The Communication of the Dead - Westminster Abbey

Back-post from

15 June 2013

London

“The communication / of the dead is tongued with fire beyond / the language of the living.” 

T.S. Eliot, “Little Gidding” 

The words that mark his memorial in Westminster Abbey.

It’s almost impossible to let go of my obsessive need to accomplish – to not waste a minute of time, to record every instance. This morning, I tried to shut it off. I let myself sleep until 930, mosey down to the common room for coffee and toast and relax a little.

My primary goal of the morning is a visit to Westminster Abbey, another site I disregarded on my original London excursion. Another day, another cathedral – this is London after all.

Rick Steves correctly advised me to chose the cash line (over the credit line) to get in the doors of this imposing building, but both lines moved surprisingly quick for a Saturday morning, just a couple years after the most recent Royal Wedding was held in this very space. (The first was in 1100!)

Entering the cathedral overwhelms visitors, as I myself do what each person has before me – touch my chest and let my jaw fall open.  It is stunning, and its place in British history cannot be overstated. For almost 800 years, this has been the site of nation-changing weddings, funerals and mention coronations.      

I’m not in the building for three minutes, barely getting my orientation, when I notice a wall plaque for Alfred Russel Wallace, a 19^th century British explorer, geographer, anthropologist and biologist. Although a somewhat overlooked scientist, Wallace not only explored and described the flora and fauna of unknown regions of the world in the 1880’s, he also developed a theory of evolution independent of his contemporary Charles Darwin. Some suggest that Darwin was pushed to publish his On the Origin of Species primarily to beat Wallace to the punch. Although Wallace is buried in Dorset, as he wished, the plaque was placed in Westminster two years after his death, in 1915.

I’m still thinking about poor Wallace and the short-end he got in British history when I find myself standing on the stone marked for Darwin himself. I immediately wonder if Wallace’s scientist bros purposefully had his plaque added just a few feet in front of Darwin’s grave so he could be first at something. My hands shake and clench at the desire to break the rules and take a picture, but I can control myself. I’m honored and awed to be standing here and wish desperately that I could talk to the grumpy old Darwin and tell him what he means to me. I’m secretly glad that I skipped this stop when I was 19, because there’s no way it would have felt this special.

Nearby the rests stone of Charles Lyell, another scientist and contemporary of Darwin (a friend and mentor, really).  Among kings and queens, I also find a Isaac Newton, a brilliant dedication to William Shakespeare (who is buried in Stratford-Upon-Avon) and a memorial to T.S. Eliot, among other influential poets and writers. The list of rockstars who are buried or memorialized here would take up a whole post, but go ahead and check Wikipedia. 

Westminster Abbey is a place that can make you feel both tiny and inspired at the same time. To mingle with history in this close proximity really is to communicate with the dead. 

I Did Not Find The Steak That I Was Promised

While enjoying a proper pint at the Cat Tavern (I`ll give you three guesses why I stopped into this tavern), the smell of freshly fried fish and chips is pungent, but theres also a dog walking around, and you know how I like a bar-dog. There is no music for a while, and then there is Green Day. Perfect.

I refer to my beer as a "proper pint" because the glass which holds the beer is not the thick walled illusion pint from home. You know, that glass into which you could empty a can of Miller Lite and it would threaten to overflow? No, this is a proper pint of beer, in what I think of like as an extra-wide kitchen glass. The kind of glass that rich people drink lemonade from at big-hat backyard parties.

A Biker-looking dude with a beard that could be tucked behind his large metallic belt buckle advised my purchase when he eyed me scanning the tappers.

"`ere, I`ll `elp: You`ve got Guinness; Cider; rubbish; beer; beer; beer." 

I chose the Dophin Amber by Sunny Republic; because thats what he was drinking, and apparently was not considered to be rubbish.

My seat at the bar provides me with a direct view of the kitchen, where I can see an "INSECTOCUTER" which is exactly what it sounds like - a machine that makes bugs adorable. But, cute bugs or not, I`m happy that I brought my lunch with me from London to Salisbury.

this image is creepy looking due to user error. my apologies.

Yes, I traveled to Salisbury solely to visit a Tavern named for a cat, but Salisbury also happens to have a couple other amazing attributes like a bad-ass cathedral built in the early 13th century, and the best surviving copy (of 4) of the Magna Carta. Who knew?

