Windsor Castle (Part I): The Castle and the Guards

In my last entry I stated that I was skipping over the events of Saturday, 21 April, as they deserved their own entry. Well, this is that entry. Actually, to be precise, this is the first in a series of entries all devoted to that day. Prepare to put your learnin’ crowns on, lads and lasses, ‘cause I’m about to lead you through my trip to Windsor Castle…

I was up early on that Saturday morning, as I had to be on campus by 9:00 AM. From there, a group of international students and I caught a coach headed to Windsor Castle. (For the record, I visited Windsor in 2008 with Nic, but we arrived close to closing time, and so we pretty much had to dash through the whole place.)

Now, if you’ve been following this blog for more than two seconds, you know that I’m a sucker for kings and queens and castles and all that jazz. So, as you can imagine the size of my nerdgasm at the thought of spending an entire day there! With that in mind, most of what follows indulges my love of history and royalty. No one cares about this stuff half as much as me, but I’m documenting it anyway—maybe it’ll spark an interest. Now, on with the show…

Note the 'Union Jack' on the flagpole. This denotes that The Queen is not in residence. #SadBrett

THE CASTLE ITSELF

This magnificent castle is almost 1,000 years old (originally built by William the Conqueror following his 1066 invasion). It is also the largest inhabited castle in the world. In fact, Windsor Castle has been in continuous use by varying Royal Families for over 900 years! 

Originally, it was a fort set atop a hill overlooking the Thames. Though the original structure is long gone, we can thank Henry II (1133-89) for the famous Round Tower and outer stone wall of today.

The Round Tower, as seen from the Middle Ward.

Officially, Windsor is one of Her Majesty, The Queen’s official residences (the others being Buckingham Palace and Holyroodhouse). It is also The Queen’s favorite, as inferred by her reaction following the November 1992 fire that decimated the castle.

That fire (which occurred on The Queen’s and Duke’s 45th wedding anniversary) was allegedly sparked by a workman’s lamp, and damaged/destroyed over 100 rooms. It required 15 hours of firefighting to put out. Fortunately, most of the valuable works of art, etc., had been removed due to ongoing renovation.

The cost of renovation was put at approximately £37 million, which the government refused to pay outright due to ongoing public concerns about money already being given to the Royal Family. (This was but one of the many issues facing the Royal Family which caused The Queen to famously remark that 1992 was an Annus Horribilis.) To help pay for repairs, The Queen agreed to open various Royal Residences to the public at certain times.

NB: This photo is not mine!

CHANGING OF THE GUARD

Getting back to my own experience and away from the history for a bit, it took a lot longer to get to Windsor than expected due to construction, but it turned out—by the time we made it through security—that we were just in time to witness the Changing of the Guard.

Now, realistically, the only difference between the Changing of the Guard here and the one at Buckingham palace is…well, the locale. (You can read my description of the ceremony at the latter location here.) 

The 'official' part of the ceremony at Windsor takes place outside the Guardroom in the Lower Ward of the castle. However, we were positioned so that we could actually watch the guardsmen marching through St George’s Gate, which is the passageway used to enter the Upper Ward, where The Queen et alia have their private quarters.

Guards Marching through St George's Gate

Okay, okay… I think that’s enough nerdiness for one entry. Especially since the next one—all about the place where Queen Elizabeth II will be buried one day—is particularly in-depth. 

Until then…

What's Curry Got To Do With It?

I’m back with another entry. Truth be told, everything I’m about to say deserves a lot more ‘oomph’ than what I’m about to give it—but, I’ve spent most of the last two weeks (including most of yesterday and today) writing about discursive representations of the intersection between gayness and AIDS as part of two separate final projects. 

In other words: my brain is so far beyond mush that words do not even exist to describe it.

Nonetheless, there’s a lot that I haven’t blogged about this month, and I’m feeling a lot of pressure from ‘Future Brett’ to document it all in one form or another while it’s relatively fresh in my mind. Thus, I offer the explosion of information presented here. 

Let’s get started, shall we…

On Sunday, 15 April, I accompanied EN to a theatre performance she’s been interning with throughout the semester. The show is called Soul Sister, and is the story of Tina Turner’s relationship with Ike, as told by the former while backstage during her ‘Private Dancer’ tour. 

