Leaving Londontown

Well, my papers are done, my bags are packed, and my friends arrive from Houston in a just a few hours, so my time in London is coming to an end. I assumed that the frustrating things about London, the terrible food, outrageous prices, and lack of sunlight (the sun begins to set at 3p, if it can even be seen through the gray sky) would lessen the blow and make me yearn for central Texas. While I’m looking forward to going home, after a short jaunt through France and Spain with my Houston friends anyway, I’m still really going to miss this crazy city. Sunday I went for a long walk through Hyde Park to clear my head, and I ran into the most interesting character at Speaker’s Corner. This area of London was originally set aside for the gallows, and since dead men tell no lies, it was necessarily a free speech zone (in that you couldn’t possibly be killed twice, so you might as well speak your peace), and today people still stand on soap boxes to express themselves. The fellow in the above photo told me that Jesus of Nazareth was alive and well and working in London, and that the British Government knew all about it. When pressed on the issue, this blasphemer finally admitted, unsurprisingly I might add, that he was in fact Jesus, and that news of his death (and resurrection) had been greatly exaggerated. I looked for a small pebble I could toss at him unawares (Matt Hill style), so that one day I could claim to have ‘stoned a heretic’ (would make the ‘two truths and a lie’ ice breaker game more interesting), but the British have street sweeping down to a science, and no pebbles could be found. The loudest speaker by far was a man wearing a huge Bush-Cheney campaign sticker, who was telling all who would listen about the debt of gratitude we owe the Bush administration for the invasion of Iraq, and that what the world needs now (apart from love, sweet love) are further invasions of Syria, Iran, and North Korea. Would you believe that the speaker’s greatest supporters, the cheering crowds applauding his rant, were mostly composed of Syrians and Iranians? Surreal. I’m afraid my blog will be neglected in the coming days, since the iBook will be stored with the rest of my luggage in Victoria Station while I travel with my peeps to Paris and Barcelona. I’ll be sure to take lots of pictures and will have plenty of time to reflect and post on my return Stateside. Happy holidays y’all. Grace & Peace.

The Play's the Thing

The past couple of weeks haven’t been all work, and I’ve actually taken a few evenings off to see some theater. When Alex and Madeline flew into town, we all went to see Mel Brook’s campy musical The Producers staring Nathan Lane as a corrupt and lascivious Broadway producer, but I repeat myself. Seeing Lane play the part of not only a straight man, but a womanizing straight man, really gives you an appreciation for his range and skills as an actor. Of course, the best parts of the play are the few glorious scenes from “Springtime for Hitler,” where scantily clad Bavarian goddesses adorned with strategically placed beer steins, pretzels, and sausages pay homage to a misunderstood Fuhrer. Totally worth the price of admission.



And I’m happy to report that I finally got my Shakespeare on. Shane and I went to see a production of Hamlet by the Royal Shakespeare Company which, considering that we were slogging through term papers at the time, was appropriately depressing. I read a lot of Shakespeare in high school humanities courses, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember what happened after Hamlet got sent away to England – turns out he comes back to Denmark and dies, and his evil uncle Claudius dies, and his harlot mother Gertrude, dead, and of course alas poor Yurick!, he’s already dead along with Hamlet’s dead dad, and Ophelia goes mad and dies, and because Hamlet played a nasty trick on his friends “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead,” and Polonius is dead, and his son Laertes dies as well. Nice. Now that’s a proper British play… no Disneyfication whatsoever. How appropriate that the King would choose to send a half-mad Hamlet to England; amongst the throngs of psychopaths and crazy-crazies, Hamlet’s dementia would hardly be recognized.



While I’ve seen LesMis a couple times on my local PBS affiliate, I’ve never been able to see it in person, so I was really excited about the London production. Arguably the most moving scene occurs when the Bishop of Digne forgives Jean Valjean of theft and ‘purchases’ him for God; such a wonderful picture of mercy (24601 no more) and grace (the candlesticks). It’s amazing how Hugo manages to make so many diverse characters sympathetic – you can’t help but admire Javert’s devotion and the ambitious M’sieur Thénardier (inn keeper) is almost lovable. In fact, the only character I can’t stand, and in whose death I find relief, is the revolutionary student leader Enjolras. He’s supposed to be the hero, but all his talk about the “voice of the people” and streets sounding with “the songs of angry men” made me nauseous. Just your typical French Revolutionary with no sense of history or continuity, willing to embrace violence for the sake of liberal socialism. I’m all for Liberté, Egalité, & Fraternité – I just think the French go about it all the wrong way… what are they on, their fifth Republic? Sorry for the virulent anti-Gaullism, but the French just get under my skin sometimes – for all their criticisms of Pax Americana, perhaps the most benign imperialism in history, you just know the French would prove ten times the imperialists if given the chance. Grace & Peace.

