Boxing in the Rain

The rain fell in long, cold drops as I walked the slick path leading to Highgate Cemetery. The slick pavements starts around the corner from the Highgate Cemetery bus stop and winds through fields of grass, glowing and bowing under heavy water droplets, over ponds polka-doted with ripples, and along tall oaks covered with moss like tarnished copper. The air was impregnated with the cold, clean, flowery scent of water and earth. The sky was silver and allowed enough light down to ignite red and pink wildflowers peppering the fields. I passed under a tall, spindly black gate, crossed the street dividing the East and West Cemetery ,and under the sheltered arch of the chapel guarding the West Cemetery.

Taking a break from the rain, I waited for the tour guide. I knew I would enjoy my day in the cemetery as soon as I saw the guide. He was short, smiled as he spoke, and his wide eyes brimmed with excitement through his rimless glasses as he clutched a laminated map of the over 37 acres of the cemetery to his chest. He wore a pink and blue plaid button down and cotton-lined wind breaker. His khaki zip-off pants were perfectly starched and ironed, the cargo pockets stuffed to the seams. His tan and wrinkled face was turtle-like, his wide nose and head bobbing on his long neck. His name was Gordon and I liked him more and more as he led the group deeper into the maze of the cemetery.

I followed his bouncing black umbrella up the slippery stone steps leading up to the West Cemetery. He stopped under the leaves and tree limbs reaching through the rain to the stone graves resting among the trunks to point out the grave of a coach driver. The man had set the record for taking his coach from London to Cambridge in seven hours and fifty minutes, but “the effort proved to be too much, as he promptly died after.” Gordon pointed out the symbol of an inverted horseshoe, symbolizing good luck. He stopped often to tell a similar story or reveal the meaning of a symbol, and would be off to the next stop with a nod.

The climax of his storytelling came when the tour reached the tomb of Tom Sayers. The grave is set off from the path among ferns and ivy running free along the rich, damp dirt. A mourning hound guards the stone coffin, lying at the decaying feet of his master. The rain had soaked his stone hide and fresh drops slid along a stream running from his eyes making him look like he’s crying. Gordon told the about the life of the boxer Tom Hayes and his most famous and final fight with American John Heenan. The bare-knuckled match was declared a draw when the police broke up the brawl. Hayes refused to fight afterwards and drowned in alcohol to the end of his days. Gordon’s voice faltered as he delivered the end of the tale. At Mr. Sayers’ funeral, instead of family in the procession, the boxer’s faithful dog, Lion, walked to the cemetery with a black ruffle around his neck.

This grave came towards the end of the tour. After Mr. King led the group to the newer and more open East Side of the cemetery to the graves of Karl Marx and George Eliot, he thanked us for coming on the tour despite the rain, but I loved the rain. It made the cemetery magical. The gravel paths through the West Cemetery crowded with graves and the trees living and growing among them were darkened by the sky and foliage. The trees mourned the dead as they wept over their coffins. Instead of ruining my day, as the London weather sometimes does, it amplified my tour in the Highgate Cemetery.

Highgate Cemetery’s Website: http://www.highgate-cemetery.org/

An Irish/Canadian/American in London

Sean Power first introduced himself to me as I was walking from the Russell Square Tube station to my flat on Farringdon Road. He stopped my friend, Jackie, and me and asked, “You guys American?” Upon hearing an American accent I eagerly spun and exclaimed, “Yes!” A thirty-something man wearing a full leather motorcycle-racing outfit met my gaze. The jacket was black, red and white and the pants were solid black. He wore black, heeled boots with square toes and carried a sleek red and black helmet. His jacket was unzipped, revealing a black tee underneath. His short brown hair was disheveled along his receding hairline. He had deep, tan wrinkles around his steely hazel eyes. There was stubble on his thin face and two smile lines running from either side of his nose to the corners of his mouth. His tan, wrinkled, and stubbly face was ruggedly handsome.

We chatted on the street corner about what we were respectively doing in London. He revealed that he is an actor on the “British version of Curb Your Enthusiasm” a television program called Lead Balloon. He then invited us to a pub in Convent Garden, saying “There’s a secret league of Americans in London and we all meet at this pub for jazz night. It’s impossible to find decent jazz in this city.” He tried to explain where the Three Brewers was, but answered my confused expression with “Tweet me,” which deepened my puzzled brow.

