Wednesday July 7, 2010
The Brits sure like their excavating, huh? Just look at the British Museum. Just look at all those curious artifacts and art pieces from different peoples of different times and places. How cultural. The expansive museum was crowded with tourists and schoolchildren alike with cameras a-flashing. People were going bat-shit crazy for the Rosetta Stone and the Egyptian mummies and tomb architecture, but I preferred the often-overlooked Assyrian temple ruins instead with the more detailed carved statues and more complicate interior façade and curved lines.
I also loved the few rooms devoted to the history of the timepiece. In the middle of the room, like an attention-whore, the rolling ball clock, from 1820, worked by having its steel ball roll in a zigzag path from one end of a tilted table to the other in thirty seconds for each journey. When the ball reached the end of the table, a catch released that tipped the table the other way for the ball to roll back. Although a bit unreliable, the clock was a delight to watch and to imagine that the continuous motion of the ball resulted in it traveling about 2,500 miles a year.
Some of the visitors were quite obnoxious about disobeying the “Don’t Touch” signs that were printed in, like, seven languages so people could precisely not have the excuse to ignore the usually-implied (if not always) rule that they should not run their greasy sausage fingers all over the 2,000 year-old original statues that once guarded the doors of ancient tombs. Alison was this close (very) to yelling at a kid who kept running around an Egyptian sarcophagus with her hand on it as her older sister or babysitter or whatever was watching her without a word. These people ought to give Aretha Franklin’s 1967 hit a good listen.
My delusion of space exploration, fueled by reading sci-fi books and watching sci-fi movies and television shows (BSG ftw!), was broken at the awesome Science Museum. The museum’s exhibit about the history and the possibilities of space exploration brought me back to Earth (harhar) about how far we are from jumping into warp drive, fighting Cylons in deep space, or settling in distant desert planets that are the hub of Black Market criminal activity. I mean, we’ve only put people on the moon six times during the turn of the 70s, and that was disputed as being a hoax by some nonbelievers! And astronauts have really only risked their lives by venturing into space to repair something outside of the space shuttle only a handful of times. The room even had a display explaining that astronauts have special potty-training as part their regular training since going to the toilet in space takes so much more effort with special nappies and liquid/solid-sucking loos that keep undesirables in place instead of floating around in the spacecraft’s zero-gravity environments. Wouldn’t that just be a shitty situation if there were not these special accommodations?
My favorite feature at the Science Museum was Listening Post, an art installation in the Telecommunications department, by artist Ben Rubin and statistician Mark Hansen. Walking into the pitch-black room and sitting down, I saw a single tiny screen flicker on with green words as a voice synthesizer reads the random phrase. This process sped up. More and more messages lit up the wall of two hundred black screens; the voice synthesizers overlapped, reading out text fragments in real time from thousands of unrestricted Internet chat rooms, bulletin boards, and public forums, accelerating until the noise and lights blended together in sensory overload allowing me to feel what the internet would be like if I were to be able to feel it—then it all abruptly stopped. Screens black. Silence.
We balanced our history and scientific learning experiences with some religion by attending a service at Westminster Abbey. The Abbey authorities were pretty rude at the gate, assuming that we were bumbling tourists trying to get in even though visiting hours were over, until we informed them that we were there for the service. They ushered us (sans tariff) into the awe-inspiring church/final resting place for most of the royal family + worthy poets/coronation ceremony site. I behaved (i.e.: not fidgeting and not falling asleep) very well throughout the awfully formal Episcopalian service, in which the reverend said a few lines and the congregation would say a few lines with him. The one thing I tried was singing some of the hymns, but only the sound of the great pipe organ resounded in the abbey without any voices accompanying it. After the ceremony, I asked Alison if all church services were that uptight. What happened to God being fun? Or was I just deluded by my Clackamas friends’ Wednesday night youth group culture? She said, no, the Methodist church she goes to in Florida is much more chill that that.
We struggled to find a pub with a good pie menu to watch the Spain vs. Germany game (can you imagine? Struggling to find a pub to watch the game, for god’s sake) in the Leicester Square area, because some bars there were too uppity to be converted into rowdy sports bars, i.e.: have any fun. One young bartender even secretly told us that he also wished the owner would come off his high horse, but alas, he was out of luck. This one guy, who had overheard our conversation, ran out of the bar to give us directions to a pub, which he knew was showing the game. When our following of his directions turned foul, I stopped a gingha walking with earbuds in (“Oh yes, he def looks like a local” – A.) to ask where we could find the eavesdropper’s bar. The gingha gave us clear directions for that bar along with additional suggestions for other bars in the area. Armed with this new information, we settled upon The Golden Lion, the first bar we came upon, not wanting to wander any longer, scared that we would not be able to get good seats.