Most people already know the troubled tale of Ike and Tina Turner, so I won’t go into that here (though I will say that the first act in particular was far more forgiving of Ike than I expected). Instead, I want to focus on two particular aspects of the show: the actress playing Tina, and the ending:

The role of Tina was given to Emi Wokoma (who, ironically, played the sister of Tameka Empson’s ‘Kim’ on EastEnders). The Guardian reviewed Wokoma’s turn as Turner thusly: 

[Wokoma’s] impersonation of Anna Mae Bullock, renamed Tina Turner when she started singing with Ike Turner, is startling. She's got that strange, stiff-legged dance – the one that looks like a man who's left the urinal too soon – and the flutters of the hands. And she's got a voice that can strip paint or sing a lullaby within the same bar. (Soul Sister Review)

I admit that I was a bit concerned with Wokoma at the start. The opening number is ‘Private Dancer,’ one of my favorites. Wokoma’s rendition wasn’t bad by any stretch of the imagination, but it also wasn’t great—I felt as if she wasn’t warmed up yet. Fortunately, after that number, the songs performed are basically in chronological order, and follow Anna Mae’s rise to prominence. This gave Wokoma the chance to warm-up her Turner impression, as her character also developed her unique style. By the time ‘River Deep, Mountain High’ was performed, audiences could be easily excused for forgetting that the real Tina wasn’t on stage.

[NB: This is not my photo.]

This brings us to the other point I wanted to bring up about the show: the ending. As previously noted, the story is told from the point-of-view of Turner, who is relating events to a friend backstage between sets. Upon concluding her tale, Turner returns to her (fictionalized) concert—whereupon the theatre audience becomes a concert audience!

The last 15-20 minutes of the show is just like a traditional concert. There is no narrative: just Wokoma—accompanied by a band, backup singers, and flashing laser-lights—recreating Turner’s early-80s comeback tour. Traditional Tina favorites—such as ‘Simply the Best’, ‘I Can't Stand the Rain’, ‘Help’, and, of course, ‘Proud Mary’—drove audiences to their feet. No lie. There were even encore songs, in true concert style: ‘Steamy Windows’ and ‘What’s Love Got to Do With It?’

‘Awesome’ doesn’t even begin to describe the experience. All I can say is that if you’re in London, and are even remotely a Tina Turner fan, you must see this show!

After Soul Sister, EN and I were ridin’ high, as concert goers typically are right after a show lets out. So, we headed over to Soho and a bar there called 79CXR. This particular bar was billed in one of the local rags as offering gay karaoke, and we thought it might be fun to check that out. 

I’d say we had a decent time: drinks were cheap even if the singing was painful. Also, it wasn’t crowded—almost always a perk. When the karaoke wrapped-up at around 9:00 PM, Bette Rinse (the drag queen emcee) organized a group of fellow queens and locals for a queer version of ‘Match Game.’ Sadly, it was all a bit lost on EN and I, as neither of us were familiar enough with the local drag scene to get the references to specific community members. Ah, well. It was still interesting.

Okay, I’m going to totally change topics now. (Like I said, there’s a lot to catch-up on!)

On Thursday, 19 April, two of my friends from Chicago—TS and his partner, BH—flew in to London for the latter’s birthday weekend. I was fortunate enough to see them on three of the four days they were here.

That first day (Thursday) was a bit rough for me. I didn’t sleep well the night before, and had zero desire to go to school that morning. Nonetheless, I made the long slog there…only to learn that one of my two classes that day had been cancelled. Now, this isn’t a problem in-and-of-itself. The class in question is my least favorite (‘Cultural Power & Resistance in the 21st Century’—not nearly as interesting as it sounds). Nonetheless, the scheduled lecture for that day would likely have been beneficial for my final essay. Ah, well. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I got caught in a downpour on my way home. I. Was. Drenched…and unhappy. 

Unhappy and Soaking Wet.

Fortunately, seeing two familiar faces was just the boon that my spirits needed. We headed into Soho to grab a couple of cocktails at Village, and from there we went to Maison Touareg for dinner. I was uber-excited for this, because I had wanted to check out Maison Touareg since coming back from Morocco, and was merely waiting for the right ‘excuse’ to do so. It was sooooo delicious! Wonderful company was made even better by amazing food and wine. My only complaint is that we were seated beneath the speakers, and the music grew a bit loud when the belly-dancer (whose skills were mostly lost on us) came out. Other than that, it was perfect!

Friday, 20 April, marked the last official day of classes at UEL! My exams aren’t due until this week, but classes have concluded. As my Friday class (‘Realism, Fantasy & Utopia’) was my favorite, this was a bit of a bittersweet moment. I’ll talk more about all that in a later entry, though. After class, I returned to my flat, where my housemates were already in weekend-party-mode. Ugh, it was so loud! For the second day in a row, I found myself highly agitated.

Fortunately, TS and BH invited me to join them once again! This time we went to Cinnamon, an Indian restaurant near Oxford Circus. Once again, I had an amazing time! The food was good (albeit a bit spicy): we shared a plate of ‘BALLS!’ (as listed)—potato, beef, vegetable, and Bangla-Scotch egg—and for the main course I ordered a plate of ‘Old Delhi-style tandoori fenugreek chicken’ (whatever all that means). 

Even better than the food, though, were the drinks. I stuck to water (I had to be up early the next day), but I did have a sip of both TS’ and BH’s drinks—if anyone’s interested, Cinnamon offers the best mojito in the history of forever. After dinner we headed over to the Duke of Wellington (another gay pub) for a last round of drinks going our separate ways.