My interest in this American actor I had just randomly met was piqued. After finding him on twitter and sending him a tweet he sent me more information on the Three Brewers. Jackie and I head there on a Sunday night having no idea what to expect. I walked in and spotted him right away at the bar wearing his same motorcycle outfit, but this time a white tee underneath. His right hand held a soda water and his left rested in his pants pocket. He greeted me with a peck on each cheek with a friendly intimacy that caught me off guard. We sat in a corner of the crowded bar as the jazz guitar and harmonica started up.

There were four of us in total: Sean, me, Jackie, and Sean’s friend, Tommy. Tommy is also an actor and the evening was filled with bantering that went over my head. Tommy lamented the news that Steven Spielberg plans to make a film out of the hit play War Horse. He claimed the magic of the puppets would be taken away and it would be “just another war movie.” Sean rolled his eyes and said he liked Band of Brothers, then quickly changed the subject to prevent the evening from being bogged down by Tommy’s intelligent although long-winded critiques of pop culture.

After comparing New York to London, Sean began talking about his heritage. . He grew up in Canada, but his passport is from Ireland. When I asked where he was born he told me that his mother went into labor over the Atlantic and he was in fact “a Citizen of the world.” His mother and father are Irish and they lived in Dublin for a small part of his childhood before moving to Canada, where he eventually attended acting school. His claim to an American identity comes from living and working in New York for a few years before coming to London six years ago. He moved to London because it is easier to get an acting job. The American swagger that comes so natural to him is difficult for native Brits to learn, so his resume is highlighted by his time spent stateside.

This transient life Sean Power has makes for an interesting way of speaking. His accent is undoubtedly American. However, he throws in words and phrases that are from the United Kingdom. He called things “brilliant” and said “cheers” to the bartender. He ends many sentences with “Do ya know what I mean?” that has a hint of an Irish brogue to it. He has managed to resist the quiet and quick speech that the British use, and instead speaks loudly and laughs a boisterous American laugh. He often has an assured and brash opinion to offer. I noticed this upon our first meeting when he snubbed London’s jazz scene. I saw it again when he told me he is often compared to Colin Farrell. He didn’t seem to see it as a compliment saying, “We have the same fuckin’ eyebrows.” As he went on about popular roles he had just missed getting, I mused about the level of self-obsession required to notice a tiny similarity such as eyebrows.

Since the bar began to close down, we were forced to move our conversation outside. Here, we met a few more Americans in the “secret league” Sean mentioned. With a voice full of pride, he introduced Jackie and I to his friend Nathan Osgood. Sean told us, with an elitist flair, that Nathan is directing a new show playing in the Leicester Square called Burnt Oak. Nathan Osgood is one of Sean’s many talented and well-connected friends. Sean never shies away from mentioning the important people he has met. Perhaps it was the age gap, but I shrugged with ignorance at many of the name drops sprinkled in Sean’s sentences.

After I became conscious of Sean’s quite narcissism, I began to internally challenge his claim to the American identity. I thought that if he grew up in Canada and Ireland and only lived in New York for a few years where did he get the right to call himself American? After living in London for six years he wasn’t calling himself British. I wondered if he marketed himself as American for the sake of his craft. However, I caught myself. A mixed heritage is so essential to the American identity and to doubt Sean’s claim to this identity would be hypocritical of me. He might not speak with the slang of the states, but his long, confident strides on his heeled boots are reminiscent of the great American cowboy.

While I begrudging came around to Sean’s self-branding as an American, I was still suspicious of his charismatic persona. After a few hours of silently listening to Sean, I grew tired of our one sided conversation. I gathered up Jackie who had been chatting with Tommy and we headed to the bus station. Sean, of course, had to get the last word in and walked with us down the street. I enjoyed my night spent with a small scale British celebrity, but prefer my cocky American actors to stay behind the television screen.

Sean Power’s Blog: http://www.seanpower.tv/wordpress/index.php

Tower of Tourists

The ancient Tower of London with its yellow stone parapets and green lawns jumps out at me as I walk out of the Underground station. The fort sits strangely among the modernity around it. My initial intrigue and excitement ran short, however, when I saw the mass of people waiting in line for entrance tickets.

