My ears hurt.

I just went for my first night bike ride in London.
why did i wait that long.
Nobody knows. But you know that funny pain inside your ears when you've been exercising outside in the chill? I've got that. It's not a bad feeling. It goes with a particular sort of warm fuzzy tiredness. A winter tired.

Also, there is nothing quite like doubledecker breath down your back when you're pedaling along. They have a personality, the buses here. I don't have a name for it yet.

I think I'll tell you about the Wallace Collection briefly. Oh, and Alfie's. Alfie's is funny.

The Wallace Collection is an art collection, an enormous one. It is in an 18th century hunting lodge, which is now smack in the middle of the shopping mecca around Bond Street. It's basically next to Selfridges.

The collection was left to the British public by the collector's (the 4th Marquis of I-don't-know-what)French wife under the condition that it never be added to or subtracted from.
The building itself is extremely opulent. I always get this funny sensation in places like that: simultaneously delighted and out of place. I was early, so I was wandering about, admiring, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had dressed a cut above my normal jeans-sneakers-hoodie equation, and as a result, I didn't look out of place. It was very strange, feeling awkward and realizing that I didn't look it.

This place was rococo to the max. There were more swirlies around than atoms, practically. Unfortunately, I did not get any wondrous photos, just some mediocre ones. The rate at which my wonderful professor whisks us through these places makes me not exercise on the days we have class. It would be too much.
If you ever get the chance, go to this place. It's free. Great word, free.

Completely random thing: The only place I can really, truly say I haven't found in London is the equivalent of Hard Times Cafe. I miss that spot. It will be one of the first places I go when I get back to Minneapolis.

I've realized something about traveling. I have to live in the moment. I can't worry about home, it'll take care of itself. Further yet, I can't try to have it all. When I'm here, though I know for a fact I could live very happily here, I get little twinges of missing Minnesota and/or Wisconsin. But when I'm home, all the souls of the places I'm visiting now are whispering across the miles and the oceans, saying "come find us!". So, obvious though it sounds, you can't have le cake and eat it too. I simply count myself lucky that I ended up in a career guaranteed to let me discover lots of those sneaky whispering voices. Catch 'em. Catch 'em all. :)

Then there's Alfie's. Alfie's is an antiques emporium. The vintage jewellery made me drool on the cases. Four stories of historical ghosties. Yum. If and when you get to London, it's on Church Street. There's a dece little market on that street too.

but then it's London, you can't walk a mile without bumbling into a market.

Here's the Wallace Collection photos.

The ornate containers are snuffboxes, none of them bigger than 5 in across. The painting, which might be familiar, was actually very sexually suggestive, but the proper Victorian ladies later on thought the girl in pink was so pretty that they cropped all the men out and put her on chocolate boxes.

yeah.
das all.
-Lu

The Clash is the cream. of the proverbial crop.

I know I haven't posted any pictures in far too long.
Partly because I'm enjoying pretending I live here, and do not take pictures of things.

That is actually one of my favorite ways to be a tourist. Act like I'm not. Whatever it is that makes people say to me in the States, "you look European", it makes people ask me for directions. Then I talk, and their faces fall. But the first thing I say is that I have an atlas, so they don't run away, and I get to do my good deed for the day.

Today, instead of being direct and taking the Tube home, I took a bus to London Bridge, which despite assumptions, is the architecturally boring one. Nothing else around there is boring, but the bridge most certainly is. I then walked over to Southwark, along the Thames, past the HMS Belfast,

and across Tower Bridge, which is the awesome one. Then past the Tower of London. I love walking past it like I don't notice it, but looking at it out of the corners of my eyes, the way one looks at attractive people on public transit. It was pretty attractive.

Then I sat on the tube and laughed internally at how funny people are. Like the lady sitting across from me who kept twitching unsettlingly and rattling her Evening Standard.

Anyway. I am listening to the Clash. They sort of ooze London. Something about their socially questioning lyrics,their quirky mix of punk and reggae, the stream-of-consciousness sound of the spoken-word verse over the continous-jam sound that they do so well....sort of sums up the experience of it.

and their little accents. Just tops it off.

"Know your rights! All three of 'em."

well done boys. elegant punks.
Maybe over the weekend I'll post pictures I actually took myself.
Right now I need to decide what to send home with my uncle.
night.
-Lu

A Verbal Image

The description of this blog is “a repository of images.” Images can also be verbal. I have a deep love for visual images, but I like to try my hand at the verbal ones as well.

With no further ado, here is an image of a journey, from Angel Station in Islington, London, to Earl’s Court, Chelsea, London.