I’m going to skip saying anything about Saturday, 21 April, as that will get its own entry owing to a trip to Windsor Castle. As for Sunday, I had one last opportunity to see TS and BH before they headed back to Chicago. We met for bagels and coffee at Beigel Bake in Shoreditch. Apparently, this is the oldest bagel place in London. It’s also one of the cheapest places I’ve been in London—but so worth it! I got an éclair (how could I resist?), and it was one of the most scrumptious sweets I’ve eaten since being here! Yummy-yummy! From there, we walked over to Old Spitalfields’ Market, where we walked around for a few minutes before bidding on another adieu! All in all, it was a wonderful visit, and so nice to see friends from home! 

And, on that happy note, I will also say farewell to this entry. I’ve finally gotten ‘Future Brett’ off my back for a bit, and can realx…for now—there’s still a lot to tell about, including my trip to Windsor, the results of my midterms, and my hurried escape from my flat!

But that’ll have to wait a bit longer…

A Big Ol' Gay Blow-Up Man

Time for another exciting(?) entry in ye olde blog—namely because I’m in need of another break from academics. This time the focus will be the evening of Monday, 16 April 2012 (through the early morning hours of 17 April).

But I need to back up for a second. You see, two of my modules over here—‘Realism, Fantasy & Utopia’ and ‘Cultural Politics’—have enabled me to meet some really cool people. In fact, the majority of new friendships established since coming to London have been borne of the former.

One of said-friendships is with a lovely young woman named RAS. I was fortunate enough to snag a seat next to her on the first day of class, and during a group exercise that same day we got to chatting after I complimented her on the fabulous silver scorpion ring she was wearing. The rest, as they say, is history. Over time—and through RAS—I have come to form friendships with most of the others who sit in the front row. (And yes, we do represent the stereotypical front row kids—to the point where DS preempts us from answering her questions by automatically saying that she’ll ‘come back to the front row’ after giving others a chance to answer.)

Anyway, I’ve gone off track…

Relatively early in the semester, I was shocked to learn that RAS has never been to a club before. Ever. Not a straight club; not a gay club. She’s over 21 years of age—how the bloody hell does that happen?

So of course, I set about trying to rectify this grave oversight. It took time, to be sure: a constant mixture of guilt over my impending departure, and reassurance that I would protect her like a drag queen protects her tips. 

Eventually—on 16 April—I succeeded!

That night, we met at Village (which is tied with Heaven for my favorite queer London haunt), where drinks were half-priced all night. The only downside was that the level with the dancefloor was closed off, and the DJ I like so much there (Ray Isaac) wasn’t playing. 

At any rate, we were joined by two others from the ‘RF&U’ module—AR and (later) SV—as well as another of RAS’ friends, SB. Thus, the good times (and drinks) began to roll…

Me, AR, RAS, and SB

 The fact that my London drink of choice was only £2 that night, coupled with the other fact that the bartender seemingly thought I was cute and was therefore being generous with the vodka-to-juice ratio, led to a quickly tipsy Brettsy. Fortunately, I was still fairly in control at this point, and so the pix RAS snapped throughout the night aren’t quite as…problematic as they became later in the evening.

Sober Brett

Drunker Brett

 Eventually, both SV and AR had to leave (they had classes the next morning), and soon thereafter Village started closing down for the night. So, the question became: shall we go elsewhere, or head home? Fortunately, her first venue successfully visited sans-drama, RAS agreed to go elsewhere.

We wound up at G-A-Y, which we didn’t stay at for too long—only long enough for one drink apiece, as I recall. But, at least we could dance for a bit…

After G-A-Y, we still weren’t ready to go, and so the decision was made to walk toward Heaven, where I figured we could dance the night right away... Unfortunately, the lesbian doorguard had other plans. Said-doorguard let RAS and me in with no problem, but for some reason she decided that SB was under the influence and therefore could not come in. (For the record, SB was probably the most sober of us all—I think the doorguard was just jealous of her Troll Doll hairband.) At any rate, we were advised to go to the nearby McDonalds, get food, and come back in 20 minutes, at which point we would be allowed in.

So, we headed to McD’s—something I have avoided them like the plague since coming here—and got a quick meal. We sat there for the required 20 minutes, eating and chatting, and (in my case) being repeated punched in the arm by a drunken Frenchman whose friends kept trying to distract him from beating me and apologizing on his behalf.

Upon finishing, we headed back to Heaven…but, again, the doorguard refused SB entrance (and added insult to injury by pretending that she had told SB specifically not to come back). Well, their loss was G-A-Y Late’s gain, ‘cause that’s where we headed next.

This, our last stop of the evening, turned out to be a nice mix of the earlier chilled atmosphere from Village and the dancing opportunity offered by G-A-Y. We wound up staying until they closed, dancing badly—mostly on the elevated platform—to equally bad songs seemingly chosen by a straight man. 