Upstairs in the dining area, we found a couple of middle-aged English men arguing with the waitress, trying to get the prime tables in front of the big screen television even though they weren’t ordering food. Alison and I caught her eye and told her that we were ordering dinner. And so the waitress sat us at the guys’ desired table right in front of their eyes. We faked surprise at their exclamations, shrugging and saying that there was nothing we could do. As I received my steaming meat pie (going hardcore Brit!) and mashed taters and Alison got her roast and steamed vegetables, the same British men came to sit down at the table next to us, dragging more chairs to add to the table, having told the waitress that they were giving up and ordering food, too. They joked that we better watch out, because we were going to get it for taking the table right under their noses.
Alison conversed throughout most of the game with Andrew, the freelance writer who works in Notting Hill (“quite a charming area, you should definitely visit it during your stay here in London.”) sitting to her left. As all his friends taunted me about Spain’s sure defeat from the skilled German players (I repeat now, “HA!”), Andrew explained to us that they were all college buds having a reunion before Richard headed back to Australia. Dave and Andrew play football on a city league team together since they were “young and fit.” The chaps brought up a round of beers, giving me a dark blend and Alison a light blend, telling us that this was our full English experience, seeing that we had already ventured into the risky territory of food. When the fourth guy was arriving, Richard warned us to not let Julian’s quirky personality scare us (“He’s the artist in the group. Paints.”). Julian in a mismatched blazer came with his Thai wife in hand. Later, we were told that this put a slight damper in the evening, since it was supposed to be Boys Night (us, being an interesting exception, of course) and everyone else had left their wives at home. I sipped on my second pint, this time: a spicy and sweet lager, when my boy, Puyol, pulled a great one for España by netting the winning header, making up for his previous disastrous fumble-header. The standing crowd that had formed behind us and I went totally ape-shit. Too bad Alison chose to be in the toilet at that exact moment.
With the sports announcer summarizing the game (in English for once!), Alison and I headed over to the French House, a bar a block down the street, with the group. Andrew informed us that the French House was still open as a meeting place of the French Resistance during the Blitz with the owner claiming that if they were all going to die, they might as well do it drinking. After the war, the bar attracted post-war creative minds, such as Dylan Thomas and Francis Bacon. The eclectic bar certainly held a younger, more artsy crowd that night. Alison confessed to me in a giggly whisper that she had never felt like this before and that she didn’t like feeling out of control, pressing the back of my hand to her flushed cheeks. I informed her that she was just feeling tipsy for the first time and not to worry, because two pints of beer wasn’t going to fuck her up or anything. When Andrew asked us what we would like to drink, I ordered some cider for the two of us. He brought over an entire bottle of the much-admired Breton cider + two glasses. Dave poked fun at how hardcore we were being with our 5% alcohol content liquor. Haha. The entire bottle freaked Alison out, but I assured her that she didn’t have to drink half the bottle.
The guys were hilarious to talk to, as they kept joking about how much older they were than us (but not in a creepy way), laughing at how we weren’t even born yet when they first started having after-college reunions. When we told them about our experience in Europe so far and our plans for after London, they freaked out when they heard that I was spending the second half of August in Figeac, France, the apparent site for a rambunctious getaway they took right after their time together in University. They explained that the term “pulling,” i.e.: charming the ladies, and how they each used to have a different method back in the day. Andrew was the nice guy. Dave was the tough cockney from “Sourrrth London!” (your typical English bad boy). Julian was the artist. And Richard (the biggest puller of them all) had the memory of a bullet, asking how your mum was doing when you had told him in passing that your mum was in the hospital a year before. Richard just naturally remembered and didn’t have any ulterior motives, of course. But he always managed to get the most ladies. “When we were young and good-looking... I know it’s hard to imagine!” – Dave.
After hugs and emotional words to Richard (they didn’t know when he would be visiting from Australia again), the guys left to head back home to the wives and children. Alison and I were still laughing about our unexpected meeting with the English chaps over the remnants of our bottle of cider, when the bartender started hollering for the Alison in the house. We looked at each other, confused. She went to the bar and received the phone that the bartender handed her. It was Andrew. He asked for her number and gave her his, saying that we could perhaps meet up for lunch tomorrow so he could show us Notting Hill and its charm.
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