Dusk is creeping in London. The clouds smirk of rain. There are brilliant, blue-white flashes coming regularly, no thunder. This is puzzling till I see the window of the photography studio, the flashes making people glance and hurry.

I stop at the entrance to the tube station. The inside is hot, grimy, and artificially lit.

No. I don’t want to be in the belly of a little worm train, snaking through the ground. The crisp air and gloom forbid it. It’s doubledecker time.

The bus is the 19, to Hyde Park Corner. The best seat is open: front row, top deck, left corner.

A few of the trees have icy Christmas lights on selected branches, wrapped around the wood, giving the trunks a different dimension. The bus pulls so close to its cousin in front of it that were I to kick through the tall window before me, I’d hit its red paint.

The street looks half mystery, half welcome, the pedestrians Jeykll and Hyde: I’l never know which. A tiny gray-white spider races around the folds in my hoodie, and in trying to remove him nicely, I partially sqush him. Sorry sir.

Spiders, in my experience, do not fall for the “here, climb onto my finger!” schtick as readily as other bugs. Ants are the same way.

Two girls sit across the aisle. They talk too much. Well, one does. The other sits, contained, graceful, staring vacantly, listening politely. Something about the way she’s sitting is feline. “And I’m like,no, she’s been dating this guy for awhile, I’d know if they were engaged….That was so, like, stereotypical of him..”

Fascinating. Really.

I take a deep breath, and think: “SOMEone hasn’t bathed since the Dark Ages.”

Two policemen mosey along Cambridge Circus, talking easily to their companion, a man in street clothes. The metal points on their helmets glint sharp in the dark. Shaftesbury pulses with flashing bulbs on theater signs.

Contentment has snuck up on me. Like when you swallow hot coffee in the morning, and the warmth and vitality shivers through you. Can’t force it, can’t detain it. It simply is. Like art.

The bus goes past the Ritz Hotel. Once merely a family name, now an adjective and an empire. Its spangly, lightfooted ants scurry in and out of their anthill, trailing wealth like perfume.

I put a pound into a man’s hard, dirty hand, at the entrance to the Hyde Park Corner Station. He was the most cheerful person I’d met all day. And he is likely homeless, with only his blanket seat and a Styrofoam cup of coffee to his name. He said “Thanks, darling!” as if I were an old friend giving him cookies instead of a stranger with cold coin. That kind of courage deserves my pocket change, while I have it.

As I stood waiting for the train, I was looking at the boards and nails on the tunnel wall, and realized that they were not a painting. The stark lighting on the white paint made it look like hyper-realist art, and every time I looked at it again, I had to remind myself it was actual nails, actual plywood, not canvas.

I get off the train and think about putting my hood up to disguise the fact that I have earbuds in, since it’s dark, then remember being carded at Proms while attempting to obtain a Pimm’s and lemonade. I look younger with a hood up: also it hides my slightly-rougher-than-Chelsea half-hawk.

Pull open the satisfyingly heavy front door, breathe deep, and think happily, “somewhere, someone in this house is making nachos.” There was something comfortingly American about the smell of nachos.

Good night.

ketchup. hurry up. KETCHUP. (now I'm thinking of dancing hot dogs.)

So i went and did more random stuff.

How bad a post would that sentence be. Edit: I pooped about in Oxford Circus, observed expensive things, walked to Piccadilly Circus, which is the coolest place, full of theater and restaurants that are smell torture if you've not eaten in five hours and been walking all of them, which I had. Then I had a crazy adventure. In Dagenham. First things first.

Oxford Circus contains the biggest H&M, Urban Outfitters, and aforementioned Topshop I've ever seen. And other spendy shops. It looks like so: (not my picture)

Then I walked. And walked. And walked. And walked. I saw a kid my own age, slumped next to a building, clutching his paper cup of coffee despondently. He was sitting on a duffel, and I didn’t know if he was homeless or just a tired traveler. The poor guy looked so utterly done in that I came really close to asking if he was all right. Didn't. ppppttt.

Piccadilly Circus. Really is like a circus. I will go sit there sometime, and act like I'm part of the architecture. It's like a picture from a history book. The beautiful old buildings towering over the various streets, the red buses scurrying, the pedestrians scurrying even harder. Picture. Again, not mine.

Then this is Theatreland. This precise Les Miserables poster is there as we speak. type. whatevs.

