One of the traits that defines me as I am now - and something that is far different from what I used to be - is my penchant for saying aloud that which should probably not be said. Or written. A colleague laughed last week about my "Irish temper" and how she could picture me leaving DU: not only would I light a match and toss it over my shoulder before I had time to think about the consequence, but I'd probably spend at least a moment to pour some gasoline on the bridge as a I crossed it in my rage.
I'm not sure this is an improvement but it is a meaningful step sideways at the very least.
When we were coming back from San Antonio last weekend, a woman behind us in line to board the plane complained when Jamison joined me in said line - as if he were just jumping in front of her and not with me. As if one more person in front of her was somehow going to affect her boarding or any part of her life at all. Like she didn't have a seat waiting for her in particular. When she said to her companion, "I can't believe that guy just cut in line" I turned around and said, "but look how quickly you're getting over it." I wanted to add, "bitch" to the end of that but didn't. No need for overkill. I'm sick to death of people who think they can do whatever they like and that courtesy will dictate that I keep my mouth shut.
In short, there's a new sheriff in town and she's not taking shit in any form these days.
I told one of my students this semester - when he complained that my assignment was "stupid" - that he could come out the exact same way he came in and not to let the door hit him in the ass. When he backed down, I actually insisted that he leave anyway. Where I got this kind of gumption I haven't the faintest idea. But it feels kinda good.
So. Imagine me striking a match on my shoe right now. One of my friends, Jeni, had a boyfriend (now an ex) I've met a few times and I've always been pleasant to in the name of good manners and mostly for Jeni's sake. Even though I know what he's done to her. More than once. Like the unforgivable Cruciatus Curse in Harry Potter, there are some things you can't take back. No one gets to take comfort and freedom and security from another person's life on purpose and be forgiven. At least not by me.
He knows I know these things and yet he operates under some kind of assumption that because I didn't show up at his door after the last bout of violence with my brother's hockey team to play his head like a puck, that we're friends. Or at least friendly. I get messages and email and I can't possibly fathom why he would contact me as if we should keep in touch. He is an abuser, and abusers make sure that their reputations are solid. It's like having the last word: a woman leaves a man who abuses her and he makes sure that no one believes her because he appears to be such a nice guy. Before I knew what was going on with him and Jeni, he was nice. Came off as pretty cool and normal. They always do, but secretly they want to Just. Control. Everything.
Even more staggering, of course, is why he cares at all what I think of him. Why does my opinion matter - we've never been friends. He clearly doesn't know me, because if he did, he would know full well to stay as far away as possible because now that I don't have to be nice, I won't be. Some people will forgive the sin of violence against people you claim to love, but I won't. I refuse to absolve someone of this crime, particularly when inflicted on someone I love.
I don't know if Jeni's ex has hacked his way far enough to find my little blog here, but I kind of hope so. Dude: you're a fucking coward and stay the fuck away from me.
Burn, baby. Burn.
26 November 2008
25 November 2008
As though to breathe were life
I taught Tennyson's Ulysses this term and wept as I read it. Never before has this poem so overcome me, and I have always loved it.
Sometimes the world overcomes me and I needs must cry. Just because I can. Sometimes it's nice to feel things on some cosmic level that one cannot explain. Like when I broke down in the car listening to the story about the farmers in northern Colorado who opened their farm after the harvest for anyone to come and reap the remainders (which, by the way, is apparently substantial amounts of quality food) for free. They expected 3,000 people and got over 10,000. All you can carry from the farm for free. It shut down the highway. I could cry right now as I write this and can't verbalize why.
We got back from San Antonio and it was a great trip. I miss Laura and Aidan so much and seeing them was wonderful. I resent that they had to go and why. But I am glad they are doing so well now. We did some shopping and hanging out and lots of eating (oi - I feel so fat now). The one thing we did that I loved was visiting the missions. I admit that in my Anglophilia I never bothered to learn some key things in American history (but ask me anything you want about the British Monarchy), including all things Wild West and along the Mexican border. Mostly because I moved to the west as an older child and had never spent time anywhere near Mexico, but mostly it's a gap in my education. For example, I know what the Alamo is but I never really knew the story of it, or any of the other missions for that matter, and it was educational. And sad.
