Friday we set sail for lovely Cambridge, home of two compatriots of Tripp from his travels in Brazil the previous summer, who offered to show us around this historic town for a couple of days. We arrived at the train station and walked five minutes to where one of these gracious hosts, Lizzy, lives on Mill Road, surrounded by ethnic food markets and Charity stores. After dumping our packs we went in search of our other contact Katie and toured the historic King’s College Chapel, constructed by Henry VI and later added onto by Henry VIII, and were amazed at the multitude of miracles that were recorded on a map of England inside the Chapel, including the miraculous removal of a bean from the ear of a man where it had been lodged for 37 years, jolly good show I say! Also because Lizzy was a student of St. John’s College we were able to get the key to the tower of their chapel, which looms over the entire city and provided some great vistas from the roof after the precarious climb up the twisting spiral staircase. The next order of the day was punting, a truly English tradition involving a flat bottomed boat about the size of a canoe that is “punted” along a slow moving river with a long pole. We had previously stocked up on sandwiches and crisps from the local Sainsbury’s and so spent a happy two hours drifting down the river Cam, learning (or in my case remembering) how to steer around the irritable river guides. Finally it was time for the thirty-fifth annual beer festival on Jesus Green, hosted and run by CAMRA, the Campaign for Real Ale, with hundreds of different ales, bitters, and stouts from all over England. The bars were organized by district, North, South, East Anglia, and even a bar dedicated to Cambridgeshire breweries, and some of the beers had memorable names to go along with the wonderful flavor, my favorite was Comrade Bill Bartram’s Anti-Imperialist Soviet Ale. After five hours of drinking and merry-making we waltzed off to the theater to see the new Indiana Jones movie. I found it to be highly entertaining and a good 2 hours or so of action sequences and chase scenes, Tripp on the other hand thought the film was dull and decided to sleep for almost the duration, waking for the final scene to give it two thumbs down and throw popcorn at a kid in the front while yelling “Doctor Jones! Doctor Jones!” We finished the day with a proper paper cone of chips and a long sleep on Lizzy’s couch. The next day we woke to get a real English breakfast a local café, consisting of eggs, toast, beans, tomatoes, and tea, which works wonders when your head feels several sizes too large after a long night. Lizzy then took us round the Fitzwilliam museum, which is incredibly ornate and houses some of the lesser known works of artists ranging from Picasso to Degas and Rodin, well worth a visit. We then said our goodbyes and caught the afternoon train back to Liverpool Street station.
Swan on the River Cam
Beer Fest Festivities
Captain Nelson
King’s College
Punting on the River Cam
We returned to Buckhurst Hill late that afternoon, freshened up, and headed to Guanabara, London’s Brazilian night club with live samba, caipirinhas, and many of my English amigos I met while in Brazil last summer.It was great seeing everyone and artificially re-living “a vida carioca.” I chipped my tooth, unfortunately, but only slightly and surprisingly not due to personal clumsiness.Someone’s forceful elbow created a small chain reaction which ended with my beer bottle hitting the bottom left corner of my left front tooth.I repeat, this was not due to my own clumsiness and at the time I had hardly begun to drink.Overall, Guanabara was a blast and it was wonderful catching up with everyone.Thanks to Suze, Adam and I were able to catch a cab home from the club instead of walking the 15 miles back in the rain for the small fare of £50.That’s a sarcastic comment because it equals about 100 USD.Jesus Christ.
The next day involved rummaging through heaps of records and flat caps, one to Adam’s delight and the other to us both.Adam likes flat caps…or at least trying them on and admiring himself.This all took place in Soho, mostly along a single street that also contained curry houses and strip clubs.We visited on of the curry houses, but left the strip clubs to dodgey men with missing teeth.We also poked our heads in to the British Museum to admire the Queen’s antiquities.It was wonderful to see all the colorful displays of relics from the beginnings of civilization to contemporary African art designed to look like a chair made out of AK-47s.Adam and I got lost from each other as the museum was closing and proceeded to wander around the museum’s inner atrium looking for one another for about 20 minutes until one of our strides finally caught up with one another and we were found at last.