There’s video of all this, but fortunately (and thanks to a few death threats) it will never be seen. (Apparently, when intoxicated to the point I was that night, I lose all arm and wrist bones, and turn into one of those blow-up figures used to sell used cars…a big ol’ queer, purple one! It’s a problem!)

One of the less-problematic photos to come from this night...

Sadly, the time came eventually to depart. I had zero desire to take the bus all the way back to Newham, and so I took SB up on her kind offer to crash at her place along with RAS. For anyone interested in a fun mental picture: just imagine me—fully dressed, because I wasn’t planning on staying out all night—sandwiched between a straight woman and a lesbian in a full-sized bed. It was quite the sight to behold, I’m sure!

And on that interesting note, another entry comes to a close. I suppose now’s as good a time as any to get back to the academic writing that I should be doing right now… 

Ciao!

From One Collection of Priceless Things To Another...

Ugh, I’ve been so lax lately in terms of blogging. Well, not just blogging—pretty much everything. It’s nearing the end of the semester, and it’s been particularly gray, cold, and rainy the last few weeks, so the motivation to do things is practically non-existent.

But I hope to rectify that now, and invite you to travel with me back in time, to Thursday, 12 April 2012:

My original plan for the last Thursday of Easter Break was to spend some time typing away on one of my final coursework assignments (CW2). However, the rain and the cold were making me more inclined to just stay in bed and do nothing. Fortunately, EN lit a fire under my behind with a text inviting me to go with her to a museum. 

A short while later, we met at the Victoria & Albert museum. The V&A had been on my list of places to see since the beginning. Nic and I attempted to go there back in 2008 but, having just spent hours at the British Museum, we changed our mind at the last moment. As such, I was really looking forward to it this time…

I should have remembered my experience with the Dickens Museum, another tourist attraction I had desperately wanted to see.

Sadly, in case you haven't already guessed, I didn’t really enjoy myself. There was so much to see, but the way it was curated and exhibited just felt…lackluster. However, to be fair, my point-of-view was probably the result of being under the spell of a rainy day malaise coupled with a desperate need for coffee. 

Also, the exhibit I had been looking forward to for months (and part of the reason I put off the trip for as long as I did)—the photographs of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, taken by Cecil Beaton—was not free after all, and I didn’t want to drop £6 just to see a bunch of photos (even if they are amazing). 

The third one from the left (top row) is one of my favorites--but I cannot find a close-up of it by itself anywhere.

Sir Beaton was quite the hottie in his youth!

Again, this decision was probably influenced by my insufficient levels of caffeine and joy.

In the end, we only stayed for about 1.5 hours. I feel kind of bad that we didn’t stay longer—especially given the V&A’s reputation—but I just didn’t have it in me that day. Maybe I’ll go back at some point before heading home.

Upon leaving the V&A, EN and I started wandering around Kensington and Chelsea. We wanted a cup of coffee, and eventually found one at a nearby Costa—the situation was dire, hence my ready agreement to break the rule I’ve generally tried to keep while in London of avoiding chains.

After sufficient java-infusion, and a long chat about growing up in the church and the damage caused by being too close to the internal politics therein, we continued walking around (in much happier moods).

Eventually we found ourselves standing before one of London’s most famous stores: Harrods. All I can say is: oh. my. goodness. It was breathtaking, and in many places possessed a…unique Egyptian theme.

Beneath the Egyptian escalator--he was taller than me.

You can't tell from this photo, but there's a mannequin on this balcony promoting clothes sold on that floor.

My mother likes to tell a story about how, as a young child, she was once told that Heaven would look however she wanted, and how it would be filled with whatever she wanted most. To her young mind this vision translated to an upmarket department store she used to visit with her grandmother, which had Heaven’s very best hamburgers resting in the glistening display cases, just waiting to be eaten. (Sounds like a pretty good idea of Heaven to me!)

Harrods was kind of like that to me in certain ways. Namely, the prices were so far beyond anything I could comprehend that it seemed unreal and out-of-this-world. Case-in-point: a simple, black hair-comb—no bigger than the average mobile, and unadorned—was priced in excess of £200! A simple pair of gray sweatpants for men…£119. (Don’t believe me, see them for yourself here.) Oh, and have I mentioned the fact that there was not a single person working in that store who wasn’t a modern day Apollo or Aphrodite?

Now, I confess that I somewhat expected what I found—I knew of Harrods’ reputation—but there was another reason why I wanted to visit this famous shop: the memorial to Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed. You see, Mohamed Al-Fyed—Dodi’s father—was the owner of Harrods until recently. He has always maintained that there was more to their deaths than what the public has been told, and in 1998—in fact, it was 12 April 1998, 14 years to the day before EN and I saw it—he unveiled the first of two memorials dedicated to Diana and Dodi within his store.

The memorial described above (and seen in the photo below) features photos of the pair, as well as a pyramidal container holding a wine glass that is—allegedly—smudged with Diana's lipstick because she used it at her last meal, as well as an engagement ring Dodi reportedly bought the day before their death.