Despite arriving right at opening time, I was still shuffled along in a line so a silent and burly security guard could check my bag. I was unsure of what he was looking for between my notebook and wallet, but I was given a stiff nod and moved forward. I took long strides right to the Crown Jewels in hopes of beating the crowd already wandering around the uneven stone pathways. My timing was rewarded, as I was allowed past the gated queue area, empty at the moment. Eyeing the length of the line that would soon amass there I expected the Jewels to be in view shortly. I was proved wrong, however, as I wound my way through the building. The path to the Crown Jewels is reminiscent of a theme park as the line of people waiting was penned in and fed through introductory halls and rooms. The first room depicts the whole lineage of the monarchy on its walls. The second parades tourists in front of a video of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation. The final room is the largest and brings the suspense of the Jewels to a climax as a slide show of pictures of them with accompanying explanations is projected onto the walls.

The Crown Jewels themselves were glittering with intricate details. The stones encrusting the gold and silver were larger than I had anticipated. However, the collection as a whole was smaller than I had been lead to believe. Jackie Hinke agreed with me saying, “I was expecting more earrings and rings and such.” I wanted to linger longer on the few, but breathtaking Jewels, but was pushed out by a sudden influx of fellow tourists.

Once back out onto the green courtyard in the center of the fort I didn’t know what to do next. I had come for the jewels and now that I had seen them, I was ready to wind my way out of the tower. To my dismay, I was dragged to a guided tour where a group of twenty or so people was already gathering. By the time the Yeoman Warder begin his lecture, there were forty people straining their ears against the wind and murmurs of the uninterested. My mind easily wandered as the massive group was led around the tower. I was glad when it ended after forty minutes and asked two of my classmates what they thought of the tour. Jackie Hinke said, “I was disappointed by the Yeoman Warder tour, it was too large and felt impersonal.” Gina Ciliberto echoed this sentiment, “The tour guide was stiff…he didn’t make the tour compelling.” The Yeoman Warder was a soft-spoken older gentleman. He had many stories to tell about the various rooms of the tower and their prisoners, but he rattled them off so swiftly I was unable to catch them as I drowned in the chatty mob.

Exploring the rest of the tower proved very difficult as I tripped over screaming children running about and groups of high schoolers giggling and shoving each other. When I finally made it into the Bloody Tower, which has been made into a game for people to guess and vote on who they think killed the young sons of King James, I was assaulted with the loud reasoning of other people’s suspicions and was unable to form my own.

The morning was beginning to turn into afternoon and the stream of tourists entering the tower was increasing by the second. I took this as my queue to leave. Upon exiting I was greeted by a magnificent view of the Tower Bridge and was finally able to take a deep breather and spread my arms wide without smacking anyone. After the over-crowded and over-rated experience of the Tower of London, I enjoyed my quiet walk back to the tube station, however, not before stopping for a picture in front of the Tower Bridge.

The Tower of London’s website: http://www.hrp.org.uk/toweroflondon/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Church of England

After touring Westminster Abbey it became clear to me that the Abbey is more of a symbol of the English people than a symbol of God or Christianity. In April the interior of Westminster Abbey was viewed by over two billion people as they tuned into the Royal Wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton. Seeing in real life what I had previously seen on television and walking on the same ground I had watched a royal wedding take place kept the Abbey in touch with current times. Ancient tombs are interesting, but seeing the alter where Will and Kate were pronounced man and wife filled me with awe for the beauty of love and marriage. I am one among a nation and even world of people who fully support the relationship between these two people, which is also something awe-inspiring. The Will and Kate flags, plates, and mugs sold to tourists and locals alike on many London streets illustrate the way this marriage has united the nation of Great Britian and become a source of national pride.

Will and Kate flag flying in Camden Market

Interest in Westminster Abbey has increased since the wedding, but it has always been one of London’s main tourist attractions. Visitors from all over the world mill silently about the church listening to the tours recorded on cell-phone looking devices.  The interest is not solely in the glory of the church as a place of worship, but predominantly as the final resting place of many renowned English people. Tombs and memorials within the Abbey include well known Kings and Queens like Edward the Confessor, Henry II, Mary Queen of Scots, and Anne of Cleaves. Many poets, playwrights and scientists are also buried or honored in the church.

