They say every mistake teaches you a lesson. So I guess the benefit of making lots of mistakes is that you learn lots of lessons. Enough to write a manual, of sorts:
1. Your two-hour break between classes is not sufficient time to schedule a cello lesson when it involves commuting from the center of the city to the edge.
2. If you decide to ignore the above, at least make sure it isn't pouring as you embark upon your odyssey.
3. If you STILL ignore the above (a tough guy, eh?) you're in for some fun. It takes longer to get to Finsbury Park on the tube than you think.
4. So you didn't look up which bus number to take from the tube station to your teacher's house. Nice job, Sherlock. Don't blame it on the broken internet, you should have tried harder. There's a nice man over there, ask him.
5. When the man at the information kiosk at first seems unable to understand English, this is not necessarily a bad sign. When he doesn't recognize the small map you printed off earlier: I repeat, do not give up hope. When he has the unexplainable epiphany that you should take bus W3, LISTEN TO HIM.
6. Do NOT get a second opinion from the man at the desk on the other side of the station, even if his English is perfect.
7. Repeat step 6, replacing "man at the other side of the station" with "trendy hipster waiting for Bus W7." And again, using "the French woman standing nearby."
8. DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, BOARD BUS W7.
9. When, against all reason, you board bus W7, make sure you know where to get off before you are standing in the middle of the aisle and the doors are closing. This will prevent you from blocking the way for everyone else, nearly falling over and killing someone with your aptly named Bam instrument case when the bus abruptly moves, and generally making a huge erratic rain-soaked flustered mess of yourself.
10. There will be a very nice concerned citizen who takes pity on your plight and tells you where to get off this bus, which is not really near your intended destination. You will have realized by now that you made a terrible mistake by assuming the first man at the station didn't know what he was talking about. There is probably some deep moral about the evils of making assumptions, especially based on someone's accent. You feel like kind of a jerk.
11. Back to your rescuer. He will kindly make conversation even though you are still awkwardly blocking the entire aisle and receiving angry glances from all around. It will turn out that he went to Guildhall School of Music and Drama. And that he is a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company. And that he just finished a TV show. You will feel like he is probably a big deal but straight up asking what he's been in seems tacky. He's very down-to-earth about it all.
12. When the bus breaks down, don't panic. There's another one right behind you. Prepare for mass exodus to the transfer.
13. When you lose your Actor-friend in the scuffle, still don't panic. You're allowed to be a little worried, though. Where do you get off again?
14. When the bus stops at a place that seems promising, get off. This will save the Actor from having to miraculously appear from the upper level (yep, the good ol' double decker London bus) and yell over, "This is it! You should get off now!" Because then you will feel supremely incompetent. But also unspeakably grateful.
15. It will be pouring harder. Call your teacher, whom you have never actually met, but should have about half an hour ago. Tell her where you are. She will say you're still pretty far, you should probably just go back, let's reschedule for Monday morning.
16. Kick yourself several times with purpose. You were overly anxious and should have waited till Monday in the first place. Now you've made a bad first impression, you are tired from lugging your cello to the middle of nowhere, your socks are wet, and you have a 3 hour lecture to look forward to back at school.
17. Take the bus back to Finsbury Park. At least you know which one to take... HA. On the bus, inhale your peanut butter and jelly sandwich. You will start to feel a little better.
18. Back underground, back on the tube. You're afraid you'll see the man whose correct instructions you ignored, but you won't, which makes you miss him a bit. He seemed nice and happy.
19. Get off the tube at Piccadilly. Fight through the midday crowd. Re-enter school, feeling defeated.
20. These next steps are crucial, so listen up. Realize that, despite your unpleasant and pointless journey, you met so many people who were willing to help you. Recognize that people here are very kind, that they offer help without even being asked, they offer it cheerfully and sincerely.
21. Try to pay some of this kindness back into the world. Repeat. And repeat, and repeat.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
IL PAPA
It was really a case of being in the right place at the right time and letting the day's events sweep me along.
As you may know, the Pope is in London, paying the first official visit to the UK in 30 years, and the second in history. His 3 days here are stuffed with meetings, diplomatic handshakes, and speeches, notably an address to Parliament that took place yesterday. My boss Zoe mentioned on Wednesday that she could try to get me a ticket, thought the chances were small. And indeed they were; she was unable to get a ticket to the actual speech, but she did manage one for a small room next to the hall where they would live-broadcast the Pope on TV and I would keep my fingers crossed that I'd somehow get to the real thing next door.
