London, UK
Along the Thames River, between the Old Thames Inn and The Golden Hindle
I’ve never been quite so inclined to listen to The Beatles as I am as of late. Well, that’s not really fair to say since I’ve never really had an interest in listening to them. Good thing I downloaded their discography before I left—that should keep me busy while winding my way through London’s myriad curving streets and alleys.
Truth be told, I haven’t had much time for music. I’ve been far too busy listening to the quiet of a city which seems nearly as busy and bustling as New York, yet only emits a soft murmur, even down its most passed-through thoroughfares.
I’m getting a hang of the money. Right now it’s about a buck and half for every pound, so the conversion is simple enough. The coins are fairly simple to use, and the bills are reminiscent of Australian bills—although I assume the Aussies got it from the Brits. Had some discussion today with an older Londoner about the value of the now non-existent shilling and farthing. Seems no one here can recall such formerly essential information.
Teaching English to foreign students, I become immediately aware of my accent, how I pronounce my words differently from almost all the other teachers in my training group. And not just the phonetics of words, but the combinations, the idioms. It’s all very strange an enlightening.
I remarked yesterday that the rafters of the George Inn probably did not absorb the vibrations of the voice of Dickens, but I was wrong. The George Inn was renovated last in the mid-1600s (I’ll gather the exact information later). The same inn frequented by Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Dickens holds the power of such literary forces in the fiber of its beams. Well, not Chaucer, and only maybe Shakespeare, but their voices are in the soil beneath, and surely that has a power as well, though unseen. (Oh, listen to me talk of power, and muses, as if I were a spiritualist!)
The Southwark Cathedral was rebuilt in 1212. Yes, for nearly eight hundred years those same stones have shivered under the force of a choir’s gathered voice, a priest’s singular presence. Tonight, at 5:30, I hope to attend a service of choral music in those hallowed halls.
And, along a medieval street, plastered with plastic and glass by the cancer of modernity, stand the forgotten ruins of Winchester Palace, the crumbling remains of the face of the great hall revealed for the first time in ages. The shattered walls were covered up by tenement houses and warehouses in the 17th century, rediscovered in the 19th century, and finally revealed in the 1980s. These same stones which were placed with care by hands now long decayed, whose master could not have possibly considered the fate of the area, lay alongside stones cut for a Pret A Manger, across from a Starbucks.
All across London I see the signs of the past, old buildings and towers, once great giants, now dwarfed and shadowed by the gleaming glass buildings of today. All across the landscape I see cranes rise out of the cityscape, heads reared like charging brontosaurus, or, if you prefer, dragons.
I adore much of the simplicity here. One of the attractions of the area is The Monument. That’s all. It is just: The Monument. I couldn’t imagine what could deserve such a singular name, but as I rounded the corner out of the Underground I found myself faced with a monolith of monolithic proportions. Pure stone rose over a hundred feet (if memory serves) into the sky, and its width around was incredible. It was simple. An Ionic column (again, if memory serves) with a base that had a Latin inscription, an English description (it is to commemorate the great London fire, and stands so tall that if it were laid on its side it would reach exactly to the sight of the outbreak of the fire), and a bas relief sculpture. Atop it was a simple golden sculpture with a deck for viewing. Yet, this monument, surely an astonishing sight in its day, is now blocked out by mere office buildings.
Everything here is simple. The safety, the laws. Everything is a suggestion—but a strong one at that. There is little to tell you what not to do, but rather there are signs which inform you that every inch of the streets is covered by cameras, so, do as you wish, but, you know, don’t.
The national pride here is also very subtle. There are not flags waving from every building. At this point I’ve seen only one British flag flying atop a building, and I think it may have been a government building. The British themselves seem very comfortable with being British. Whereas an American might feel extraordinary, boastful pride in their nationality, or be even a bit apologetic (as I sometimes am), the British simple are. Yeah, they’ve got lots of history; yeah, they’re kinda powerful; yeah their a little backwards. It’s cool. Everything seems to get a bit of a shrug and a bashful smile.
But they’re more than just great history and funny customs: they have public bathrooms in the streets. Free ones. Yeah, I was kinda thrilled about that one.
No comments:
Post a Comment