Burials include Oliver Cromwell, Sir Isaac Newton, Charles Darwin, Robert Browning, Geoffrey Chaucer, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling, and Alfred Tennyson. Memorials are made to many great Poets and Playwrights in Poets Corner such as Shakespeare, Lewis Carroll, George Eliot, T.S. Eliot, D.H. Lawrence, Lord Byron, Jane Austen, The Bronte Sisters, John Keats, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The desire of the British people to bury and commemorate their favorite literary figureheads among Kings and Queens shows that English culture is both a culture of history and words. In fact, writers such as Geofrey Chaucer, William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens are well known for writing about the lives of common English people.

The Abbey is also engrained into British culture because it has survived so much of Britian’s past. The interior appearance of the church serves as a symbol of English life. The dome of the Abbey was destroyed in the great bombing of World War II and has since been rebuilt. It is one of many scars England wears proudly, uniting the people of the country with their past.  The walls of the church are covered with a thick layer or black grime from the infamous London pollution. The rock floors have been worn smooth and shallow bowls have been dug into stone steps by millions of visitors over hundreds of years.

More interestingly, fingers in stony prayer have been broken off from many of the statues. One of the guardians of the Abbey, marked by their red robes, explained the vandalism to me. For one reason or another, people used to throw things during coronations. Westminster Abbey has hosted many coronations, so statues were damaged from years of this behavior. A more malign explanation for the missing digits happened during the Protestant Reformation. During this time of religious controversy, Catholics would sneak into the Abbey at night and deface the tombs by breaking off fragile bits like fingers and limbs. This vandalism was a sort of bullying and seems a bit childish. Nevertheless, fingers frozen in prayer are still missing from some of the tombs and serve as a constant reminder of Britain’s internal unrest during this time. Westminster Abbey’s presence through celebration, war, and controversy reflects the union the people of Great Britain have with their history and ancient culture.

Westminster Abbey’s website: http://www.westminster-abbey.org/

Wine and Literature at Bloomsbury

Visiting a publishing house may not be high on the list of things to do in London for many people. But for a group of young writers, this tour generated much excitement. As my class and I approached the blue door with the gold plate etched with “Bloomsbury Publishing” the trees glowing green after the rain echoed the anticipation shining in our eyes. We entered the quaint white building and were told to wait by the smiling, round face of the receptionist. There was only a moment to admire a framed display of the publishing house’s best selling books, including The Kite Runner and Eat, Pray, Love before we were greeted by two young women.

They began the tour in reception explaining that the company’s founder, Nigel Newton, preferred welcoming wooden bookcases and carpeting over intimidating corporate concrete and glass. This area was part reception part trophy room as the books lining the walls with their covers facing out were all published by Bloomsbury. The room creaked with age and it’s musty scent mingled with the nutmeg smell of new books.

Our tour guides were both young women. One had short brown hair and wore a bright fuchsia sweater and black dress pants. The other was tall with blonde hair and vintage white button down and corduroys. We apologized for being a few minutes late, but the brunette dismissed it with a friendly shrug and dissipated the awkwardness I felt. The tour of the tiny publishing house became increasingly informal. Beginning with the women looking up from their keyboards in their cubicles crowded into the second floor to wave at us and ending with the tea and cookies awaiting us on the third floor conference room.

Four of five women were already waiting for us as the nine of us crowded in to join them at the table. There was a short scuffle as everyone found a seat. When everyone was settled, a jovial woman with auburn hair offered us tea. As she dispensed the hot water, the female coworkers around the table chatted to each other, laughing and requesting their own tea. The room quieted down when Evan Schnittman managing director, entered in a blue button down, blue tie, grey pants, balding head, and black plastic glasses. The women fell silent as he introduced himself to us and said hello to our professor, his personal friend. He is also American and is from New Jersey.

With the entrance of Mr. Schnittman, the room fell silent, but the warmth remained. I felt Evan was given silence out of respect, not fear. Indicating the idea of mutual respect in the workplace, Evan ran the meeting by asking questions. He asked questions that would seem obvious to his employees, but not to us students. For example, he interrupted one woman to ask her to define what Big Box Stores are to us. She answered that they are like Target or Waterstones and then asked, “Is this a test?” The simple questions their boss asked made the employees uncomfortable, but they got along well enough with him to joke about it. This small joke put me at ease as well for I too was confused, but then I realized his questions were meant for our sake.

