London, UK
The Yard of The Globe Theatre
So, the past few days have been a whirlwind of experience. Oh, and my TEFL course is going well. In the past days I have found the old site of the Tabard Inn, enjoyed a choir service at the Southwark (Sutherk) Catherdral, located a second floor barber shop on Fleet Street, discovered the oldest copy of Beowulf alongside the Magna Carta, found myself before the filming location of Black Books and Notting Hill, browsed about the “home” of Sherlock Holmes, participated in the “Arrest the Pope” protest where I saw Richard Dawkins in the flesh, wended my way through Hyde park, enjoyed views of Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, and the London Eye, viewed damage from a bomb dropped by the Luftwaffe, stumbled upon a Francis Bacon painting, and spent three nights with three hosts.
I’ve seen the metropolitan side of London—almost indistinguishable from mid-town Manhattan; the hip side—indistinguishable from the youthful side of Brooklyn; and the ugly side—indistinguishable from the busy parts of the Bronx. So much ties these two great cities together, there are few ways I can see them apart.
London is home to ancient history, and they know it, are proud of it. You can see it in their signage, in their buildings, in their speech. There are subtleties to their architecture that betray their foreign nature, as in the multi-stack chimneys that pop from the tops of many residences here, or, often, the seeming lack of concern for surrounding aesthetics—each structure exists as a sculpture alone.
Then there are the people—distinctly British. Especially the men. Every British man conducts himself—his gait, his seat, his expression—in a very…British way. I can think of no other way to express it. There is a roundness of the eyes, a pointedness of the nose, and a curling of the lips that says they are who they are. Beyond that are the invisible mannerisms of the populace. Seen from a café seat, beside the street, the bustling business people bear all resemblance to their American counterparts. They dress more or less the same, walk more or less the same, appear busy more or less the same. Yet, should I attempt to make my way through the crowds, I find myself unkindly jostled—I cannot help it. I try to work my way skillfully amongst the throng, yet something about the unseen vibe prevents me. New York and London vibrate on different frequencies.
It is understandable, though. I get it, the British mindset. The British have existed for eons. They have been ruled, ruled, and everything between. They have made history and witnessed it. They have existed for longer than memory can effectively recall—and it shows. They do not have anything to prove. The British are content with their day to day run, the commute, the grind—and content with complaining quietly about it. The world goes on regardless of a man’s intent and the British seem to have internalized that. Americans, on the other hand, have only been here for some six hundred years, if you want to go back that far, barely over two hundred if you want to be honest. We Americans are fresh awake with the youth of our nation. We still see possibility. Every action we have taken in our short life has been of some great consequence and it seems a part of the American consciousness that we can and must perpetuate that. The British have left their glory to the royalty and the knightly caste—America has left it to its lowliest citizen.
Of course, to be fair, I’m only speaking of Londoners, not the whole of the British populace. Perhaps I will be fortunate enough at a later date to speak of the whole of the British disposition.
But I’ve gone on about that long enough. I spent the other evening at Southwark Cathedral, a religious institution which has stood since 600 AD. Just behind where the choir sang was a section of the church which has stood since 1212 AD. I have never in my life experienced anything so ancient. Those walls, for near on eight hundred years now, have reverberated with the sound of praise. It was enough to make me shiver, to draw my throat tight. I could not help but to be held in thrall by the majesty of the tradition carried forth before me. And then the sound of the train beyond, and thoughts of the Medieval mason laying stones, never imagining that such a sound could ever shake the wall which he lay.
No comments:
Post a Comment