The memorial.

After cruising around Harrods' world-famous food court, and through the wonderful housewares section (where they were playing the theme from Twin Peaks), we bid adieu to heavenly Harrods, and continued walking east.

Our next top was another famous shop: Harvey Nichols. I have to admit that I expected something a bit more, especially given its reputation on Absolutely Fabulous. It actually reminded me a bit (in terms of physical layout and the style of clothing) of the Bloomingdales that used to be in White Flint mall back home. That being said, I can totally see why it’s the perfect go-to story for the Pats and Eddy characters—in fact, the mannequins all looked remarkably like Eddy! 

So this isn't a mannequin--but it is a Harvey Nichs ad!

Having poked around two upmarket shops since our last taste caffeine boost, EN and I headed out and made our way to LJ’s, and enjoyed an Americano and White Hot Chocolate, respectively.

It was the perfect ending to what turned out to be—after a lackluster start—quite a fun day!

Morocco: Shukran For the Memories...

I need to write something non-academic for a bit, so let’s finish-up on the Morocco trip, shall we?

For my last day in Marrakech (11 March 2012) I knew that I wanted to do something beyond sitting at the hostel and relaxing (as delightful as that was). Fortunately, JE, another member of the Djellaba Crew, was starting to feel the impending end of her trip as well, and so we made plans to go out and do a couple of touristy things.

However, before I get to all that:

I woke up early on the morning of the 11th, and so I decided that ‘now’ was as good a time as any to head to Djamaa el-Fna on my own. You see, I had yet to successfully navigate the twisting streets of the old medina on my own, and I wanted to do it at least once…and I succeeded!

From a distance / Brett is watching yoooooou...

Koutobia Mosque and Minaret (built 1150-90), one of the 'big three' minarets built by the Almohads.

Now, you probably noticed that the first photo was from a distance. There’s a reason for that: if any of the street performers (e.g., the guys with the cobras) notice you taking a photo that’s even remotely in their direction, they will demand payment. And since there are so many of said-performers, you practically have to stand in Algeria to get a decent shot. As such, any hope I had of snagging an iconic shot of Djamaa el-Fna was foiled—you can find one taken by someone else here, however.

Similarly, I wanted at least a photo of one of the souqs before I left. Again, I had to practice a bit of subterfuge to get this, and so it’s not great. Also, because it was so early in the morning most of the shops weren’t open and there wasn’t much foot-, bike-, and cart-traffic. Nonetheless…

(More representative photos, taken by others, can be found here and here.)

After my brief foray to Djamaa el-Fna and the souqs I returned to Waka Waka, where I enjoyed a yummy breakfast of coffee (about six cups—my goodness it was tasty!), crepes, and more apricot jam! M’mm, m’mm, good!

Once JE and I had both finished breakfast, we set off for our sightseeing excursion. Since I had to be at the airport by around 5:00 PM, and it was already noon, we didn’t have time to do too much. So, we decided to pay quick visits to El Bahia Palace and the Saadian Tombs…

It took us a while to reach El Bahia Palace for two reasons: first, many of the people we asked had no clue where it was; and, second, if they did know, they would only offer generalized directions so that we would inevitably have to ask someone else (e.g., ‘go down this way, make your first left, and then turn right’…without mentioning the three alleyways in between).

Regardless, we finally reached the palace…or, at least the small part, because the main section was closed for construction. Now, I can’t say too much about this—or the tombs—because all of the signage was in Arabic and/or French…and neither JE or I can read said-languages (though I did learn how to say both ‘thank you’—شكرا / shukran—and ‘no thank you’—لا شكرا / la shukran—in Arabic by the time I was done in Morocco).

Sadly, there’s also not too much information about the palace online either, other than what’s to be found at Wikipedia. Nonetheless, it was quite pretty—in particular the courtyards and gardens:

The first of many courtyards

 From El Bahia Palace we headed to the Saadian Tombs. Much like the palace, however, there’s not much information on the interwebs about them—just that they are the resting place of about 60 members of the Saadi Dynasty, and they date back to the late 1500s—and this time there wasn’t even signage for us to attempt to read. Again, though, they were pretty:

As near as I could tell, the triangular things on the ground are like headstones.

No camera manipulation here--this was the 'natural' lighting in this chamber.

 By the time JE and I left the tombs, my time was almost done—I only had about two hours left before I had to be at the airport. So, we stopped at a café near the Mellah (Jewish quarter) for a drink before heading back to Waka Waka so I could get my stuff. While at the café, however, I was able to snag some decent photos of the Atlas Mountains looming over the rooftops, as well as some pix of these giant birds that made their nests along the medina walls.

The Jewish quarter, with big birds and mighty mountains!

Finally, it was time…

Back at Waka Waka I grabbed my gear and bid a sad adieu to the Djellaba Crew—I really hope I cross paths with each of those wonderful folk again in the future! 