The ruins are not all ruins - some of them are still functioning parishes and this amazes me. There are so many ghosts in SA; I felt uncomfortable in a couple of places - especially at the first mission (Concepcion, I think) where one room was all wrong. The Alamo is strange because there are so many tourists that it's difficult to pick up on much, but being there at night - I could just feel the energy of the place emanating from its very walls. Laura told me that The Menger hotel (adjacent to the Alamo) is hella-haunted and I believed her. When I went there later that night to photograph it, I couldn't even walk up to the building. About half way across the street walking toward it I felt nausea and the overwhelming sensation of needing to get away. I half expected the photos I did take to have horrible things in them. They don't.
Sometimes the world overcomes me and I needs must cry. Just because I can. Sometimes it's nice to feel things on some cosmic level that one cannot explain. Like when I broke down in the car listening to the story about the farmers in northern Colorado who opened their farm after the harvest for anyone to come and reap the remainders (which, by the way, is apparently substantial amounts of quality food) for free. They expected 3,000 people and got over 10,000. All you can carry from the farm for free. It shut down the highway. I could cry right now as I write this and can't verbalize why.
We got back from San Antonio and it was a great trip. I miss Laura and Aidan so much and seeing them was wonderful. I resent that they had to go and why. But I am glad they are doing so well now. We did some shopping and hanging out and lots of eating (oi - I feel so fat now). The one thing we did that I loved was visiting the missions. I admit that in my Anglophilia I never bothered to learn some key things in American history (but ask me anything you want about the British Monarchy), including all things Wild West and along the Mexican border. Mostly because I moved to the west as an older child and had never spent time anywhere near Mexico, but mostly it's a gap in my education. For example, I know what the Alamo is but I never really knew the story of it, or any of the other missions for that matter, and it was educational. And sad.
The ruins are not all ruins - some of them are still functioning parishes and this amazes me. There are so many ghosts in SA; I felt uncomfortable in a couple of places - especially at the first mission (Concepcion, I think) where one room was all wrong. The Alamo is strange because there are so many tourists that it's difficult to pick up on much, but being there at night - I could just feel the energy of the place emanating from its very walls. Laura told me that The Menger hotel (adjacent to the Alamo) is hella-haunted and I believed her. When I went there later that night to photograph it, I couldn't even walk up to the building. About half way across the street walking toward it I felt nausea and the overwhelming sensation of needing to get away. I half expected the photos I did take to have horrible things in them. They don't.
03 November 2008
The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide...
It's Monday and I'm over my lost week of jet lag and just getting by. I slept well through the weekend and it was lovely. Today I sit in my office at DU - something I do less and less these days - and as I eat my lunch I realize that what a great space I am in. I went up to the ED to heat my lunch and ran into Katie. I love Katie, and she's the only other person in this place doing a dissertation on anything remotely close to mine, so I always feel like I should know her better or spend more time with her but it never works out. In any case, when I do talk to her, and she tells me her job search and dissertation woes, I smile. She asked me if I'm just writing now, and I said yes, I'm writing a dissertation, a novel, a blog, and I'm teaching five classes and taking one. I have a family and a house, too, and oh yes, just got back from 'cross the pond.
She asks me with wonder how I do it all, tells me I must be some kind of super-woman. Truth is, I tell her, I'm not. I don't believe for one second that any other person couldn't do exactly what I do if they were so inclined. In fact, I often think that I still waste far too many hours in every day that could be more productively spent. I tried to explain to her the Tyler Durden philosophy quoted as my title today, but she just looked at me quizzically. It's true. Priorities are everything, and I decided to not make DU and grad school one of the single digit ones, and I've never been happier or more productive in my life.
No matter what you do with your life, you should love it, always take a day off from it, and never take it too seriously. Take vacations whether or not you can afford them. Realize that money is only money, ice cream is sometimes required, and that $50 for a massage IS better spent there than on groceries some days.