Gluttony in Moderation

Many thanks to Mr. & Mrs. Nelson, Shane’s folks, who sent a huge care package after Thanksgiving. Seeing as how there were far too many cookies and pints of salsa for Shane to consume before his departure for Spain, I graciously offered to help ease his burden (above photo). Shortly after this picture was taken I ate enough Pace Picante to choke a horse – seriously, I made myself ill… but it totally cured me of SDD (salsa deprivation disorder). I never knew my stomach could hold a gallon of picante. While I’m on the topic of gluttony, I should share a few culinary anecdotes. First, one of my favorite things to do in London involves taking the Tube to Aldgate East and finding an Indian restaurant on Brick Lane (aka “The Curry Mile”). What sets Brick Lane apart is that eateries have bouncer-salesman who try to convince you to choose their particular establishment, and if you’re savvy you can negotiate an amazing price. Since we usually go with a large group, we get insane deals – we’ve even gotten a free round of naan, half price drinks, and 20% off all entrées. Impressive. I’ve ordered the house’s “hottest curry” before and been unimpressed with the use of spice, or lack thereof, so on my last visit to chutney paradise I informed the waiter that anything less than the “hottest curry in all of Britain” would be a severe disappointment. I first began to suspect that I might have made a mistake when the waiter said, “Sir, I accept your challenge.” As a kid I couldn’t understand why my dad loved to eat jalapeños since I couldn’t handle the heat, but now I realize that my genes predispose me to crave hotter and hotter foods as I grow older. One day, like Lister from Red Dwarf, the only food I’ll be able to taste with my last remaining taste bud is a flaming hot dish of chicken vindaloo. When the waiter returned carrying a deep sunburn-red curry, I could actually feel the entrée radiating heat. Warning #1. This was weapons-grade curry my friend… Niger yellow cake… a few plutonium atoms short of critical mass. Ouch. When the curry first touched my lips, before it alighted on my tongue or was anywhere close to my throat, let alone stomach, I began to hiccup uncontrollably. Warning # 2. The waiter looked concerned and offered to fetch me a saucer of yogurt to ‘compliment’ the curry. I declined. Warning #3. Despite the warnings I plowed ahead and managed, with the help of Steven Tapera, to finish almost half of the dish. I can’t describe what it tasted like, because there was no flavor, just pain with a hint of anguish. I was grateful for the napkins, as my face was sweating profusely. The last thing I’ll say about my hellish curry experience is that the curry burned as much coming as it did going. Lovely.



You’d think that for this, my first major holiday spent away from home, I’d feel robbed of the Thanksgiving experience, but I ended up celebrating Thanksgiving twice and have had my thankful fill of turkey, Pilgrims, and Americana. In the above photo you can see the Butcher’s Hook and Cleaver, a pub near Queen Mary where the UTers all met for Thanksgiving dinner. Apart from a lack of cranberries and pumpkin pie, the turkey dinner was extremely authentic and did much to alleviate my homesickness. Across the street from the pub is a memorial to William Wallace – it seems Wills was disemboweled, executed, and quartered on this very spot. Pass the stuffing please. On the weekend, my recently engaged Norwegian friends (congratulations Alexander and Madeline!) came to visit and we all cooked a massive Thanksgiving dinner at an expat’s house. The pumpkin pie was drenched in Norwegian vanilla sauce, a milky glaze that I have heretofore refused to talk about in my blog, lest any readers with addictive predilections seek out and become enslaved to this Valhalla of all dessert sauces (the chemical reactions in the pleasure-centers of the brain react to Norwegian vanilla sauce as they would crack cocaine or heroine). Trust me friend, if you don’t want vices in your life, forget I ever mentioned Norwegian vanilla sauce. And just one last culinary anecdote: the other night I was walking along Bayswater Road when I saw a gleaming silver platter of Turkish Delight! Ever since the White Witch convinced Edmund to betray his kin for a few pieces of this powdered sugar-clad sweet, I have longed for the day when I could sample the illicit fruit. I asked the proprietor if this was indeed ‘the’ Turkish Delight, to which he responded, ‘Yes. There is no other.” After purchasing a large square, it took only one bite before I realized how incredibly disgusting Turkish Delight really is. Imagine extremely dense fruit-flavored jello jigglers allowed to dehydrate in the sun before being impregnated with almond shards and powdered in sugar. Don’t worry Blake, you’re safe… for now. However, if the Narnian despot ever gets her hands on a supply of Norwegian vanilla sauce, you’re toast. Grace and Peace.

Farewell Sweet BritRail

I’ve finished four of five papers, so it looks like I’ll actually receive credit for this semester, marking perhaps the greatest academic fraud since… well, last semester I suppose. The only way I’ve found to overcome writer’s block and burnout, which began to set in after the third paper, is to ditch the whole ‘research oriented’ approach and just start recording the high-pitched rants that are usually echoing somewhere deep in my cerebrum. I think Professor Walker will be quite surprised to read about the rise of “Islamofascist ideology” in my Emerging Markets Law essay. What does Islamofascism have to do with the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund? Beats me, but I never pass on a chance to mock mad mullahs, insult insane intifadas, and fight fiendish fatwahs. I wonder if they’ll actually teach me lawyering skills one day – I really don’t know anything about the practice of law. I mean, all I’ve learned thus far is how to synthesize a vast amount of information that I know absolutely nothing about into a well organized, convincing, and authoritative brief that I also know absolutely nothing about… oh… what d’ya know – I’m a lawyer! Wow, that realization sort of snuck up on me.