So, after a 3-hour class on Christianity and Islam and a very long walk, I dragged my sleepy self to Portcullis House to retrieve my ticket and allowed Zoe to shepherd me through the winding maze of Westminster Palace to the Central Hall, an astounding room filled with stained glass windows and gilt ceilings. From there, the 20 of us in the "holding cell" followed a very nice docent into the room from which we were to watch the speech. To get there, however, we had to walk through Westminster Hall, the oldest part of Parliament, built in 1099. Pause for a moment. People have been debating, ruling, condemning, and compromising in that room for a thousand years. A thousand. I can't even wrap my mind around that. The vast stone walls were adorned with carvings of lions and griffins, the ornate oak ceiling beams with guardian angels. There was a brass band playing stately music, a red carpet leading down the stone steps of a dais, on top of which sat a throne-like red plush chair whose intended occupant had not yet arrived. On the wall adjacent to the dais, a huge stained glass window let in the late afternoon light. This hall has the same feel as a cathedral, and indeed, it is the political equivalent of a holy place. This is where the British court system was invented, where Sir Thomas More was sentenced, the only part of Parliament to survive the fire that destroyed so much of the city. To me, it all made the fantastical seem possible; I could have believed in Merlin and Narnia and dragons slain by chivalrous knights, enchanted as I was by my surroundings and their history.
The room was filling with an audience of statesmen and women wearing those fancy hats that British ladies like so much. Dreamily following the guide with my mouth slightly open in wonder, I vaguely noted what might have been an admiral before taking one last, longing glance at the hall and disappearing into a side corridor. It was like holding out a wedge of chocolate cake to the birthday girl and then throwing it out the window into a pile of cow manure (although hopefully no one keeps that stuff outside their windows... it's more for artistic effect to show convey the scope of my disappointment). All the waiting speech hopefuls sat with bated breath, hoping for some word that we would be allowed back to the hall with all the cool kids. Finally, after making friendly conversation with each other, we were informed we would all get seats in the hall. (In the words of Winston Churchill, "Never give up! Never! Never! Never! Never!" You just might get to see the Pope!)
We were ecstatic, all of us, even the serious man in the pin-striped suit. And our incredulous joy only increased as we were led past many rows of spectators, right up to the front of the room, about 100 feet back from the dais. It turns out that MPs go home to their constituencies on Friday afternoons, and many declined the Pope in favor of the comforts of home. Their loss was my gain, because all their vacant seats were in the front of the hall, and empty seats at big political functions look bad on TV. So guess who they used to take up the space? That's right, interns and secretaries and office workers got to sit in front of diplomats and benefactors and lords. In a country that still has a monarchy, there's a sort of poetic justice in that. So I satt down in my VIP seat, looked up, and the first thing I saw was... Tony Blair. Looking in my direction. I clapped my hand over my mouth and started giggling uncontrollably with the girl next to me, my new British friend sharing my wide-eyed enthusiasm. I don't know if Tony Blair saw our reaction, but I hope he did. And next to him, none other than Gordon Brown, with whom he was chatting amiably. A bit down from them, Lady Margaret Thatcher. Across, a crowd of cardinals decked out in their finest red. I tried, for a moment, to reflect upon the splendor around me, to appreciate my incredible good luck. Who was I to deserve to be there? But on the other hand, why shouldn't I? Events like this should be reserved for guests who truly appreciate them, not just powerful leaders going through the motions to maintain their reputations.
Now for the point of the whole grand affair: Il Papa. He arrived, fashionably late, to a fanfare of trumpets and made his way to his throne. After a short preamble by the Speaker of the House of Commons, Benedict got up to address Parliament (or rather, posers like me pretending to be Parliament). Confession: I have the utmost respect for Benedict and all his good works, but I've always thought his eyes lent him the appearance of a sinister evil genius. (Please don't smite me...) Standing at the podium, however, dressed in immaculate white to match his snowy hair and stooping slightly over the microphone, the Pope seemed gentle, grandfatherly, and wise. His voice was very soft and comforting, his German accent lending him the air of a kind professor. Every so often he would cough, making me wonder about his health. You couldn't help but want to care for this man, to do all you could for him.