I was fully engaged as each person went around the room and explained her job in the company. Janet Murphy, Editor in Chief of Specialist Publishing, spoke about the difficulty of targeting the specific audiences of sports. Jenny and Emily from Academic Marketing explained how professors find books to assign to their classes. It is called adoption. Publishing companies send out free books to professors in hopes that they will make their students buy it for the class.

I was even more interested when Evan Schnittman began to talk about E-books. He explained that while they are becoming more popular, he personally does not feel they can replace a hard copy. He stressed the importance of the shopping experience. After obsessing over his Kindle, he found that he missed going into bookstores. He gladly paid more for the print book from the bookstore than the electronic version because the internet can’t replace going into a store and physically picking up and examining a book. He pointed out the task of the company is not to make consumers love reading, but love books.

I mulled this comment over as I left the building after the meeting was followed by a few glasses of wine.  I am interested in pursuing a career in publishing and Mr. Schnittman and seeing Evan Schnittman who is passionate about his job enough to relate it to his life beyond the walls of the publishing house. I was moved by his willingness to live in a foreign country in order to work for Bloomsbury. This love for his work made me excited for a career in publishing. I left the publishing house with an ignited desire for a future in literature and, thanks to the wine Evan produced at five o’clock on the nose, a flush in my cheeks.

Bloomsbury’s website: http://www.bloomsbury.com/

Evan Schnittman’s Blog: http://www.blackplasticglasses.com/

Jealous of Helena

To say that William Shakespeare has a beautiful way with words it so state the obvious. What takes his talent beyond his language is his ability to appeal to particular human emotions and draw specific responses from his audience. His play Alls Well that Ends Well has many themes that appeal to audiences such as war, motherhood, marriage, politics, and humor. The play as a whole is entertaining, but it is the small veins of the story that appeal to the audience on different levels and in different ways that makes the play so successful. I was drawn to Shakespeare’s words regarding unrequited love. My favorite scene where these words are found is the sorrowful parting of Bertram for war. His mother, the Countess, wishes him a tearful goodbye. The Countess’s young female assistant, Helena, voices an even deeper remorse for his departure.

“I am undone: there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. ‘Twere all one
That I should love a bright particular star
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. ‘Twas pretty, though plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart’s table; heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour:
But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his reliques…”

I stood among the “groundlings” at the Globe Theatre and listened to these words delivered by a thirty something blonde actress. The painful words were choking her as her hand clasped her throat and tried to help them out of her thin, red lips. Her facial muscles were scrunched around her nose and eyes in misery, and her eyes were misty with visions of Bertram. I saw this woman admitting the torment her love put her through and a familiar face misted over my own eyes. I was standing shoulder to shoulder among a crowd of sweaty strangers constantly shifting their weight from one foot to another, but my mind was seeking those laughing blue eyes and joyously boyish grin under the messy mop of dusty brown hair. Shakespeare’s language made my own experience with unrequited love return to me as I watched his play.

Despite my best efforts at self-discipline and denial, earlier this year I had fallen for a boy back at my school in America even though I knew he already had a girlfriend. I had noticed him, but never let myself take genuine interest because his serious girlfriend back home was well known on campus. However, when we were in the same class together over the course of the semester I was no longer able to hold myself back. I shamelessly flirted with him in spite of myself. He was too kind to give me the cold shoulder, but continually treated me as a friend. His friendliness only encouraged me. Before long, after the initial head swimming fantasies of falling in love had petered out, the reality of his commitment to his girlfriend began to sink in. I loathed myself when in that class with him, but it was the highlight of my day. I waited anxiously to see him, but anticipated the stomach-churning reminder that my affections were not reciprocated.

Helena voices this double-edged blade of wanting to see the object of her affections and not wanting to see him. To see him is to have the useless fire of unrequited love fueled. However, with his parting, Helena is “undone.” I have grappled with myself over the thought that if I were to never see the man I love again I could perhaps get over him. But then I argue that what if I were to get over him just in time to see him break up with his girlfriend and his affections turned to me? I would never forgive myself. I am jealous of Helena in that she had the strength and opportunity to pursue her man and win him in the end. Alls Well that Ends Well served not only to make my amorous emotions resurface, but also to inspire them to stay alive. One day, perhaps I will share in Helena’s happiness and victory. I am stuck, “The ambition of my love thus plagues itself.” The hope that love could one day be returned will never cease, thus the pain of unrequited love will never cease.