Sadly, there was no steak.

The trip to Salisbury had been a success. The cathedral is absolutely stunning (for any of you Pillars of the Earth fans, this was one of the cathedrals that inspired the tale). For 800 years this building has stood, inspiring people to god and really making everything else in town look puny. That it houses one of the few remaining copies of the document which influenced all modern governments is just a feather in its buttress.

The massive grounds hug the cathedral walls, and allow for tourists and students from the Cathedral school to rest and enjoy lunch in the shadow of an eight century old building.

A historic cathedral, a priceless historical document AND a Cat Tavern? This was the start of a pretty good day!

post script: part of me wondered if Cat was short for Cathedral; but there was definitely a picture of a feline on the sign, and no sign of a connection to a church in the living room-like decor.

A Run Through London

14 June

You really see a lot more of a city when you get lost. In fact that's how Columbus discovered America, and how 20% of movie meet-cutes happen.  When my shoes were laced and my chrono set, I felt less like an American in London and more like a runner looking to knock out some miles. A painful stiffness in my neck, undoubtably from the awkward rest of a hostel bunk bed, and my chronic travelers dehydration (beer > water), told me immediately that the the run would be short. I just wanted to do two or three miles. I reminded myself that I could run as short or as long as I wanted. I was on vacation.

My beloved hostel sat on the south side of the Thames, very near the Westminster bridge which dead ended at Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. As I rambled over the bridge with my short strides and soft footfalls, I imagined that this view - the iconic tower and the seat of the government- was a part of my daily run.

Bridge after bridge criss-cross the Thames like stripes across the back of a snake. From south to north, east and then south again, I ran. Navigational signs pepper the city, mostly at the locations of the bike share stations, known to some locals as "Boris" bikes for the mayor who procured them. I slowed to check the signs often and geared myself toward the Globe Theatre and the Tate Modern museum.  As I approached the eerie smokestack that interrupts the south bank skyline from the converted warehouse that serves as the city's modern art haven, I burst out in laughter recalling my sister and I perusing its exhibits, realizing how much we didn't "get" modern art, on her visit to London while I studied here.

I ran along the cobbled streets surrounding the Globe, and peered through the metal gates in front  decorated with tiny sculptures of Shakespeare's greatest characters.

Figuring I could just weave my way back through the neighborhoods, rather than returning to the riverfront walk, turned out to be an error in judgement. Up and down and around tiny twisty streets, trying to move myself west, trying to avoid moving south, I ran.  Eventually, when I finally approached my hostel,  6 miles later, I felt like I could do anything.

Arriving in the Homeland

13 June 13

The rickets set in immediately. 

London hasn't seen the sun since the Norman Invasion and this day is  as cloudy as the day it was born. Dressed in black and gray, I match its gloomy countenance, my foreignness only given away by my excessively American Northfaced apparel.

Relatively well rested for an overnight traveler, and anxious to get my journey in order,  the moment the airplane aisle cleared I politely passed my seatmate whose Willy Nelson braid shifted softly in the aftermath of my departure. 

Customs stood unusually empty for one of the busiest airports in the world, and the UK welcomed me with open arms. Well, the cold, soulless, Dementor-like, open arms of the TSA.  Off to the train! The Tube ticket booth challenged me. The warning I received stateside proved true when the unmanned ticket booth refused to accept my American credit card, heartily backed by failing financial institutions. Thankful I had obtained GBP from the bank at home, I obtained a fare card to central London with minimal shame.

As I remembered, London's tube is tiny but immaculate. One of many touristas, I cradled my bag tightly to my body and apologized emphatically to everyone it tripped. The Cockfosters-bound Picadilly line train travelled through central London (as we Americans call "downtown"), and with a single Transfer deposited me a mere 300 meters from my hostel. Now I only had to conjure the ancient and antiquated rules of the metric system to understand how far that was. (A little US-centric joke for you all.)

On the flight, I had decided that I'd skip "dinner" in favor of sleep, and indulge in the ready-made breakfast I'd be served before landing in London, instead. Unfortunately, my eyes we still open when dinner service came around, and it just didn't feel right ordering a vodka sprite but refusing the sustenance. 