The speech was very well done (no surprise there, Benedict is an acclaimed writer and probably has legions of speechwriters to help him out), if a little general. It focused on the importance of tolerance and upholding morals... bread-and-butter issues, nothing too unexpected. But the event itself was historic, given the collection of people and the location, and I enjoyed every minute. Afterwards, the Pope shook hands with the former Prime Ministers, seeming again like a fond old grandfather, and took his leave with an entourage of cardinals and security guards. The crowd began to rustle, the politicians started to rise. The next thing I knew, Margaret Thatcher was standing five feet away as she walked down an aisle with a man on each side to support her. Sporting a pink suit and a fluffy perm, the former head of state was, frankly, adorable.
I allowed myself to be herded away with the large crowd, drifting through doors and courtyards and finally reaching the lobby of Portcullis again. It was nearly empty, except for stocky a middle-aged man with a platinum blond bowlcut who looked oddly familiar. It was Boris Johnson, the mayor of London, whose face I knew because it was splashed all over the newspapers when my family was in England a few years ago during the mayoral elections. Boris always seemed to have an air of mild befuddlement about him, and this impression proved true when he asked me how to use the revolving doors. Me. The mayor asked me.
"Oh... uh... you just, you just push the button and then it spins."
"What? Well, let me see you do it first."
"[nervous laughter] ok..." *thinking* Oh no does the mayor think I'm laughing at him? I'm not I'm just awkward and what am I supposed to say and why doesn't he know how to use his own doors?
He did figure it out, eventually, and the proceeded to throw on a shabby backpack before tearing off on a nondescript bicycle. I wonder if the people of London know their mayor just rides around town on a bike in the middle of the day. I think that's pretty cool; exactly what a mayor should do, really.
What a day. I pretended to be a Parliamentarian, saw the Pope, giggled at Tony Blair, and taught the mayor how to use a door. All the work of Serendipity, that old friend of mine. Thank you to the powers that gave me the most enthralling day in recent history. I am still filled with awe and gratitude.
So, after a 3-hour class on Christianity and Islam and a very long walk, I dragged my sleepy self to Portcullis House to retrieve my ticket and allowed Zoe to shepherd me through the winding maze of Westminster Palace to the Central Hall, an astounding room filled with stained glass windows and gilt ceilings. From there, the 20 of us in the "holding cell" followed a very nice docent into the room from which we were to watch the speech. To get there, however, we had to walk through Westminster Hall, the oldest part of Parliament, built in 1099. Pause for a moment. People have been debating, ruling, condemning, and compromising in that room for a thousand years. A thousand. I can't even wrap my mind around that. The vast stone walls were adorned with carvings of lions and griffins, the ornate oak ceiling beams with guardian angels. There was a brass band playing stately music, a red carpet leading down the stone steps of a dais, on top of which sat a throne-like red plush chair whose intended occupant had not yet arrived. On the wall adjacent to the dais, a huge stained glass window let in the late afternoon light. This hall has the same feel as a cathedral, and indeed, it is the political equivalent of a holy place. This is where the British court system was invented, where Sir Thomas More was sentenced, the only part of Parliament to survive the fire that destroyed so much of the city. To me, it all made the fantastical seem possible; I could have believed in Merlin and Narnia and dragons slain by chivalrous knights, enchanted as I was by my surroundings and their history.
The room was filling with an audience of statesmen and women wearing those fancy hats that British ladies like so much. Dreamily following the guide with my mouth slightly open in wonder, I vaguely noted what might have been an admiral before taking one last, longing glance at the hall and disappearing into a side corridor. It was like holding out a wedge of chocolate cake to the birthday girl and then throwing it out the window into a pile of cow manure (although hopefully no one keeps that stuff outside their windows... it's more for artistic effect to show convey the scope of my disappointment). All the waiting speech hopefuls sat with bated breath, hoping for some word that we would be allowed back to the hall with all the cool kids. Finally, after making friendly conversation with each other, we were informed we would all get seats in the hall. (In the words of Winston Churchill, "Never give up! Never! Never! Never! Never!" You just might get to see the Pope!)