I then went home and was tired. but happy.

now. Dagenham. Dagenham Heathway, to be precise. I went there to get a bike. It required me to take the District Line nearly all the way to the east end. Long ride. I got there, and walked about three miles to get to the bike. I asked so many people for directions. A girl in chinos and flats clipping her hedge, a grandma in her trench coat, and this rather nerdily attractive kid my own age with green eyes, and brown hair flopping in them. The older woman literally shied away from me when I started to talk. I’ve never seen someone look so afraid of me: her eyes looked terrified. She warmed up though. “Oh yes, Green Lane, just go through that alley there, take a left, then a right in the next alley!” I was supposed to be there at a certain time, and though I had drawn a map, I wanted to be sure.

All that said, I got the bike, reduced the price by five pounds by being snarky, and began to ride home. Then, oh, then, I took a wrong turn. It was getting dark, and let's just say it was not a ritzy neighborhood. The street signs are difficult. They're on buildings, fences, sometimes not in sight at all if you don't know where to look. Yes, I know, I'm a newbie. And it was raining. I backtracked and asked directions again. I thought the road he indicated was the one I'd come in on: after five minutes, realized it wasn't so. At that point, the panicky thought crossed my mind: "WHAT IF I CAN'T GET HOME!!!!?? what if the tube doesn't run as late as it does in the city, what if I get more lost, what if i miss the first day of corsetry, what if i shrink and fall in the gutter in the rain.." There is only one thing to tell your brain at a time like that and it's Kindly Shut Up Please. Now, Some Logic. Oh look, that street sign points the way to the street you're trying to get to. and you are going the direction it points in. Keep. Pedaling. Look, a main street. A hill. I recall a hill by the station...and BEHOLD! the beautiful red and blue circle-and-dash of the London Underground. In the rain, me hauling my tired bike and sore calves up the slope, it was more gorgeous than...i don't know. Eddie Redmayne. And that's saying something.

Then onto the train, folding my little bike neatly at my feet, and reading the laughable Evening Standard as night fell. Something as simple as sitting down is occasionally wonderful. That was Sunday/Monday. I had a stellar class that morning that you'll hear about, but it must go in the Skool post. A place for everything, and everything in its place. to end, here's what the tube looks like, if you were wondering.

Brit-ism of the day: Keep Calm and Carry On.

Where I Find Rob?

Children, heed my words. If you ever travel the London Underground on a weekend, CHECK FOR CONSTRUCTION. Yours truly was attempting to get her hands on this lovely little vintage folding bike here

But was foiled. Not really. But for the moment. I got to the station, and the sign says “oh yes. By the way, there is construction on the line you want.” Ok, thought I, this is all interconnected, I can get beyond the construction on some other line. Onto the Piccadilly line we go. Get to alternate line. “oh, this one’s down too.” Phhhhpppp. At this point, since I’m supposed to be there to pick the bike up in 45 min, I call the nice man, who agrees to hold it for me till Monday, when I can just ride District all the way. Hooray. However, I blew 8 pounds in the process. Boo.
The experience which came next, however, was worth every pence of those 8 pounds. I was sitting on a chair outside the Hammersmith station, when a terrifyingly beefy woman in leggings sitting next to me turns and says in a very thick German accent, “Excuse me, I have question.” Disclaimer: What follows is word for word. I do not make this up.
“Yes?” say I. “
“ I am trying to find my boyfriend, Rob. In 2009, we come here. He was back there.” She points behind her. “At Starbucks?” I say, trying to be helpful.
“No, in 2009, he go to Charing Cross Hospital, Fulham Palace Rd. You know how I find him?”
No. (I didn’t say that.)
What I did say was, “Well, I have an atlas, let me find it.” I poke around in my priceless London A-Z atlas. (they are the best) for five minutes.
“You don’t know, you don’t know how to find him? He was Charing Cross Police.”
at this point I think. LOOK LADY, it was two years ago. You are no longer in touch with him. You were at a hospital? And that is all the info you have on him? FURTHERMORE, can you not tell that I am AMERICAN? Not. A. Londoner. I know no more than you do about Rob. I do not live in this hood.
Fortunately, she asks the quiet fellow next to me, whose gray hair is one big perfect dreadlock. He tells her how to get to Charing Cross Hospital. She then says, “Yes, I get there, but how I find him?” At which I rise, say nicely, “If he was there, I’m sure they have record of it. Ask the people at the front desk. I hope you find him.” And walk away with my internal giggles about to become violently external.

Then I explored expensive, interesting thrift stores that play Lady Antebellum (NOT INTERESTING. Came here to escape that thank you. But I will forgive you because your little orange Prada parka is making me drool.), and ended up with a nice little green hooded raincoat. Which had a transit card in the pocket. So we shall see if my jaunt will be monetarily redeemed. There’s prolly nothing on it. Oh well.

P.S. Said charity shops are located on 211 Brompton Rd, and 3 Bute St., run by Octavia Foundation.