The Globe Theatre’s website: http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/

Aphrodite Beckons

The Reading Room at The British Museum

The British Museum pops up rather suddenly in the residential area of Bloomsbury. Gates iced with gold open up to allow visitors free entry into the museum. A stream of tourists pass through the glowing white marble and glass ceiling of the Great Court and flows into the Ancient Egypt section to the left of the gargantuan Reading Room. After pausing to marvel through the heads of many fellow tourists and the Rosetta Stone, if one strolls between the immortalized pharaohs, she will be met with the naked figure of Aphrodite crouching and attempting to cover up her soft body with languid hands. Caught mid bath, her shocked stare at her intruder will enrapture visitors. She is the magnet attracting visitors to the Ancient Greek and Rome section of the museum. The next room contains scattered sculptures and the Nereid Monument. But what the visitor is really here to see is the Parthenon. Not the actual thing, mind you, but 60% of the frescoes were taken by the 7^th Earl of Elgin during the 18^th century, thus named Elgin Marbles, and sold to the museum. The stone faces of this room are marred and pocked with age. They are mysterious to any visitor without a key. The key needed to unlock the story running along the walls is a book, or a good ol’ tour guide. Tours are free and meet periodically outside the Parthenon room.

Aphrodite

Aphrodite's Hand

Elgin's Marbles

The frescoes tell the story of a procession of a wool blanket being presented to Athena. To the left, marble torsos draped with intricate marble folds represent the miracle contest between Athena and Poseidon. Athena won her city by producing Greece’s first olive tree. To the right are seated and reclining bodies fully naked or outlined underneath cold drapery. They are the witnesses of Athena’s birth, although the sculpture of the goddess emerging from Zeus’s head is missing. Along these walls are the sculptures of the battle between Centaur and Lapith. The races were previously friends until the Centaurs tried to carry away the women during a wedding celebration, sparking the battle.

Hestia, Dionne, and Aphrodite at The Birth of Athena

Tour Guide Keith telling the story of the Centaur and Lapith

At first, the Parthenon room appears to be filled with meaningless broken statues. The myths the statues depict are unlocked with a bit of digging. These stories are what make this room and its effigies so enthralling. My tour guide who broke the silence of the sculptures for me admired the Romans for their ability to invent a good story. When asked what his favorite part of the museum was he answered, “The Roman Empire because it follows on from Greece when they took the whole Greek Gods and etc and changed their names and they took the allegory of everything to a greater height.” For him, the Romans took the oral stories from the Greeks, improved them and immortalized them in stone. The vastness of the British Museum ensures there is something for everyone, but for those of us who love the art, narrative, and passion of ancient Greece and Rome, this area is especially pleasing.

The British Museum’s website: http://www.britishmuseum.org/

Playing in the Streets

After class today my friends and I wandered about Covent Garden. It is multiple blocks of shops, booths,bars, clubs and street performers almost totally closed off from traffic. I became obsessed with every new street show we came upon. It is so interesting to me the kind of personality it takes to me a performer. They must be funny, talented, and confident. There is also a but of trickery and improvising ability thrown in. These people bare their talents and soul to a crowd and depend on the generosity of complete strangers. Enjoy these videos I took and posted to my Youtube of these eclectic personas.

Magician who isn’t so magical, but makes a good speech asking for money:

My favorite (sorry if its shaky from my laughter) A mime takes a boy form the audience and makes him part of his show:

Dancing Violinists: 

A toddler wanders over to the Violinists:

“The Tom Show” a bit long, but he’s a good entertainer and fast talker:

The Little Differences

Although London is an English speaking city, it is still in a foreign country. American and English cultures are similar, but its the little differences that make living here very interesting.