We were ecstatic, all of us, even the serious man in the pin-striped suit. And our incredulous joy only increased as we were led past many rows of spectators, right up to the front of the room, about 100 feet back from the dais. It turns out that MPs go home to their constituencies on Friday afternoons, and many declined the Pope in favor of the comforts of home. Their loss was my gain, because all their vacant seats were in the front of the hall, and empty seats at big political functions look bad on TV. So guess who they used to take up the space? That's right, interns and secretaries and office workers got to sit in front of diplomats and benefactors and lords. In a country that still has a monarchy, there's a sort of poetic justice in that. So I satt down in my VIP seat, looked up, and the first thing I saw was... Tony Blair. Looking in my direction. I clapped my hand over my mouth and started giggling uncontrollably with the girl next to me, my new British friend sharing my wide-eyed enthusiasm. I don't know if Tony Blair saw our reaction, but I hope he did. And next to him, none other than Gordon Brown, with whom he was chatting amiably. A bit down from them, Lady Margaret Thatcher. Across, a crowd of cardinals decked out in their finest red. I tried, for a moment, to reflect upon the splendor around me, to appreciate my incredible good luck. Who was I to deserve to be there? But on the other hand, why shouldn't I? Events like this should be reserved for guests who truly appreciate them, not just powerful leaders going through the motions to maintain their reputations.
Now for the point of the whole grand affair: Il Papa. He arrived, fashionably late, to a fanfare of trumpets and made his way to his throne. After a short preamble by the Speaker of the House of Commons, Benedict got up to address Parliament (or rather, posers like me pretending to be Parliament). Confession: I have the utmost respect for Benedict and all his good works, but I've always thought his eyes lent him the appearance of a sinister evil genius. (Please don't smite me...) Standing at the podium, however, dressed in immaculate white to match his snowy hair and stooping slightly over the microphone, the Pope seemed gentle, grandfatherly, and wise. His voice was very soft and comforting, his German accent lending him the air of a kind professor. Every so often he would cough, making me wonder about his health. You couldn't help but want to care for this man, to do all you could for him.
The speech was very well done (no surprise there, Benedict is an acclaimed writer and probably has legions of speechwriters to help him out), if a little general. It focused on the importance of tolerance and upholding morals... bread-and-butter issues, nothing too unexpected. But the event itself was historic, given the collection of people and the location, and I enjoyed every minute. Afterwards, the Pope shook hands with the former Prime Ministers, seeming again like a fond old grandfather, and took his leave with an entourage of cardinals and security guards. The crowd began to rustle, the politicians started to rise. The next thing I knew, Margaret Thatcher was standing five feet away as she walked down an aisle with a man on each side to support her. Sporting a pink suit and a fluffy perm, the former head of state was, frankly, adorable.
I allowed myself to be herded away with the large crowd, drifting through doors and courtyards and finally reaching the lobby of Portcullis again. It was nearly empty, except for stocky a middle-aged man with a platinum blond bowlcut who looked oddly familiar. It was Boris Johnson, the mayor of London, whose face I knew because it was splashed all over the newspapers when my family was in England a few years ago during the mayoral elections. Boris always seemed to have an air of mild befuddlement about him, and this impression proved true when he asked me how to use the revolving doors. Me. The mayor asked me.
"Oh... uh... you just, you just push the button and then it spins."
"What? Well, let me see you do it first."
"[nervous laughter] ok..." *thinking* Oh no does the mayor think I'm laughing at him? I'm not I'm just awkward and what am I supposed to say and why doesn't he know how to use his own doors?
He did figure it out, eventually, and the proceeded to throw on a shabby backpack before tearing off on a nondescript bicycle. I wonder if the people of London know their mayor just rides around town on a bike in the middle of the day. I think that's pretty cool; exactly what a mayor should do, really.
What a day. I pretended to be a Parliamentarian, saw the Pope, giggled at Tony Blair, and taught the mayor how to use a door. All the work of Serendipity, that old friend of mine. Thank you to the powers that gave me the most enthralling day in recent history. I am still filled with awe and gratitude.
Parliament
I just realized I haven't told you anything about my internship yet, which I must do in order to relate some ridiculously cool events that happened yesterday. So here's a quick overview of my life as a working woman...