She asks me with wonder how I do it all, tells me I must be some kind of super-woman. Truth is, I tell her, I'm not. I don't believe for one second that any other person couldn't do exactly what I do if they were so inclined. In fact, I often think that I still waste far too many hours in every day that could be more productively spent. I tried to explain to her the Tyler Durden philosophy quoted as my title today, but she just looked at me quizzically. It's true. Priorities are everything, and I decided to not make DU and grad school one of the single digit ones, and I've never been happier or more productive in my life.
No matter what you do with your life, you should love it, always take a day off from it, and never take it too seriously. Take vacations whether or not you can afford them. Realize that money is only money, ice cream is sometimes required, and that $50 for a massage IS better spent there than on groceries some days.
Holy blog posts!
Sunday, the last day in the UK before heading home, was appropriately rainy and gray. I decided to make my pilgrimage to Canterbury. I went by train, and all I can say was that the entire day was spectacular. I got to spend it alone in the rain in a medieval city and while that sounds like a complete nightmare to some, it's probably my version of heaven to a degree. Much of the town still sits inside the Roman walls and on Sunday the whole place is fairly sedate. The cathedral is amazing, and I love that the choir was practising whilst I was there, and that I had lunch at McDonald's in a building older than my own country. Check out the pics on my Facebook. It's all I'm going to say. Some things I want just for me.
Oh so hazy pub crawl...
One thing I am most unused to is a constant state of drunkenness. In my old age, I rarely drink and even more rarely drink to the point of excess. Frankly I can't afford the hangover time anymore and it's expensive. That sounded even older than I wanted it to...
Saturday I went back to the British Library for research purposes, mostly out of guilt for not having done so and needing to report to professors as such back home. I checked out the items I most wanted to see, but felt again disappointed at how I missed out on something by being in a generation where I can see all of these things online and at home. I thought holding 400-year old documents in hand might have some kind of magic, and it does, but not in a way worth the trip probably. Sadly. After a bit, I found myself needing to sit there long enough to justify having someone retrieve said items for me - is an hour enough to prove that I'm a serious scholar? If I were a serious scholar, that question would likely not need asking at all, I suppose.
I met Sarah and we had a nice lunch at Pret - a mushroom risotto soup that was so scrummy that I still want another cup and I'm not even a big fan of mushrooms. I returned to the library for more "work" time and then met up with her at the flat to decide how we'd spend the remainder of our Saturday in London. Originally she had a friend coming to meet her for the weekend, but he couldn't make it, thus leaving us with rearranged plan time. I'm glad, too, because this ended up being one of my favorite days of the whole trip.
We decided to hit Portobello Road market (in Notting Hill) and it was all I wanted it to be and more. Not only is this the cutest damn neighborhood you can possibly imagine, but the market is huge - we walked for over a mile and for hours and didn't see even half of the market. They have everything there from jewelry to antiques to food to ... whatever. You'd have to see it to believe it. I had a blast, and got my future nephew a Ramones onesie. We started to get hungry and decided that hell or high water, we were having curry for dinner tonight and opted for the fail-safe Brick Lane district in Whitechapel. The same Whitechapel made famous by Jack the Ripper (yay). We came across the Ten Bells pub, dated 1666, advertising absinthe (double yay), and vowed we'd stop back in after supper.
Brick Lane is its own little world. I love the three or so block stretch of curry houses where men stand outside the doors and try to lure you in with specials, free wine, discounts, and these get better as you go further down the street. It's strange and it makes me suspicious and uncomfortable, the same way I dodge the people in the mall with clipboards. But we had already decided to eat at Aladdin because it is publicly touted as "the favourite of Prince Charles" and how can you go wrong with that endorsement? In short, the food was AMAZING and inexpensive and it was the kind of food that makes my tummy feel happy in its own right. We ate Chicken Ticca Masala, Saag Paneer, poppadoms, garlic naan, and veggie samosas. I can't remember when I've had a more satisfying meal.