I made my way out of the medina, and arranged a cab ride to the airport for the low cost of 20DH / 2€ and a cigarette—clearly, I got much better at negotiating by the end of my trip. En route, I had a wonderful chat (in very broken English) with the driver about how beautiful Morocco was, and we even got into a bit of a discussion about Islam and Christianity: he initially assumed that I did not like Muslims because I am American and think they’re all like Bin Laden, and I told him that such was not the case, and how it was just as unfair to judge all Muslims by the actions Bin Laden as it is to judge all Christians by the hateful attitudes of Evangelicals. All-in-all it was a very nice conversation, and I walked away hoping that I had—at least in one person’s eyes—helped to dispel the notion that all Americans are like the Religious Right.

And on that positive note, I sadly bring a (textual) close to my time in Morocco. I can’t thank Nic enough for sending me there, and enabling me to take one of the most holidays of my lifetime! 

Palm trees and snow-capped mountains...

Goodbye Marrakech, Morocco!

All Sorts of Easter Goodness...

Just a super-quick blurb about this past Easter weekend.

I’m still dealing with the residuals of my recent illness (seriously, WTF?), but it was Easter weekend and so some pretense of ‘doing something’ was in order.

Saturday morning (7 April) was cold, gray, and raining, but I forced myself out of bed relatively early nonetheless. This was so I could meet EN at nearby Stratford Center and get my eyebrows threaded—she found a place there that would do it for £2, which is a heck of a lot cheaper than what I paid before. 

Well, let me tell you: there’s a reason why it was so cheap! 

The first time I underwent this process it was a breeze…this time it was a hurricane. I seriously thought she had drawn blood on more than one occasion. I think in the future I’ll stick to my hot, albeit more expensive Middle Eastern stylist.

As an aside, it was also during this trip that I realized that the God-awful, red, twisted-metal thing that I can see from my kitchen window is actually part of the Olympic Park! (In other words, all those times I said I hadn’t seen any of the Olympic junk firsthand I was totally wrong!) 

The monstrosity is called the ‘ArcelorMittal Orbit Sculpture,’ and is the tallest sculpture in the UK—taller, even, than New York’s own Statue of Liberty…

But, seriously, isn’t this the most hideous thing you’ve ever seen?

The sculpture and stadium where the Olympics will be held. [NB: This image is not mine!]

At any rate, having de-caterpillared my eyebrows I headed back home and spent the rest of the afternoon attempting (and failing) to start on my final essays for my three UEL classes—as crazy as it is to believe, we only have one class session left, and then one week after that to work on our essays…and then the semester is over!!!

That night, I decided to reward my…lack of progress with another trip out. 

EN and I met up again in Soho, determined to have a night of fun and dancing. And we succeeded this time! We met at Village at around 10:30 PM, and didn’t leave until they closed—and most of that time was spent up on the ‘stage’ downstairs, jumping around like crazy people. 

(At one point we got down, but I was prompted to get back up by some random guy who told me I was a good dancer. I don’t know if he was just drunk, or if he meant it, but it gave me an ego boost and so I climbed back up—EN was right on my heels, LOL!)

Where it all goes down... (This photo was taken on a different day when I was in the gaybourhood.)

Sweaty dancing queens...in bad lighting...

As another aside: since the tube stops running at around midnight, after my nights out I’ve been frequently forced to take a bus (which everyone knows I hate). In particular, I take the 25 bus to get to my place on the eastside of London. 

I bring this up because some of my readers who are also my Facebook friends may recall that I posted a comment Saturday night/Sunday morning complaining that there’s always some form of drama on the bus on my way home. (In that particular instance it was three young, drunk, straight guys harassing a lesbian couple, and then everyone who tried to intervene.) 

So, I did a bit of research today…only to discover that “Route 25 from Ilford [basically where I live] to Oxford Circus [which is where Soho is] has been revealed as London's most dangerous bus route with 471 code red emergency calls…” Now, admittedly, this statistic is from 2006—but still…not overly comforting.

Moving on...

Despite the fact that I only had one beer Saturday night—far less than I’ve had any other time I’ve gone out during this trip—I didn’t wake up on Easter Sunday until almost 2 PM. I guess I was just depressed that the Easter Bunny couldn’t leave me his/her usual basket of goodies (though she did send me an e-basket with money which was greatly appreciated). 

Regardless, this meant that my day was pretty much over before it even began, because I needed to leave shortly thereafter to go to church.

Yes, church. (I’m not a total heathen…I just play one on TV and the interwebs.)

Since arriving in London, one of my goals has been to go to the Easter service at Westminster Abbey. Well, I made it! Fortunately, their main service for the day wasn’t until 6:30 PM, so my extra-long sleep didn’t totally mess up plans.

I arrived at around 5:45, and we were finally allowed into the abbey at around 6:15. I took an aisle seat to the right of the High Altar, in the area known as ‘Poet’s Corner’—near where Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip sat during Prince William and Catherine’s wedding service.