Parliament. It's not the US government with British accents. Though there are some similarities in structure between the two, it's a very different system. Citizens (or Subjects, as they are sometimes called) directly elect their Ministers of Parliament (MPs), but the Prime Minister gains power by dint of his position as leader of the majority party, not through an election of the people. So the executive is also a legislator, which, as my 7th grade history teacher Mrs. Kregelka would like to remind you, would not fly in the US because of that whole rule about separation of powers. There are a lot of other differences, but without turning this into a civics lecture, suffice it to say that Parliament FEELS like a government when you walk inside, just like the Capitol does- the crisp suits, dark oak walls, and vaulted ceilings dazzle the first-time visitor and create an atmosphere that buzzes with excitement and anticipation.
I work for Ben Wallace, an MP from Wyre and Preston North (Google map it!). He is an outgoing and friendly man with rosy cheeks and that slightly intimidating quality of delivering jokes in such a manner that you never know whether to laugh or not. My first conversation with him revolved around his constituency, Detroit, and the pubs I should go to. Unlike senators, MPs do not have a large staff to work with. In the office of Ben Wallace, it's just his office manager Zoe and myself. (P.S. Zoe is my boss and she is a wizard. The office would fall apart without her.) Which means they actually need my help to get through the work that piles up each day. It's not like I'm writing policies or anything, but on my first day I was already writing response letters to constituents, who contacted Ben for help with anything from child support payments to hospital closures. To do so, I have to read the history of the case, and in doing so I get to learn a lot about the lives of British citizens and the problems they face. I'm also in charge of opening and sorting my MP's mail each morning. The other day he received an abacus from a professor concerned about the demise of education in Britain. I don't know what the abacus was supposed to do, but it was fun to open. Oh, and I also had to RSVP to some events, which was slightly embarrassing because sometimes the person on the other end couldn't understand my accent. ("Wait, where are you calling from? Whose office?") So much for being smooth.
The thing that strikes me most about Parliament is its accessibility. It's not like anyone can just stroll in, but within 2 days I got my security pass, allowing me bypass the metal detector each morning and access pretty much any door in that beautiful beautiful building on the Thames. (Our office is actually in Portcullis House, a modern building next to Westminster housing over 200 MPs, but it connects to the Palace next door.) I've never worked in Congress, but I have a feeling that I see much more of my MP than I would of a Senator, with a huge staff and a much larger district to represent. There is something more personal about the British MPs that I like-- it actually feels like they can offer direct assistance to their constituents.
It's a unique opportunity, to be sure. As an American getting an inside peek at the British government, I almost feel like I'm intruding into someone else's home. But everyone is very friendly and eager for me to see as much as I can. Hopefully I'll get to sit in on a debate soon, which will be fascinating. I'll keep you updated.
Anyway, I have to run, but soon I'll post an account of the events of yesterday, which I mentioned at the beginning. Oh foreshadowing, gotta love it.
Parliament. It's not the US government with British accents. Though there are some similarities in structure between the two, it's a very different system. Citizens (or Subjects, as they are sometimes called) directly elect their Ministers of Parliament (MPs), but the Prime Minister gains power by dint of his position as leader of the majority party, not through an election of the people. So the executive is also a legislator, which, as my 7th grade history teacher Mrs. Kregelka would like to remind you, would not fly in the US because of that whole rule about separation of powers. There are a lot of other differences, but without turning this into a civics lecture, suffice it to say that Parliament FEELS like a government when you walk inside, just like the Capitol does- the crisp suits, dark oak walls, and vaulted ceilings dazzle the first-time visitor and create an atmosphere that buzzes with excitement and anticipation.
I work for Ben Wallace, an MP from Wyre and Preston North (Google map it!). He is an outgoing and friendly man with rosy cheeks and that slightly intimidating quality of delivering jokes in such a manner that you never know whether to laugh or not. My first conversation with him revolved around his constituency, Detroit, and the pubs I should go to. Unlike senators, MPs do not have a large staff to work with. In the office of Ben Wallace, it's just his office manager Zoe and myself. (P.S. Zoe is my boss and she is a wizard. The office would fall apart without her.) Which means they actually need my help to get through the work that piles up each day. It's not like I'm writing policies or anything, but on my first day I was already writing response letters to constituents, who contacted Ben for help with anything from child support payments to hospital closures. To do so, I have to read the history of the case, and in doing so I get to learn a lot about the lives of British citizens and the problems they face. I'm also in charge of opening and sorting my MP's mail each morning. The other day he received an abacus from a professor concerned about the demise of education in Britain. I don't know what the abacus was supposed to do, but it was fun to open. Oh, and I also had to RSVP to some events, which was slightly embarrassing because sometimes the person on the other end couldn't understand my accent. ("Wait, where are you calling from? Whose office?") So much for being smooth.