We ventured back to the Ten Bells, which was so cool inside - it was dark and the old wallpaper made it creepy. I'd never had absinthe and so Sarah and I shared one. It's odd because it tastes like anise - which I don't like - but as soon as you taste it, you crave more of it. We chatted up some girls at a nearby table and finished the drink. I see why people love it and why so many places outlaw it. It is more than alcohol; it has some kind of narcotic effect, which I learned is heighted dramatically by movement, say, on an Underground train. I felt impaired after only one-half of a drink and it got better from there. We headed to The George Inn, where we had Strongbow cider and George Inn Ales, met up with some very chatty folk. Then to London Bridge station because I wanted to finally go to that club I missed on my birthday last year, but alas, the queue was already long and not moving, so we passed on. Next up was Cheshire Cheese - probaby the coolest of the pubs I've been in so far. It's 1667 - rebuilt post-fire - and is still in the old style of having small individual rooms, each with a bar, and you can even sit in the hallways between and drink. Here we had more cider - mine was strong and unremarkable, really - and then we discovered Samuel Smith's Organic Cherry Fruit Beer. It's delightful, strong, and doesn't taste like beer in any way. It's like cherry cider and we had a couple of them. We also chatted up an incredibly drunk Englishman who only moments later did not recognize us. Quite amusing. At some point later, I lost the ability to focus - visually, mentally, etc. I may have called Jamison. I definitely walked home from there but don't remember it well. I spent the rest of the night trying to keep the room from spinning.
But I had a great freakin' time...
Saturday I went back to the British Library for research purposes, mostly out of guilt for not having done so and needing to report to professors as such back home. I checked out the items I most wanted to see, but felt again disappointed at how I missed out on something by being in a generation where I can see all of these things online and at home. I thought holding 400-year old documents in hand might have some kind of magic, and it does, but not in a way worth the trip probably. Sadly. After a bit, I found myself needing to sit there long enough to justify having someone retrieve said items for me - is an hour enough to prove that I'm a serious scholar? If I were a serious scholar, that question would likely not need asking at all, I suppose.
I met Sarah and we had a nice lunch at Pret - a mushroom risotto soup that was so scrummy that I still want another cup and I'm not even a big fan of mushrooms. I returned to the library for more "work" time and then met up with her at the flat to decide how we'd spend the remainder of our Saturday in London. Originally she had a friend coming to meet her for the weekend, but he couldn't make it, thus leaving us with rearranged plan time. I'm glad, too, because this ended up being one of my favorite days of the whole trip.
We decided to hit Portobello Road market (in Notting Hill) and it was all I wanted it to be and more. Not only is this the cutest damn neighborhood you can possibly imagine, but the market is huge - we walked for over a mile and for hours and didn't see even half of the market. They have everything there from jewelry to antiques to food to ... whatever. You'd have to see it to believe it. I had a blast, and got my future nephew a Ramones onesie. We started to get hungry and decided that hell or high water, we were having curry for dinner tonight and opted for the fail-safe Brick Lane district in Whitechapel. The same Whitechapel made famous by Jack the Ripper (yay). We came across the Ten Bells pub, dated 1666, advertising absinthe (double yay), and vowed we'd stop back in after supper.
Brick Lane is its own little world. I love the three or so block stretch of curry houses where men stand outside the doors and try to lure you in with specials, free wine, discounts, and these get better as you go further down the street. It's strange and it makes me suspicious and uncomfortable, the same way I dodge the people in the mall with clipboards. But we had already decided to eat at Aladdin because it is publicly touted as "the favourite of Prince Charles" and how can you go wrong with that endorsement? In short, the food was AMAZING and inexpensive and it was the kind of food that makes my tummy feel happy in its own right. We ate Chicken Ticca Masala, Saag Paneer, poppadoms, garlic naan, and veggie samosas. I can't remember when I've had a more satisfying meal.