Eyebrows Threaded and Ready for Easter

[NB: Obviously, I was not at the wedding, nor is the image mine (other than the arrow and text).]

What I did not realize going in, and which came as a welcomed surprise, was that the official delivering the service was the brother of my friend AH. (I knew that AH’s brother was a reverend at Westminster, but I had no idea I would ever actually sit through a service delivered by him.) 

Another welcomed surprise was that the first song was ‘Jesus Christ is Risen Today.’ By itself this was not a surprise—it is, after all, a traditional Easter song—but this particular song is a favorite at my parents’ church, and so it made me feel somewhat connected to them to hear it. 

Also, while I’m on the subject of music at the service: I was standing near a woman whose voice was…well, bless her heart, I’m sure it sounded lovely to the good Lord’s ears. But, though off-key, it was also kind of sweet to mine because it reminded me of my paternal grandmother. My grandmother was the epitome of a good Christian woman (the real kind), and I have so many fond memories of standing beside her at Sheppard Park, listening to her joyfully warbling along with the hymns. 

So, in a way, the service not only reached me on a spiritual level, but it also made me feel more closely connected to my friends and family (both here on Earth and beyond). Aww…

Finally, I just want to share striking bit of text that was included in the service’s program. This excerpt comes from an Easter sermon attributed to St John Chrysostom (c. 347-407):

If any be lovers of God, let them rejoice in this beautiful, radiant Feast. If any be faithful servants let them gladly enter the joy of their Lord. If any have arrived only at the last minute let them not be ashamed because they have arrived so late. For the Master is gracious and welcomes the last no less than the first. Enter then, all of you, into the joy of your Master. First and last receive alike your reward. Rich and poor dance together. You have fasted in Lent and you who have not, rejoice together today. Come, all of you, to share in this banquet of faith; draw on the wealth of God’s mercy and love. Let no one lament their poverty; for the universal kingdom has been revealed. Let no one weep for their sins, for the light of forgiveness has risen from the grave. Let no one fear death; for the death of our Savior has set us free. He has destroyed death by undergoing death. He has despoiled hell by going into hell.

Though it may come across as a bit preachy, I share this bit of text because, for me, it encapsulates the true meaning of Christ’s teachings: love and forgiveness, regardless of your socioeconomic class or potential moral failings. In essence, none of that matters because we are all equal (meaning it is none of our places to judge another). 

This is the ideology behind my understanding and practice of Christianity, and it is this understanding which allows me to continue calling myself a Christian despite the fact that men like James Dobson and the Pope have tried to pervert what it means to be a Christian.

And so, I leave you with that happy thought—now, if anyone wants to send me some of their extra jellybeans and/or chocolate bunnies (even if you’ve already bitten off the ears), let me know and I’ll give you my address!

Of Paintings and Passion Plays

I’m going to take a quick break from telling you about Morocco (really, all that’s left is my last day there) so that I can tell you about Friday (April 6).

Having been stuck in bed for most of the first week of Easter Break, I was determined to get out and do something on Friday. Unfortunately, I’m still at that phase of recovery where I get tired very easily, and so I planned on making said-adventure pretty small. Boy, did I misjudge.

I kicked things off by finally going to the Charles Dickens Museum. Now, you have to understand that this was one of those things from our 2008 trip to London that I really regretted not having time to do, and since the museum’s closing for renovation on April 10th it was kind of a now-or-never thing.

And now that I’ve been, I can honestly say: thank goodness we did not make it back in 2008, because if I had dragged Nic to this and the Royal Mews back then, it probably would have been the end of our relationship.

Seriously, even I was bored at the Dickens Museum (shocking, right?).

Entrance to the Dickens Museum

 Basically, it’s in a townhouse that Dickens lived in alongside his family for about two years. To the museum's credit, despite the short time of occupancy this is the only house of Dickens’ that still survives. Unfortunately, once inside you’re given practically no information (just one, single-sided informational page in each room). Furthermore, items are displayed within cases without explanation, and most of the furniture is replicated. The biggest draw for the proprietors seems to be the café (which takes up three of the five rooms on the ground floor), and a looping film that was so boring I had to leave after less than 10 minutes. 

Dickens' Study: the desk under the window is the same upon which he penned his last words.

Sitting Room

 All in all, I was majorly disappointed in the Charles Dickens Museum I’m sad to say. Then again, I am probably guilty of building it up in my mind over the last four years, ensuring that it could never live up to my expectations.

Following the museum, I was still feeling relatively okay, so I decided to wander around London for a bit, which I always enjoy doing. 

Soon thereafter, I found myself standing in front of the British Museum. I started to go in, but having been there before, I knew what an exhausting experience that would be. Instead, I decided to keeping walking, heading toward Trafalgar Square for some picture taking. 

I stopped en route at LJ’s for some coffee and at the not-as-skeezy-as-its-website-makes-it-look Prowler to finally pick-up a copy of Beautiful Thing on DVD (which they had on sale for £6—normally, the cheapest you can find it for in the US is $30+.)