The thing that strikes me most about Parliament is its accessibility. It's not like anyone can just stroll in, but within 2 days I got my security pass, allowing me bypass the metal detector each morning and access pretty much any door in that beautiful beautiful building on the Thames. (Our office is actually in Portcullis House, a modern building next to Westminster housing over 200 MPs, but it connects to the Palace next door.) I've never worked in Congress, but I have a feeling that I see much more of my MP than I would of a Senator, with a huge staff and a much larger district to represent. There is something more personal about the British MPs that I like-- it actually feels like they can offer direct assistance to their constituents.
It's a unique opportunity, to be sure. As an American getting an inside peek at the British government, I almost feel like I'm intruding into someone else's home. But everyone is very friendly and eager for me to see as much as I can. Hopefully I'll get to sit in on a debate soon, which will be fascinating. I'll keep you updated.
Anyway, I have to run, but soon I'll post an account of the events of yesterday, which I mentioned at the beginning. Oh foreshadowing, gotta love it.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Gobsmacked.
First, a few definitions.
Royal Albert Hall: One of Britain's most famous concert halls. Shaped like an amphitheater with a dome on top, sumptuously decorated with elaborate stone columns and red velvet seats. Named for Prince Albert, the son of Queen Victoria (I don't know what he did to deserve such a splendid namesake. Oh monarchy, you are silly.)
The Proms: a series of concerts at Royal Albert Hall from July to September in which famous orchestras from all over the world come to perform. So named because concertgoers "queue up" (to use another British term) the day of the concert to buy standing-room tickets. They watch from the arena, the space directly in front of the orchestra, or the gallery, a balcony spanning the top level of the hall, where they can walk (promenade) about.
Now, the narrative.
The Underground workers are on strike, but luckily I managed to take one of the few lines still open to South Kensington, a wealthy area full of museums, theaters, Harrod's, and the Royal Academy of Music. My friends and I were issued raffle tickets, which we later exchanged (along with 5 pounds) for real tickets. We waited a outside in the lovely cool air for about an hour and a half. The atmosphere was that of a college tailgate. A really classy tailgate. Open trunks of cars revealed gourmet meals within, couples eating on fine china with silverware. Spectators in the "queue" brought picnics to eat while they waited, complete with wine (no laws against open alcohol containers outdoors to restrain them). The 50-ish man next to me spewed pita bread and hummus everywhere as he enthusiastically talked to his friend about finances. The most striking thing about the waiting audience was its diversity. I've been to a lot of orchestra concerts in my life, and the stereotype that they attract older audiences tends to be true. This crowd, however, was filled with young people, old people, middle-aged businessmen, goth people, well-dressed people, students, families, and countless others of every imaginable age, background, and nationality, all enthusiastically throwing a pre-concert block party. The atmosphere inside Royal Albert Hall was even more exciting. The beautiful auditorium is stunning, and I took my place in the gallery, a balcony running all the way around the circular room, next to a friendly British woman who has been to no fewer than 30 concerts this year. There are no seats in the gallery, so the audience either stands against the railing or sits on the floor; many brought cushions and blankets for the occasion, furthering the sense of a giant, classy block party.
Then, the orchestra. Oh, the orchestra. Wow, the orchestra! It wasn't only classical music nerds like me who were amazed. The Orchestre National de France (guess where they're from??) played pieces by Debussy and Stravinsky, and did it with such talent. Even though I was in the upper realms of the hall, I could hear every note perfectly. The thing that amazes me about professional orchestras is that the conductor does not actually keep the time; the musicians do that themselves. Rather, he (or she) signals entrances and dynamics about a second before they are actually supposed to happen, painting a picture of what the music will do next. And yet the musicians are still so together; they share some innate sense of unity that allows them to sense the thoughts of that trumpet player in the last row as well as the stand of violinists in front of them. The percussionist has the hardest job of all, because it's pretty obvious if he misplaces his moment of glory after being silent for half the piece. The timpani player in this orchestra was probably the best musician in the group, crashing and thundering and rumbling at the moment precisely calculated to thrill the audience. I could go on, but I won't. Suffice it to say it was the best concert I've ever been to by far. Seriously inspiring.
