took us the long way back, stopping to talk about a few more of his favorite headstones, while confessing that he was somewhat frightened of the mistress of High Gate. He also made faces while he was talking to her on the walkie. Did I mention we all loved him?

London: Part 2 1/2

This is London, Trip Three, Day Two, Part 2 1/2, to be sure, but to be even more specific, this is London's High Gate Cemetery, East Wing. (Part 3 will be West Wing.) High Gate is London's oldest cemetery, and was well worth the multiple pounds that were milked out of us for the privilege of looking at carved stones and tumbling memorials. 

Okay, this is from just outside the cemetery, but I like it. How many is too many chimneys? Not possible!

Again, we're not quite in the cemetery proper yet, but we loved this park. The sun was thin and there was a needling wind, but it was green and lush in the right places, but also terribly English in other, equally right places. There were families with tots scrambling on the gentle lawns, and solitary old gents with wizened terriers. It was perfect.

I hope when I die, I have as good of a sense of humor as this fellow. Yes, his tombstone reads "DEAD". 

And finally, the main draw to the East Wing for a lot of tourists: Karl Marx's grave. A bit overwhelming, no? The one I feel sorry for is that modest little grave to the left there; how would you like being buried right next to Karl Marx? At least he seems to be coping; Marx doesn't have any bluebells on his tomb. 

We took turns dancing on his grave. Okay, no, we didn't, but we seriously thought about it. 

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!

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.