Anyway, I thought this would be a good time to catch up with my readers (i.e., mom, dad, and the archiving spiders at Google). As the expiration date of my BritRail pass began to draw nigh, I got in a few last train trips. Shane and I hopped on the Great Western line to visit the country of Wales. I know it sounds strange to speak of England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland as ‘countries’ within Great Britain, but that’s how the CIA’s World Factbook classifies them, so get used to it. The Welch opposed the English hegemony for a while, but eventually caved in, which is a shame since they don’t seem to have a sense of themselves, at least not the way Scots do. Welch yeomen were made famous at the battle of Agincourt where, under the direction of Henry V, they let loose devastating arrow volleys, which slaughtered the French lines. I don’t remember the name of the French military commander - surrender and defeat on the battlefield, or while sipping whine on the Maginot Line, is so common in France that no one can be expected to remember all the great French losers in history. In the first photo above, I’m climbing yet another spiral staircase in Castell Caerdydd (yes, the spelling is correct), a medieval castle built on the ruins of a Roman fortress. This semester I’ve probably climbed a couple hundred stories of spiral masonry, and I’m convinced that castle dwellers, despite their probable malnutrition, must have had calves of steel. My brother and I are pretty different, but there are times when I know exactly what his response would be to a particular situation. For example, if Blake were examining the keep’s fortifications (second photo above) he’d be thinking the exact same thing I was: “Where shall we put the Gatling Gun?”



Later that day Shane and I caught the train to Caerphilly Castle, the second largest medieval castle in Britain behind Windsor. Finished in 1271, Caerphilly was built by one of Henry III’s nobles, Gilbert de Clare, to secure southern Wales and prevent any further conquest by the Welch leader Llwelyn the Last. I’m assuming Llwelyn got his nickname postmortem, else his parents were right nasty gits (sorry, I’m trying to practice my British slang; don’t worry, I’m told ‘git’, meaning fool or brat, is only mildly offensive). I thought the best part of the self-guided tour was the display of disabled siege weapons, including a ballista and trebuchet, though there was a disappointing lack of Gatling Guns. After playing with the ballista, we figured out that all you’d need is two metal rods and a projectile to re-enable the device… if only I was a boy scout. In the above photo I'm standing in a window of the Great Hall - the scale of Caerphilly is remarkable; I felt like a halfling from Hobbiton.



A few days later, I took my last BritRail trip to the white cliffs of Dover and the village of Canterbury. It’s amazing to stand above the cliffs and realize that Julius Cesar, William the Conqueror, Philip II’s Armada, Napoleon, and Hitler all set their sites on this small seaside town as the gateway to their greater ambitions in Britain. In the above photo I’m standing on the very spot where Vice-Admiral Ramsay, commander of the British Navy, used to stand each morning with a weary eye to the French coast, wondering if a blitzkrieg might be lying in wait across the channel. I would like to have stood here in June of 1940 when Operation Dynamo saw the evacuation of 300,000 British and French troops from Dunkirk. My pastor at Holy Trinity Brompton, in his Remembrance Day sermon, described how the British were surrounded on the shores of France and utterly exhausted from their defeat, when Ramsay devised an evacuation plan hoping to rescue at most 40,000 troops. The entire nation was called to prayer, and he remembers crowding into Westminster Abbey to pray for God’s deliverance. Exceptionally bizarre (i.e., miraculous) weather confounded Nazi efforts to attack the huddled masses while an equally bizarre smooth-as-glass channel allowed an armada of merchant marine vessels, fishing boats, and pleasure craft to evacuate Britain’s army. Below Dover Castle there are three levels of secret wartime tunnels, the first excavated during the Napoleonic Wars, the deeper second built during WWII, and the deepest third constructed for the Cold War. I toured all but the Cold War level (off limits to visitors), and especially enjoyed the command center and underground hospital.





On the train ride back to London, we stopped at Canterbury and were surprised to find a large “county fair” in progress (not exactly sure what the Brits would call it). I had a great time sampling local foods and wines and was sorry I had leave to visit the cathedral. As luck would have it, we visited Canterbury Cathedral, Mother Church to the whole Anglican Communion and seat of Archbishop Rowan Williams, on the day of Kent University’s graduation, so most of the building was closed for pomp and circumstance. The first Archbishop of Canterbury was St. Augustine, who arrived in England in 597 with a mission to convert the Angles. Can you believe how beautiful the cathedral is (first photo above)? I’m reminded that I graduated from the Frank Erwin Center. Frank. Erwin. Center. Man, that’s sad. Fortunately, the Presbytery and Lady Chapel were still open to visitors, so I was able to see the spot where Thomas Becket was murdered (or martyred depending on your perspective) in 1170 by men loyal to Henry II. I’m not a cat person, but the choir cat took a liking to me for some reason and wouldn’t let go (second photo above). This huge tabby has spent its whole life in the cathedral and instead of being jaded and aloof like most of the other cats I’ve known, she was trusting and affectionate. I guess cats, when properly sanctified, are as nice as dogs. Who knew? Grace and Peace.