You thought I was finished, didn't you? Wait, I have one more things to tell you about. As if Wednesday's events weren't cool enough, on Thursday I saw a West End production of Arthur Miller's "All My Sons." My friend and I stood in line at the theater that morning to get day seats for 10 pounds, which turned out to be the balconies in the front of the auditorium. I always wondered who got to sit there; I assumed it was important people or people who payed a lot of money. Turn out it's just my friend and me and an elderly British couple who asked if we were on holiday. We had to lean on the railing a little to see the side of the stage closest to us, but I would have been on the edge of my seat anyway, so gripping were the players in front of us. If you don't know the play, I won't spoil it for you with a long summary that won't do it justice. It's Miller, which means it's American, it's about a family, it's heart-breaking yet somehow redeeming at the same time. I came out with that sense of catharsis the Greeks liked to talk about so much. All the emotion of the past two hours left me feeling exhausted but clean, filled with wonder at the world. I wish I could bottle that feeling up and take sips occasionally to remind me what it's like to feel amazed by what it's like to be a human.
So on the night after the best concert ever I saw the best play ever. I feel so lucky to have experienced what I did. If only I could take it back to you all and share it-- what a gift that would be.
Then, the orchestra. Oh, the orchestra. Wow, the orchestra! It wasn't only classical music nerds like me who were amazed. The Orchestre National de France (guess where they're from??) played pieces by Debussy and Stravinsky, and did it with such talent. Even though I was in the upper realms of the hall, I could hear every note perfectly. The thing that amazes me about professional orchestras is that the conductor does not actually keep the time; the musicians do that themselves. Rather, he (or she) signals entrances and dynamics about a second before they are actually supposed to happen, painting a picture of what the music will do next. And yet the musicians are still so together; they share some innate sense of unity that allows them to sense the thoughts of that trumpet player in the last row as well as the stand of violinists in front of them. The percussionist has the hardest job of all, because it's pretty obvious if he misplaces his moment of glory after being silent for half the piece. The timpani player in this orchestra was probably the best musician in the group, crashing and thundering and rumbling at the moment precisely calculated to thrill the audience. I could go on, but I won't. Suffice it to say it was the best concert I've ever been to by far. Seriously inspiring.
You thought I was finished, didn't you? Wait, I have one more things to tell you about. As if Wednesday's events weren't cool enough, on Thursday I saw a West End production of Arthur Miller's "All My Sons." My friend and I stood in line at the theater that morning to get day seats for 10 pounds, which turned out to be the balconies in the front of the auditorium. I always wondered who got to sit there; I assumed it was important people or people who payed a lot of money. Turn out it's just my friend and me and an elderly British couple who asked if we were on holiday. We had to lean on the railing a little to see the side of the stage closest to us, but I would have been on the edge of my seat anyway, so gripping were the players in front of us. If you don't know the play, I won't spoil it for you with a long summary that won't do it justice. It's Miller, which means it's American, it's about a family, it's heart-breaking yet somehow redeeming at the same time. I came out with that sense of catharsis the Greeks liked to talk about so much. All the emotion of the past two hours left me feeling exhausted but clean, filled with wonder at the world. I wish I could bottle that feeling up and take sips occasionally to remind me what it's like to feel amazed by what it's like to be a human.
So on the night after the best concert ever I saw the best play ever. I feel so lucky to have experienced what I did. If only I could take it back to you all and share it-- what a gift that would be.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
I wrote this instead of folding my laundry.
Imagine you're a Purdue fan. (Use your imagination.) It's the first football game of the season. You're in London at Sportscafe, the only venue that will air American sports. You're sitting with your friends, enjoying a beer and the highly caloric "American Platter" and waiting for the kick-off.
And then, the unthinkable occurs.
100 Notre Dame students, those brats from the enemy school on the screen in front of you, storm the room. They yell, they cheer, they wear a sickening shade of green. What hell is this? What have you done to earn such scorn from above? Things are looking bad; you are losing; you have lost. You are a good sport, though, so you avoid confrontation and proceed to dance with the victors to strange European techno music.