Wednesday the 21st we ventured off to the Somerset House on the Embankment which houses several different galleries. One in particular that we were interested in was called Skin and Bones, dealing with the parallel themes found in the design of fashion and architecture over the last half century. Before we got to that we were intrigued by a free exhibit entitled Open City, which was put on by a group called Design for London, currently working on a comprehensive massive overhaul of the entire city’s layout and ethos. Where the streets form dangerous crosswalks and traffic jams, pedestrian zones would be created, waterways would be utilized for transit, green zones would be created in previously polluted spaces, and a focus on the history and organic nature of the city would be manifested in new developments. Overall a very well put together proposal and plan, and even included a large board where anyone could post their reactions and suggestions, some of which had already been added into the overall master plan. Afterwards we moved on to the Skin and Bones exhibition, which was extremely informative and more interesting than I expected, specifically the fashion which I generally don’t understand very well. Each section was classified by an idea, for example “Shelter” or “Weaving”, which was then represented by the work of fashion designers and architects, with scale models, photos, and video clips illustrating their implementations of their ideas. Such famous architects as Zaha Hadid, Frank Gehry, Daniel Libeskind and Toyo Ito were included in the exhibit, many of whose work I was unfamiliar with, and the combination of the displays and Tripp’s knowledge of their other work and backgrounds made the entire experience both exciting and revelatory.
In 1871 Camille Pissarro and Claude Monet were in London in order to escape the ravages of the Franco-Prussian War. Pissarro sought refuge with his relatives living in South London, in the borough of Lewisham, and over the course of his year long stay he painted several famous landscapes, two of which we ventured out to do research on; the Avenue at Sydenham, and Fox Hill in Upper Norwood. We caught the train from Waterloo Station fully expecting a day of photography, interviews, and marvelous views, but as we were quickly finding out even the slightly hastily laid plans of mice and men oft go awry. Locating the Avenue wasn’t too difficult, nor was recreating the perspective and borders of Pissarro’s famous painting, which sold in 1984 to the National Gallery in London for the hefty sum of £625,000. It was, however, complicated getting anyone to agree to speak to us on tape, apparently because of a certain tendency in Britain to not have an opinion on anything relating to our project, or rather a steadfast resistance to telling us said opinion(Tripp’s note: for further information regarding British modesty consult my new personal Jesus, Bill Bryson). To top it all off, it seems that most people in Sydenham are unable to direct you to Lewisham, Norwood, or evidently anywhere in their immediate environs. So instead of recording the reactions of several Sydenham locals after taking photos, we received a series of recommendations about where we might find someone with expert information about Impressionist paintings and their relationship to South London. Thus began what can only be classified as a whirlwind wild goose chase around the seedier side of the city upon the Thames. Our inquiries at the Church of St. Bartholomew led us to walk back to Sydenham proper and search for a book store whose owner, we were assured, would be willing to talk to us. Actually he claimed to have no thoughts with regards to any of our questions and told us we might be better off going to the Lewisham Library, which is located “just down the street”. The problem now was that we were off the map, so we went into the post office to ask directions to the Library, where there was no help to be found. Finally we made for the nearest bus stop and headed in what we hoped was a southerly direction, winding our way for almost half an hour through towns with names like Brockley, and something along the lines of Cat Garage until we arrived in central Lewisham and located the Library. Things were looking up for us, it seemed. We then spoke with a man who, though you may not know it, is something of a celebrity in the greater Lewisham area. Who could this be, you might ask, why certainly no self-respecting celebrity would speak to you two, but there you would be wrong, because we met with none other than John Coulter, librarian and archivist extraordinaire of Lewisham Central Library, and author of several books on the history of Sydenham and Norwood. He showed us several maps, listened politely to our somewhat jumbled thesis and further research ideas, and sold us a book about locations of famous paintings in London, after which point we asked to take his picture for our records. “If you wish,” he chuckled, clearly wondering what planet we were from, and ever so modestly positioned himself for a portrait for his biggest, if not youngest, fans (for authorized portrait of John Coulter see previous post).
Upon departure from Lewisham Central Library we were off to Fox Hill, Upper Norwood.After missing our stop, or the bus just not taking us there, we found ourselves in Lower Norwood (though it now proclaims itself East Norwood).It was here we came to the conclusion that your everyday Joe-London has not the slightest clue about their locale, so we decided to use our instincts and walk to Fox Hill. We climbed for about 20 minutes and came to the spot where Pissarro painted the road on Fox Hill with its distinctive curve and twenty degrees of steepness.We snapped our photo and began the ascent to the top of Fox Hill, the second home of Victorian England’s Crystal Palace. Little did we know the disappointment that would ensue as we became eager to see this world renowned establishment, formerly the home of many a classical music world premier and the world’s first cat show.It turns out that the Palace is now nothing more than a barren mall of grass with a few sphinx heads and a statue of an Indian man.So it was, and off to catch the train back to Waterloo we went, walking back through our esteemed Sydenham along the way and stopping at a chippy for take-away chips with just not enough salt and vinegar to make it worth it.Don’t be discouraged, reader, on this day we reveled in our disappointments and had a blast.