Eventually, I arrived at Trafalgar Square...only to discover that it was packed! Apparently, a local church was putting on a public performance of The Passion of Jesus. But I’ll come back to that in a bit…

A packed Trafalgar Square and National Gallery. Note the pretty blue sky--that will be relevant later on.

In an attempt to avoid the large crowd outside, I thought this might be a good opportunity to duck into the National Gallery. It was okay—certainly far better than the Dickens Museum. As with most museums, they would not allow photography and, anyway, there really wasn’t anything there that I was interested enough in to go out of my way to record. 

That being said, there was a nice exhibition of Titan’s work that I liked, as well as some always enjoyable pieces by Seurat and Monet (including ‘The Water-Lily Pond’). The piece that I was most excited to see at the National Gallery, however, was van Eyck’s ‘The Arnolfini Portrait.’

NB: This image is not mine.

I’m realizing now, as I write this, that my attraction to this painting might actually stem from an old coffee table book my maternal grandmother used to have, and which I used to thumb through as a child. The more I think about it, I have vague recollections of stopping on a photo of ‘The Arnolfini Portrait’ every time I flipped through the book, mesmerized even as a small child by the mirror in the background (without realizing at the time the significance of it). 

Damn, I really wish I had remembered this while I was there!

After going through the National Gallery, I headed next door to the National Portrait Gallery, where they had an exhibition devoted to Princesses Charlotte and Victoria (later Queen Victoria). And while it was a decent exhibit, and one which I was thrilled to see, I was pleasantly surprised to find far more interesting pieces at the NPG!

The very first piece I came across upon entering the gallery was the portrait of Princes William and Harry from 2010 (their first). I remember when this painting was unveiled I like it quite a bit, so I was thrilled to see it, unexpectedly, in person. 

My next unexpected, but totally welcomed, surprise was their collection of Tudor and Elizabethan portraits! Here I encountered more paintings that I was all-too-familiar with, as they’re used in just about ever historical documentary about Henry VIII’s famous family. Such paintings include the following:

Queen Elizabeth I Coronation Painting [NB: This image is not mine!]

Queen Elizabeth I [NB: This image is not mine!]

Queen Mary I [NB: This image is not mine!]

King Edward VI [NB: This image is not mine!]

Sadly, the famous portrait of Anne Boleyn is being restored, and was not on display.

There was also the (life-sized) drawing seen here:

King Henry VIII and his father. [NB: This image is not mine]

Though this particular one was never used (presumably a second one was created, which was used and subsequently ruined), such drawings were used as a means of facilitating the creation of life-sized murals circa the 1500s. Basically:

The cartoon is exactly the same size as the finished painting and was used to transfer [the artist] Holbein's design to its intended position on the palace wall. To do this the cartoon was pricked along the main outlines of the composition and then fixed in the intended position on the wall. Chalk or charcoal dust was then brushed into the holes made by pricking, thus transferring the outline to the wall. Holbein could then proceed with filling in his design. ~ National Portrait Gallery Description

Very interesting!

Another highlight of my trip to the National Portrait Gallery was a small selection of photographs of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II taken by Sir Cecil Beaton in the late ’50s and early ’60s, including an amazing one of her in full regalia (including tiara) and leaning somewhat wearily against the arm of a couch at the palace. 

While at the National Portrait Gallery I received a text from EN, informing me that she was also in the Trafalgar Square area—turns out, she was there to watch the Passion of Jesus performance happening outside. We made plans to go for coffee after the show, and so when I was done at the gallery I went and met her in the square.

I arrived during the telling of the Last Supper, and wound up staying until the end. I have to say, they actually did a really good job (excepting, of course, the predominance of whiteness amongst the cast). 

Two things that are particularly interesting to note about the performance:

First, the actor playing Caiaphas (the high priest who played in instrumental role in the crucifixion of Christ) sounded remarkably like the late Billy Barty, known for his iconic portrayal of Gwildor of Thenur (and more)! In fact, so close was the sound of their voices that I frequently had to remind myself that Mr Barty is dead and that it could not possibly be him.

Second, the producers did a really good job of portraying the crucifixion: before the audience's collective eyes, three crosses were raised near Trafalgar Square’s large central column. What was really interesting about this bit though, was the moment wherein the Jesus character died. I had been watching the sky above for a bit—most of the day had been warm and sunny (as reflected in the earlier picture I posted), but as the play progressed it was steadily growing cooler. Sure enough, it just so happened that by the end of the crucifixion scene it was gray, cold, and slightly drizzling. Though the play’s sponsors had nothing to do with that, it was a cool effect to go along with the performance!

'Jesus' being 'nailed' to the cross.

And it is on that note that I will close. I hadn’t intended for this entry to be as long as it turned out to be (especially since I have a lot of other stuff I want to work on today). 

Until next time…