We ventured back to the Ten Bells, which was so cool inside - it was dark and the old wallpaper made it creepy. I'd never had absinthe and so Sarah and I shared one. It's odd because it tastes like anise - which I don't like - but as soon as you taste it, you crave more of it. We chatted up some girls at a nearby table and finished the drink. I see why people love it and why so many places outlaw it. It is more than alcohol; it has some kind of narcotic effect, which I learned is heighted dramatically by movement, say, on an Underground train. I felt impaired after only one-half of a drink and it got better from there. We headed to The George Inn, where we had Strongbow cider and George Inn Ales, met up with some very chatty folk. Then to London Bridge station because I wanted to finally go to that club I missed on my birthday last year, but alas, the queue was already long and not moving, so we passed on. Next up was Cheshire Cheese - probaby the coolest of the pubs I've been in so far. It's 1667 - rebuilt post-fire - and is still in the old style of having small individual rooms, each with a bar, and you can even sit in the hallways between and drink. Here we had more cider - mine was strong and unremarkable, really - and then we discovered Samuel Smith's Organic Cherry Fruit Beer. It's delightful, strong, and doesn't taste like beer in any way. It's like cherry cider and we had a couple of them. We also chatted up an incredibly drunk Englishman who only moments later did not recognize us. Quite amusing. At some point later, I lost the ability to focus - visually, mentally, etc. I may have called Jamison. I definitely walked home from there but don't remember it well. I spent the rest of the night trying to keep the room from spinning.
But I had a great freakin' time...
Down the rabbit hole we go...
Friday we ventured out to Stratford Upon Avon, only to discover something called a Mop Fair going on. It's basically a traveling carnival with rides and such, but I thought it funny that I asked no less than three locals in varied locations what "Mop" has to do with it and none could tell me. I assume it's not a sloppy wet thing on a stick that one uses to swab the deck or clean the floor. In any case, from the train station we walked to Anne Hathaway's cottage, which was some distance from the centre of town, but it was a nice walk through garden paths and flowers and tiny residential districts of Tudor period homes and expensive cars. It must cost a jillion to live here. Along the paths, though, are signs that read "No Fouling" and have a picture of a dog leaving a steaming pile with an "x" through it. Hee-larious. Really. Check out my Facebook page to see the photo (and all of the photos - they're there and I didn't feel like posting them twice).
The cottage was neat and worth the tourist dollars to walk through. Stratford really is charming and lovely and I'm glad I got to come back here. Last time I spent all of an hour after the Shakespeare's house tour and I missed out. Every street is cute, every person smiling and polite, and I simply love the little smart jokes everywhere, like Marlowe's pub "recently refurbished, 1595." Of course there's the requisite Starbucks, but what's nice is that there is always an array of choices for one's coffee needs, and the sweet shops are divine. I got some clotted cream fudge and was immediately sorry for it - I couldn't rest until it was all gone, of course. Dee-licious. I spent the rest of the time trolling the gift shops and finding lunch for us to take on the train - I settled on sausage rolls (as recommended by a local fellow) and some sodas and crisps. We reconvened at the train station to head to Oxford next and ate our lunches on the way there. However, there was a change at Leamington Spa (or something like that) and since they're working on the trains, there was one less running that day. We took the entire rest of the trip - nearly an hour - standing on the packed train and trying to keep busy with iPods.
Oxford is also far more charming than I can stand, and its only down side as I see it is that it feels way too much like an American college town, and I can get that at home. But it's scenic and like everything else in the UK, is home to some great pubs and what seems like the entirety of British history is housed in its very stones. We were greeted off the train by brilliant red leaves on the changing trees and the old castle. Next was to find the oldest pub in town, The Bear Inn, dating back to 1242. It too was under "refurbishment" but still open for business and I feel certain after sitting in it that Lewis Carroll had to have spent some considerable time here. The pub boasts not a single right angle in the whole place, and this is immediately apparent. The poor bartender has to be at a constant stoop because the ceiling is so low and the floor visibly slants to one side in each room. The Ladies' room up the stairs is probably the weirdest one I've ever been in. The steps are crooked and narrow, and get more so toward the top until you reach the door to the Ladies' which is so short even I had to crouch considerably and I'm not tall. Inside is a cramped but cute loo and pedestal sink. It's not for the claustrophobic to be sure. It's very Alice-in-Wonderland. We drank a cider there called Scrumpy Jack, which was delightful and strong.
We then walked round the town, took photos at Christchurch and Exeter - both of which are lovely - and we managed to arrive at the Bodleian just in time for it to be "closed to visitors." Grrr. I really wanted to see the inside of it. From there it was back to the train station, only to discover that there was once more a backup in the system and the fast train to London was standing room only. I was very glad when the train pulled in and emptied so we could sit for the remainder because I was beat. Everyone on the train was grumpy or annoying, so I tuned out and dozed off.