As the last few posts have comprised non-original material (apart from the photos) I feel an explanation is necessary. We’ve been extremely busy here in London, hoofing it all over to parts hitherto unknown in the quest for the “true” London experience, and research material. Erica, who is angelic in her obliging nature in letting us stay at her flat, also offered to drive us out into the country for a day, so we could experience what the rest of England is really like. The “country” has quite a different meaning over here, referring to the rolling hills and sweeping meadows and forests that comprise the vast majority of England’s landscape, occupying the undeveloped spaces between the industrial centers of Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, and London, among others. In order to accomplish a bit of research while on this sojourn, we looked up several John Constable landscapes, which are from the 18th century, and thus slightly too early for us, but regardless he is certainly England’s greatest landscape painter. He painted of and around the town of Dedham, which is close to a place called Flatford Mill, where his extremely famous painting “The Haywain” was made, and which hangs in the the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square.
We got up early (8 am) and drove the 60 miles out to Dedham and Flatford, strolling around the town and asking people we met for directions to Flatford Mill, which wasn’t very clearly marked. After stumbling upon a woman painting the scene of a water lock at Dedham Mill, we moseyed on back to the center of town and explored the church, which was easily the most impressive building in the area. In fact it is featured prominently, particularly the bell tower, in most of Constable’s work.
Among other things, the ornate door and stained glass windows were destroyed by the Puritans (weak!), but one small section of window that was too high for them to reach has the initials ES on it, referring to an Edward Sherman, the ancestor of a certain General Sherman who gained fame in the US Civil War. Sherman’s house in Dedham is covered with graffiti from the 18th century by boys he taught to read and write, carving their initials and even nicknames into the brickwork. The town is also linked closely to Dedham, Massachusetts, which donated 1000 pounds(2000 dollars) to help restore the building, and has a memorial to the NASA astronauts from the Apollo 11 mission that landed on the moon. Continuing on to Flatford Mill, we found it completely preserved, virtually unchanged since Constable and full of spectacular views and fields full of curious sheep(yes, they were curious). We then traveled further to a town in Suffolk (the county in England north of Essex) called Lavenham, which has stood virtually untouched since the 17th century. Most of the houses there are pre-Victorian and are now slouching and sliding over very dramatically, and among other places we visited a tea house that is rumored to be haunted called Tickled Pink, after its owners hundreds of years ago named Mr. and Mrs. Tickle, who sided with Cromwell and the Roundheads against the Monarchy and were thought to be witches, by way of which the townspeople tortured them by tickling them to death (probably not with feathers though). One of the houses here, not pictured below, is thought to be from whence the children’s poem about a crooked man who lived in a crooked house originated.
Overall it was quite an excursion out into the country, full of incredibly useful and interesting information from Erica, and a great many photos of a nice day out in Constable Country (great name for a theme park?) My apologies for how long it has taken to get a real post up again, but its been a very tiring, although enjoyable, week and a half and the late nights have meant late mornings which have meant not a lot of time to chronicle our adventures. Rest assured more will be posted soon about expeditions to the uncharted regions of South and West London, meetings with John Coulter, Abbey Road graffiti, and much, much more. Love to John Constable, and to all of you readers (Javier).
The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade:
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew,
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.
The blackbird has fled to another retreat
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
And the scene where his melody charmed me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
‘Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see,
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.
I was waiting for crosstown train on the london underground, when it struck me…
its time for a post.
not just any post.
posto uno!
My apologies to the queen (and other interested parties) for the delay in slapping up the news, but here it is now, so no worries.
We arrived at Heathrow around 8am on Tuesday to a delayed Picadiily Line thanks to suicide jumpers on the tracks. Evidently its the new hip thing if your depressed and life isn’t going your way, or if all you ever see are cloudy skies like in London. We arrived in Buckhurst Hill about 1pm later to fair weather and an incredibly welcoming Auntie Erica.
back track–
Air India is/was awesome. Relatively uncomfortable seats, but the nicest flight attendants this side of New Delhi and a plane that for whatever reason no one cares to ride on. As we boarded we were given a Hindu blessing, or at least a bow and a “have a blessed flight” from a woman in a sari who I never again saw on the flight. We got settles and after about five minutes the doors closed and I decided to move up towards Adam since there appeared to be rows of empty seats for the claiming. We were soon given little orange juice things which we both left to de-thaw while we amused ourselves with the touch screen panel in each headboard filled with both hindi and english games music and movies. I watched my first ever Indian comedy show which was hilarious although probably not for the right reasons until the flight attendants came around with more beverages.
‘what do you have?’ i asked. ‘everything coke water beer whiskey what would you like.’ ‘oh wow i guess i’ll just have a beer then’ ‘and how many cans would you care for sir?’