Digital Media: The Brits aren’t digital media obsessed. The internet here is slow and limited, so I find myself online for no more than two hours a day, if that (which is a huge cutback believe it or not). Despite being almost cut off from the internet, my life has not come crashing down around me. I’m not missing the Youtube sensation of the day because people here rarely go on Youtube. Being an English major, I have noticed people here read paper more than Americans do. Book stores are still thriving businesses displaying the summer’s big read. People read the newspaper (mostly The London Evening Standard) handed out for free on the street. People still read books and newspapers on the trains and in cafes rather than pouring over their smart phones. However, I can’t help but think that England will soon follow America, as we pretty much run the media world.

Nightlife: People go out and return home much earlier. Pubs stop serving around 11pm. The tradition seems to be that after work, people go out to dinner and hang out for a bit with their pints before heading home for the night. If one desires a scene like in New York, Piccadily Circus seems to be the equivalent of Times Square with clubs open late into the night. Pubs are also more intimate than NYC bars. They are more spacious with more seating for you and your mates. The British people are also more respectful of personal space than Americans. This sometimes comes off as arrogance, but a Brit won’t approach you on a whim because they don’t want to intrude. However, they are extremely friendly if you explain that you are an American student looking to learn about their culture or are in need of directions.

Because of the earlier nightlife, it is not strange to see these smartly dressed gentlemen on the street at 6 in the afternoon.

Architecture of the City: There are few high rises in London. City Planners work hard to keep them out as they are thought to detract from the character of the city. London is vastly different from New York because it is so ancient. America is a young country and its hard to wrap my mind around the deep history of London. For example, going by St. Paul’s Cathedral on my run this morning I thought how the church was actually from Medieval times. Peasants and Lords used to walk these streets. Buildings aren’t Medieval or Renaissance inspired or imitations. They are the real deal. It is humbling to see in real life places I had only previously read about. For me, thats the magic of London; the mix of the ancient and contemporary.

Ancient Buildings are the backbone of London

The Streets of London: I look like a frightened rabbit when I cross the road because I am still unsure of which way the cars are coming. It’s strange to have to look right, over my shoulder, before crossing the streets. Navigating London is also different because the city is a collection of towns that grew and connected themselves over time. As a result, streets wind and turn and I often find myself doubling back to get anywhere. I now truly appreciate the grid system of New York. However, it is also comforting to know that even seasoned Londoners carry an “A to Zed” pocket Atlas at all times.

Lost again

Transportation: Londoners love to bike. People bike to and from work. They ride in the streets with the cars and buses and it is frightening to watch them getting overtaken by a vehicle, they seem to miss each other by a hair. Throughout the city are stations to rent bikes sponsored by Barclays Bank. The cost is about 2 pounds every half hour. My friends and I rented a few the other day and the ride was thrilling, but I think once was enough for me.

The subway doesn’t work quite as well as the system in New York. The London Underground seems to be a common complaint among the locals as it is frequently delayed and doesn’t run into the night and is limited on weekends. However, another common complaint is traffic. The red double decker buses are the most entertaining and highly recommended form of transportation, but are also very slow. Because movement is less stream lined than in New York, the pace of London is slower. People are less stressed and hurried and walk slower on the streets (much to the frustration of my roommate from Lincoln Center).

This one the only bike going slow enough for me to snap a picture of

There are many little differences between London and New York and I’m sure I will continue to learn more. These are the ones that stood out to me and that I have yet to get used to.

Opposite Side of the Street

This is my first post from London! I’m sitting in small, but clean flat on my small, but hopefully clean bed (just kidding, mom). After sleeping in from jet lag and my first taste of British cider, my flatmates and I spent the day looking for Fordham’s London Centre in Kensington. We got a bit lost, mostly because of we avoided the Tube and asking people questions. However, my tired feet forced me to wander down into the Tube station and march up to a man with a walkie-talkie and asking how to get to South Kensington station. We made it easily, but then learned that our school was near High Kensington station. We took the walk for fear of, once again, the Tube. Here we are at the school wondering how we’re going to get home! Turned out to be very simple and I would like to think we have figured out the Underground, or at least how to queue up at the teller’s window.

Jackie and Muara figuring out how we're going to get home.

Catching up with the sun somewhere over the Atlantic

Jackie and Muara figuring out how we’re going to get home.

Catching up with the sun somewhere over the Atlantic

First view of Great Britain from the air!

Yup, I had to do it

Some random guys riding an old fire engine in front of Hyde Park