We planned earlier that day to try and find the curry place in Soho that Rick Steves had mentioned in his book, so we got out in London and went to Piccadilly, only to find that it was still rush hour and Friday night (which is pretty much the same travel hell in any country, apparently). We stumbled through Soho hungry and without curry and every place we went to eat had at least an hour wait. I was stressed and grouchy, but I could sense that Sarah was too and since she's far more stable in this regard than myself, took it as a bad sign. Ultimately, we settled on the pasta place next door to our flat (in a nice, business district that's all closed up by 5) and then wandered back home to sleep.
The cottage was neat and worth the tourist dollars to walk through. Stratford really is charming and lovely and I'm glad I got to come back here. Last time I spent all of an hour after the Shakespeare's house tour and I missed out. Every street is cute, every person smiling and polite, and I simply love the little smart jokes everywhere, like Marlowe's pub "recently refurbished, 1595." Of course there's the requisite Starbucks, but what's nice is that there is always an array of choices for one's coffee needs, and the sweet shops are divine. I got some clotted cream fudge and was immediately sorry for it - I couldn't rest until it was all gone, of course. Dee-licious. I spent the rest of the time trolling the gift shops and finding lunch for us to take on the train - I settled on sausage rolls (as recommended by a local fellow) and some sodas and crisps. We reconvened at the train station to head to Oxford next and ate our lunches on the way there. However, there was a change at Leamington Spa (or something like that) and since they're working on the trains, there was one less running that day. We took the entire rest of the trip - nearly an hour - standing on the packed train and trying to keep busy with iPods.
Oxford is also far more charming than I can stand, and its only down side as I see it is that it feels way too much like an American college town, and I can get that at home. But it's scenic and like everything else in the UK, is home to some great pubs and what seems like the entirety of British history is housed in its very stones. We were greeted off the train by brilliant red leaves on the changing trees and the old castle. Next was to find the oldest pub in town, The Bear Inn, dating back to 1242. It too was under "refurbishment" but still open for business and I feel certain after sitting in it that Lewis Carroll had to have spent some considerable time here. The pub boasts not a single right angle in the whole place, and this is immediately apparent. The poor bartender has to be at a constant stoop because the ceiling is so low and the floor visibly slants to one side in each room. The Ladies' room up the stairs is probably the weirdest one I've ever been in. The steps are crooked and narrow, and get more so toward the top until you reach the door to the Ladies' which is so short even I had to crouch considerably and I'm not tall. Inside is a cramped but cute loo and pedestal sink. It's not for the claustrophobic to be sure. It's very Alice-in-Wonderland. We drank a cider there called Scrumpy Jack, which was delightful and strong.
We then walked round the town, took photos at Christchurch and Exeter - both of which are lovely - and we managed to arrive at the Bodleian just in time for it to be "closed to visitors." Grrr. I really wanted to see the inside of it. From there it was back to the train station, only to discover that there was once more a backup in the system and the fast train to London was standing room only. I was very glad when the train pulled in and emptied so we could sit for the remainder because I was beat. Everyone on the train was grumpy or annoying, so I tuned out and dozed off.
We planned earlier that day to try and find the curry place in Soho that Rick Steves had mentioned in his book, so we got out in London and went to Piccadilly, only to find that it was still rush hour and Friday night (which is pretty much the same travel hell in any country, apparently). We stumbled through Soho hungry and without curry and every place we went to eat had at least an hour wait. I was stressed and grouchy, but I could sense that Sarah was too and since she's far more stable in this regard than myself, took it as a bad sign. Ultimately, we settled on the pasta place next door to our flat (in a nice, business district that's all closed up by 5) and then wandered back home to sleep.