The above was not to be believed by me, but is, in fact what I heard and how I responded. Mind you, the television activities, beverages, and the dinner to come were at no extra cost for the flight. As the flight continued we received a heaping meal of Indian cuisine with all courses miniaturized and considered. Little did we know the gastric problems that would arrive upon landing and remain a problem nearly until arrival at Auntie Erica’s flat.
We remained at Erica’s flat that day, welcomed with macaroni and cheese and honey cakes oh my. She took us out for dinner to a pub in Theydon Bois. Never fear, this was not just your run of the mill public house, rather it was filled with shiny brass trinkets many of which relating to the historically horse-carried beer barrels of yester yore. There were also many war clippings and tributes which was neat. This pub, I decided was the authentic applebee’s but with much cooler (and much more) wall and ceiling flare. Much more worthwhile or meaningful as well. I had my first English cider and a bountiful plate of English chili and rice. Adam ate a lamb. Let me also mention the super-speciality of this bar: this bar is frequented by none other than one Mr. Sir Rod Stewart. He wasn’t there, but does have a home in the area and “grabs em a poi-nt win E’s arownd.” Good man Roddy. Erica then gave us a whirlwind driving tour of downtown London, which was grand to see all lit up for the night. Erica is filled with knowledge of London and its citizenry. I spent the hour or so rubbernecking to more precisely drive by evaluate the city’s architecture and landmarks. My camera poked out the rear driver-side window most of the night as I attempted to snap photos of everything I could see. I was rather unsuccessful, but not completely. The night ended pulling out the sleeper sofa and passing out only to arise (for me, Adam sleeps through anything) around quarter to five to start my first full day on the soggy island that is Britian.
Tripp and I have been in England for 3 days now, touring around the bustling metropolis of London-upon-Thames. We traveled on marvelous Air India from New York JFK through the night arriving in England at Heathrow airport early in the morning. The Picadilly line was shut down due to a “person under the train” (Final Thought: I can’t take this weather no more!) so we wiggled our way through the underground and arrived at Buckhurst Hill to Erica’s flat thoroughly exhausted. I’m struck by how poorly I know London considering I’ve been traveling here on a yearly basis my entire life, the city is basically a jungle. But my blundering confusion and Tripp’s fatal error of following me on occassion led us on our first day out in the city to lane, just of Charing Cross Road, lined with old and rare bookshops. Each had its own character and appeal, and we spent some time in one called Red Snapper Books, specializing in counter-culture and avant-garde literature. Jonathan behind the desk was a friendly and intriguing Irishman, who actually spends most of his time at another of my favorite bookshops, Shakespeare and Co in Paris, where he helps to run poetry and literature festivals. He regaled us with stories about his time playing fiddle in Chapel Hill bars and listened with interest as we explained our current efforts along with some schoolmates to found a student run record label, something he found fascinating because of its “open-source” implications. After sifting through shelves of Burroughs sketchbooks, Kerouac handprinted poems, City Lights Readers, and Vonnegut first editions, I decided that if I had a magical suitcase and a million pounds I would gladly take the lot, but sadly we were only browsers that day and moved on to other shops full of prints of Chagall and world war two medals. Armed with our array of cameras and microphones we ventured through Trafalgar Square to the National Gallery, fully appreciative that every museum in London is free. There we met a very helpful information desk attendant who printed us out a bibliography of related works when we told her about our project idea, and also directed us to the ArtStart interactive media reference library in the basement. We then found the Impressionist gallery and saw the original version of Monet’s Westminster from the Thames and Sunset and Parliament. The guard in the room, named Mark was at first unwilling to speak with us but eventually indulged us and we were able to record our fist interview, how thrilling. We then walked down the Mall through St. James Park, Green Park, and eventually Hyde Park, stopping to see Buckingham Palace and eat a lunch of cheese sandwiches. We hoofed it across Hyde Park to the other side of the Serpentine to find a gallery that Tripp informed me was the site of interesting architectural displays that rotated annually, however the work of Frank Ghery was nowhere to be found, so we decided to cut our losses and head for the nearest pub. Finally we finished the day with a photoshoot at the site of Monet’s iconic paintings, framing the current view from a bridge near the Savoy Hotel where it was painted. Another attempt to interview a Londoner about their reactions to development and alteration versus preservation of landscapes and view was fairly fruitless, the brusque passers-by were rather less than willing to oblige us. Finally an old Australian man managed to mumble about his personal art taste for nearly 10 minutes and we halted on account of fatigue. Indeed I must now make the same excuse and end this first foray into the world of blogging, please continue checking our blog if this interests you at all, its going to be quite a journey. Ta ta for now