I poked at my mystery meat, in its appropriately mystery sauce,  inhaled a creepily warm roll encased in plastic, and took my chances on a plastic wrapped brownie that turned out to be award-winning. 

The low-grade cell-phone-sized tv on the back of the seat in front of me ( god I feel 21st century and spoiled saying that) refused to show anything in my native tongue and I took that as a sign to try to sleep. I turned it off, and in my trademark in-flight move, I pulled my hood over my eyes and wedged myself into a "sleep position."  After a couple of hours of repositioning and fighting the sandman, my body gave in. By the time I roused, Willie Nelson was licking his breakfast plate clean and the bright light of the morning illuminated the interior of the aircraft.

It was 130 (1330) when I arrived in the neighborhood of the Walrus- my bar/hostel on the South bank of London- 30 minutes prior to checkin time. After the predicable near-miss with a London double decker bus, I planted at a coffee house and order an unsweetened Americano. I was grateful for the caffeine, but I can admit that I was using this coffee house for its wifi. The wifi situation seemed simple enough. I confirmed the existence of the wifi with a sign on the door, checked with the barista that there was no password, and attempted to log in and contact my family and friends. Except, I can't. I obtained the login information and a contact code, and they asked me to confirm my code by test message. The text message is not a luxury I have here in phone-free London. I give up on wifi, and go back to the Americano. Ironic. I know.

I relax and try to bask in the moment - I am in a coffee shop, in London, hearing the joyous cacophony of Brits going about their business unbeknownst that they are in the presence of an interloper. 

Although I surely stick out, I savor my ability to drink espresso like this Is my side of the pond. 

The Journey Begins With the Me of Ten Years Ago

Notes from the pace bus 

12 june 13

The blue and white bus lurches as it moves, almost pendulum-like, from a speedy cruise to a grinding halt and back again. I don't dare look out the city sooted back window, but I imagine the tornado predicted by our local meteorologists is right behind us, turning the sky green in our wake like tinted cellophane pulled tight over a summer bowl of potato salad.

Because my office is Scroogey with the holidays and skimps on the employee bonuses, it was shocking to receive an email earlier than afternoon notifying us of an early dismissal due to the incoming storm. The idea of being released from our cubicles due to the weather caused a slight panic. How severe must this weather system be if we are offered more than the usual single pea to split between us for Christmas dinner?

Faced with a surprise early dismissal on a regular day, and I would have huffed and puffed about the inconvenience, pushed around some papers on my desk, and then been the last one to leave -  struggling to his send on just one more email.  I'd eventually head homes to wait out the storm in my one bedroom apartment, coaxing the cat to lay by me and delightedly watching episodes of Antiques Roadshow.  On this not-regular day, I changed into track pants and a hooded sweatshirt and shut down my computer. I loped over to the train station with an absurdly large neon pack strapped to my back like an overloaded urban bicycle delivery guy, and waited for a westbound bus.

On this not-normal day, I conjured the me of ten years ago, and headed toward  the airport to board an overnight flight, ready to travel and hostel solo in Europe for the first time. 

A doomsday superstorm stalking chicago seemed like jut the way to start this adventure.

Stay tuned for more...

The Office Supply Kidnapping Plot

The driver slowed unexpectedly on the expressway, pulling slightly to the left. He put the square, white, utilitarian van in reverse and reached his arm around the back of the seat to see out the back window. For a moment, I worried that there had been a breakdown, engine trouble, a stall. Why else would we be stopped on the expressway? I soon realized that our driver had missed his exit, but he wasn’t going to let that stand in his way.

The traffic in and around Bangkok would make any Chicagoan sweat, but my level of perspiration soared that day on a trip from the convention center to downtown. As was my assignment on this trip, I had completed this journey several times to drop off and pick up supplies by taxi and by train, but this time was a little more uncomfortable. This time I was traveling in the front seat of the utilitarian delivery van with my colleague, Susan. With no seat belts. And a severe language barrier between us and our driver.

Susan and I had attempted to climb into the back of the van but were redirected into the front, next to the driver and a little too close to each other. I got the distinct impression that this seating arrangement was intended to be respectful of us and our white-womaness, but I would have much preferred to sit on the floor of the back of the van. As he pulled out of the convention center, we were hoping that he understood our request.