If you don't gotta wear pants, don't
Thursday proved an even more out-of-character day for me, and this change to my entrenched habits can only be a good thing. I spent more than half the day in our flat, watching BBC news, writing, and not changing out of my pajamas. Sarah and Annie had trekked off to the Tower, and even though I'd wanted to see it again, part of me was a bit too stingy to spend the 12 quid for something I'd already done. So I slacked. I had breakfast and piddled around, and it felt nice. Normally I feel pressured to get out the door, to see as much as possible, but this time round I just wanted to feel what living in London might be like. I mustered the energy about midday to head to the British Library, as part of my stated purpose in going to the UK in the first place was "research." I meant it when I said it, even if my actions didn't back me up.
I walked through the exhibits there and seeing the Beowulf text and Shakespeare's first folio was pretty damn cool. I got a library reader's card and felt accomplished. I met Annie and Sarah for Fish and Chips and instead of keeping up the momentum of seeing parts of the city I hadn't before, I went back to the flat again for some more rest. I really feel my age this time; I feel like I can't keep going at the pace my mind wants to but that's okay, I decided. I'm still in the UK, not an old grumpy woman yet, and everyone needs a resting day once in a bit.
I met Sarah later at the British Museum to see the Sutton Hoo exhibit, the Elgin Marbles, and of course, the Rosetta Stone. I really wanted to see my bog people, but that exhibit was under "refurbishment" and that was indeed disappointing. I did find a book in the book shop, however, on marble erotica from the ancient world that was pretty interesting. Sarah then went home and I walked Oxford Street - the hub for all things tourist and cheap, tacky crap stores, which (alone) find delightful. I bought some necessary cheap stuff and scarves, took pictures at Tottenham Court Road - which now explains a lot with the last Harry Potter book; this is a dodgy street to find oneself on amidst an array of otherwise lovely streets. Then I was exhausted - again. Got some pasties and sodas for us, but got seriously frustrated trying to get back home from Tottenham Court station. The Central line, I note, breaks down frequently, and in rush hour, this can only mean too many sweaty people in one underground place, waiting too long for trains that are too full. I knew I wasn't far from the flat and could walk, but by the time I planned this, the platform was way too jammed to get out. After three trains and way too much body contact with smelly strangers, I made it back and with the same feeling of stress I get at home after a hairy freeway drive.
So I stayed in for the night while Annie and Sarah went pub crawling. I really wanted to go, but had been drunk the three nights prior and wasn't up to it. So I put my sweats on, went to the grocery store, and did a load of laundry. I kind of liked it, really.
I walked through the exhibits there and seeing the Beowulf text and Shakespeare's first folio was pretty damn cool. I got a library reader's card and felt accomplished. I met Annie and Sarah for Fish and Chips and instead of keeping up the momentum of seeing parts of the city I hadn't before, I went back to the flat again for some more rest. I really feel my age this time; I feel like I can't keep going at the pace my mind wants to but that's okay, I decided. I'm still in the UK, not an old grumpy woman yet, and everyone needs a resting day once in a bit.
I met Sarah later at the British Museum to see the Sutton Hoo exhibit, the Elgin Marbles, and of course, the Rosetta Stone. I really wanted to see my bog people, but that exhibit was under "refurbishment" and that was indeed disappointing. I did find a book in the book shop, however, on marble erotica from the ancient world that was pretty interesting. Sarah then went home and I walked Oxford Street - the hub for all things tourist and cheap, tacky crap stores, which (alone) find delightful. I bought some necessary cheap stuff and scarves, took pictures at Tottenham Court Road - which now explains a lot with the last Harry Potter book; this is a dodgy street to find oneself on amidst an array of otherwise lovely streets. Then I was exhausted - again. Got some pasties and sodas for us, but got seriously frustrated trying to get back home from Tottenham Court station. The Central line, I note, breaks down frequently, and in rush hour, this can only mean too many sweaty people in one underground place, waiting too long for trains that are too full. I knew I wasn't far from the flat and could walk, but by the time I planned this, the platform was way too jammed to get out. After three trains and way too much body contact with smelly strangers, I made it back and with the same feeling of stress I get at home after a hairy freeway drive.
So I stayed in for the night while Annie and Sarah went pub crawling. I really wanted to go, but had been drunk the three nights prior and wasn't up to it. So I put my sweats on, went to the grocery store, and did a load of laundry. I kind of liked it, really.
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