Saturday night passed in a flurry of loud camaraderie and ended in a lot of really bad (but fun) dancing. Now to backtrack. On Friday, two of my flatmates and I went on a scavenger hunt around London to find places where the Harry Potter movies were filmed. We went to Platform 9 3/4, the Australian Embassy (aka Gringotts) and a couple of pubs that served as the Leaky Cauldron. Along the way, we found some very cool diversions. Southwark Cathedral, built in the 1200s, is a beautiful old church near the Tower Bridge. Borough Street Market is filled with bright colors, delicious aromas, and interesting people. Oh, and I should mention that we took pictures of ourselves at each location, complete with Potter glasses and scarf. We may have embarrassed ourselves, but we made the pub patrons laugh.
Saturday I went on a tour of Stonehenge and Bath. It ended up being a lot of time on the bus and not enough time exploring, but it was still interesting. Stonehenge just kind of pops up off the highway, almost like one of those cheesy roadside attractions you always see billboards for. Except instead of the World's Largest Ball of String, it's the World's Oldest Mystery Rock Pile. That sounds cynical--it actually was interesting, but three hours hurtling down narrow country roads with a manic bus driver kind of weakened my enthusiasm for the whole thing. Bath, however, was beautiful; I've been there once before with my family, and its Georgian architecture and small-town charm were just as lovely as ever.
So for the past couple of days, I have been practicing cello in the flat. I hope my roommates don't mind the noise; my family has learned to tune it out over the years, but I'm sure it's a bit trying if you're trying to study physiology and the crazy girl in the next room as screeching out the end of the Lalo concerto. They're too nice to say if it's actually bothering them, though. I'll hopefully set up lessons this week and find a more permanent place/time to practice. This week should also start my internship in Parliament; I can't wait.
Now, it's past midnight and there's a group of kids gathered around the kitchen table trying to plan weekend trips and fall break. I need to go get my laundry, but the five flights of stairs between myself and warm towels are making me stall. However, my bed is calling and I must gather my things and oblige. My next post will be less scattered, I hope. For now, good night.
And then, the unthinkable occurs.
100 Notre Dame students, those brats from the enemy school on the screen in front of you, storm the room. They yell, they cheer, they wear a sickening shade of green. What hell is this? What have you done to earn such scorn from above? Things are looking bad; you are losing; you have lost. You are a good sport, though, so you avoid confrontation and proceed to dance with the victors to strange European techno music.
Saturday night passed in a flurry of loud camaraderie and ended in a lot of really bad (but fun) dancing. Now to backtrack. On Friday, two of my flatmates and I went on a scavenger hunt around London to find places where the Harry Potter movies were filmed. We went to Platform 9 3/4, the Australian Embassy (aka Gringotts) and a couple of pubs that served as the Leaky Cauldron. Along the way, we found some very cool diversions. Southwark Cathedral, built in the 1200s, is a beautiful old church near the Tower Bridge. Borough Street Market is filled with bright colors, delicious aromas, and interesting people. Oh, and I should mention that we took pictures of ourselves at each location, complete with Potter glasses and scarf. We may have embarrassed ourselves, but we made the pub patrons laugh.
Saturday I went on a tour of Stonehenge and Bath. It ended up being a lot of time on the bus and not enough time exploring, but it was still interesting. Stonehenge just kind of pops up off the highway, almost like one of those cheesy roadside attractions you always see billboards for. Except instead of the World's Largest Ball of String, it's the World's Oldest Mystery Rock Pile. That sounds cynical--it actually was interesting, but three hours hurtling down narrow country roads with a manic bus driver kind of weakened my enthusiasm for the whole thing. Bath, however, was beautiful; I've been there once before with my family, and its Georgian architecture and small-town charm were just as lovely as ever.
So for the past couple of days, I have been practicing cello in the flat. I hope my roommates don't mind the noise; my family has learned to tune it out over the years, but I'm sure it's a bit trying if you're trying to study physiology and the crazy girl in the next room as screeching out the end of the Lalo concerto. They're too nice to say if it's actually bothering them, though. I'll hopefully set up lessons this week and find a more permanent place/time to practice. This week should also start my internship in Parliament; I can't wait.
Now, it's past midnight and there's a group of kids gathered around the kitchen table trying to plan weekend trips and fall break. I need to go get my laundry, but the five flights of stairs between myself and warm towels are making me stall. However, my bed is calling and I must gather my things and oblige. My next post will be less scattered, I hope. For now, good night.
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