 “Office supplies. We need office supplies. Scissors, staplers, pens? Office supplies?” We knew that repeating yourself several times was the best way to communicate with someone who doesn’t speak your language. I mimed with my index and middle fingers.

“SI-ZORS.”

In the rearview mirror, he spoke to his 12 or 13 year-old son, a quiet boy who sat in the backseat of the van engrossed in a comic book. His job was to help us lift and carry all the supplies we purchased and to occasionally interpret for his father using the English phrases he had likely learned from Hollywood movies. The boy nodded. His father smiled and nodded and we continued on our way.  Susan and I looked at each other and shrugged.

Actual photo of me in a taxi in Bangkok. Actual fear on my face.

 Our driver’s style behind the wheel did not seem unusual in BKK. We jerked forward and made unexpected turns. We merged into impossible streams of traffic. We accelerated to dangerous speeds and then stopped suddenly for red lights or slowing traffic. Being seated so close to the windshield made the dizzying traffic feel like a video game simulation, which was both terrifying and nauseating.  I’ve experienced plenty of bad drivers, but this man drove like he was kidnapping a couple of American citizens and trying to flee from the law.

The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if that was really what he was doing.  I’d start to panic, finger my Thai cell phone preparing to call for help, and try to signal to Susan that in exactly 60 seconds I was going to knock out the driver with my sweet left hook, and she’d have to grab the wheel and slide into his seat while I tied him and the boy together and notified the authorities of the international incident we so narrowly avoided.

I got as far as smiling at Susan, trying to spell out the plan with my eyes, and without notice our driver swung the van right, slamming Susan and I into each other with whispers of fear caught in our throats, and hit the breaks. Practically clutching each other, ready to scream or vomit, we stared at our driver. He pointed up at a sign posted far above our heads.

“Office Depot!?” he shouted, nodding wildly. 

And there it was, sandwiched between two blustering lanes of traffic, swarmed by overhead power lines – an Office Depot. Ah yes, I thought, narrowing my eyes, taking us to our destination covers your plot well.

We climbed out of the van in a hurry, thankful to be free of the chaos of Bangkok’s urban bustle and safe in the familiar fluorescent lights and orderly aisles of the Office Depot. Inside, as we filled a cart with office supplies,  our driver and his son waited in the van no doubt laughing about how strange and sweaty American touristas can be.

The Trip

When I walked off the plane at 4AM, I had officially been traveling for 22 hours. I was exhausted, smelly, and had to figure out how to get a cab to my hotel. Standing in a too bright airport with a language I couldn't read demanding me to go in a million directions, I suddenly realized that I had forgotten to google Bangkok.

---

Hunched over in my cubicle, pouring over multiple spreadsheets on my double monitors, with headphones blasting electronica in my ears, I almost missed the phone call. It was my bosses boss. Terrified that I was about to be fired over the phone, I pulled the buds from my ears and tried to answer the phone calmly.

"Jis is Thean. THIS IS JEAN." I stumbled and then awkwardly shouted.

"Hey Jean, would you mind stopping by my office when you have a chance?" 

Of course I would. Only first I'll save all my pictures of cats to a flash drive, and erase my recent google history. You can never be too careful.

Just minutes later, In her pristine office, with the rare and beautiful north side view of the Chicago skyline, Michele cut to the chase.

"How would you like to go to Bangkok?"

This question on its own sounds a little bit like a Brokedown-Palace-under-the-table-your-mom-would-tell-you-to-say-no type offer.

"Sure!" I said. Because I'm a team player.

"Can you leave in a week?" She asked, surely incredulous that I had accepted her dubious offer without even pondering the repercussions of my agreement. 

---

The week did not pass without road blocks. The call out for an unemployed person with no personal life to cat-sit in my poorly venalated city apartment for almost two weeks at short notice for no more payment than a bottle of cheap champagne and a pack of cigarettes only appealed to one desperate person: my best friend of 15 years, Nicole. (Full Disclosure: The promises i made could only be redeemed upon my successful return. Double Full Disclosure: Unbeknownst to Nicole, this was more of a permanent arrangement, as i saw my odds of surviving the trip without contracting a deadly disease or being locked up in Thai prison to be rather low.)

Stay tuned to see what happens...