The Penny Posts

What Kind of Cross is a Charing Cross?

noreply@blogger.com (the_lyrical_goose) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 05:08:00 +0000

The most appropriate beginning to the Second Day was, of course, English Breakfast. Did I mention that at the Last Homely House you got two eggs and two pieces of toast, with a variety of egg and toast options to choose from? Yes, I'm still not allowed to eat breakfast, and I begin to understand why Bilbo Baggins dreamed of eggs and bacon, and it's really a terrible world.

Not feeling very adventurous that day, I decided to walk up Charing Cross Road, which is famous for its bookshops. And, if I had time, I might drop by the British Library, since it didn't seem far away. But I might have suspected--and the British Library knew--that I wouldn't make it. You cannot tack on the British Library like that. In fact, to merely speak of "dropping by" or similarly visiting the British Library in that cavalier way is semi-sacrilegious, and I only dare to do it because of the Atlantic Ocean.

No one who has read the previous entries will be surprised to learn that I went in the wrong direction. I blithely turned into a side street before reaching what I supposed would be Charing Cross Road because the side street looked interesting. It was short, and the shops on both sides had the little signs that stick out perpendicular to the street and which never fail to remind me of medieval signage. Even better, one of the shops had two wooden stands full of prints in front of it. Once, when I was in Italy, I had come to a small hill town and neglected to buy prints from a shop there. It may have been on the same trip that I saw what looked like pages from a French ladies' magazine--from the early 20th century or earlier--and have regretful memories of not buying them either. On this trip, I was prepared to remedy my mistakes.

And it's a good thing I was prepared, because the prints were not only on the stands outside. They were hanging next to the windows, they were on the floor, they were on shelves. Most of them seemed to be taken out of old books. As I undertook the futile task of looking through them, the owner told me things about the shop which I cannot now confirm or deny--for instance, that Mozart had had his hair cut there and that it had once been a coffee shop, and visited (I believe) by famous people.

The page I chose shows an illuminated page from a medieval gospel. But several days later, I came back to buy something for a friend. Something "Jane Austen-y," I said, and was rather ashamed of myself. But the owner not only knew what I meant--she remembered exactly what I was thinking of. It was a picture of a girl in a white Regency-style dress sitting at a piano, and for some reason Windsor Castle was in the background. It was probably a girl somehow connected to the royal family, who had enough wealth or status of her own to never worry about marrying Mr. Darcy and subsisting on ten thousand a year.

Then I walked into the street again and presently discovered my mistake. I wasn't where I'd intended to be--I was right next to Trafalgar Square. Fortunately, this also meant I was next to St. Martin-in-the-Fields and its Cafe in the Crypt, so I decided to go there for lunch.

And it is, quite literally, a crypt--although with its brick, many-arched ceiling, you could easily imagine yourself in a wine cellar. The graves are beneath the floor, marked by great stone slabs, which makes each meal a veritable carnival of desecration. Try to read the engravings on the slabs, and you will find yourself sooner or later--and probably sooner--in someone's way. I ate in the Cafe twice, and both times, I had to look about for a seat.

This brings me to an interesting cultural variation: that of sitting with strangers in restaurants. In the United States, it is generally accepted that only people who arrive together sit together, and that even if one person sits at a table with three empty places, no one else will venture to sit there, too. But I found this not necessarily to be true in London. It was just like being back in the college cafeteria, when I had to approach someone and inquire whether a seat was free--a frightening procedure that I tried to avoid if possible.

This time, though, I saw the upside of such a scheme. It gave me the chance to chat with someone as I ate my--wonder of wonders!--mince pie.

The Mysterious Mince--and it's pretty!

These little pies must be fairly common, because I kept running across them--the British Library has them in its cafeteria, and the Sainsbury's market in Victoria Station sells little boxes of six. There was no meat in this pie. My first impression was that of citrus, though the inside looks rather like pecan pie filling and included little dried fruits.

After this enlightening meal, I went upstairs into the church itself for the first time. Someone was playing the big organ--practicing, I guessed, for the next day's service. They seemed to pause in their playing about every fifteen seconds or less, and rapidly change songs or movements. But there came one melody (I can't guess what it was) that lifted me up from the wooden pew and seemed to take me to--or nearly to--sublimity.

St. Martin's never disappoints.

Welcome to Disorientation

noreply@blogger.com (the_lyrical_goose) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 07:40:00 +0000

Let's pause a moment to describe something well worth describing: English Breakfast. English Breakfast: it's more than tea. According to my guidebook, not even the English, to a large extent, have English Breakfast nowadays, which makes me sad. It would give me comfort to know that, somewhere in this great big world, there are still people who feast on eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, baked beans, toast, and cereals, unfazed by the calories and cholesterol. I love that sort of breakfast--I blame my Southern-bred father, who was raised on it, and perhaps my mother's Northern family, who frequently partake of it. A beloved tradition is to meet my maternal grandparents on Sunday mornings at Aunt Ida's Homestyle Grease Jamboree,* where you can get plate-sized pancakes and islands of biscuits in a lake of gravy. (In Corn Cross, we also have Newton's Coffee Bar for People of Discriminating Taste and Ye Olde 1950s Drive-In,** but I digress.) I generally order something egg-related--fried eggs or an omelet--but at the moment I am participating in an eating program that forbids breakfast, so the eggs are safe and I am sorry.

Fortunately, I was to stay the first part of the trip at a Bed and Breakfast I will call the Last Homely House. It would be my first time to stay at one, and I was excited--but after arriving in London the first day, I was thinking less about breakfast and more about a place to get my bearings, decide what to do next, and rest. Rest is an ambiguous term. I knew I wasn't supposed to go to sleep--it makes jet lag last longer, and the best thing to do is get some exercise and go to sleep at the local time--but I wasn't in good fighting form that morning, and I doubt I would have fought enough.

Despite the useful maps around the underground station, I had a little trouble finding the Last Homely House. From the station, you drag your suitcase past unencumbered people who know where they're going and, after a bit, make a turn into a less-populated street. At some point, you walk past a fish-and-chip restaurant, past a bit of litter you might happen upon, past a petrol station . . . no. If you pass the petrol station, you've gone too far. But the Last Homely House can be easy to miss because it is part of a long block of connected houses, and the sign is small. I had to turn around, but I finally made it. And then I discovered my room wasn't ready and wouldn't be ready for about two hours.

It wouldn't have mattered so much at another time, but on that day, this mundane inconvenience was a little like being locked out of heaven. It was a bit like a child in a Dickens story (there must be at least one, right?), turned away from the firelight and tea table and forced back into a cold, unkind world. When I was growing up, we had a few abridged versions of Dickens' works. But the only "real" Dickens work I have read is A Tale of Two Cities, in which many people died, but no children were turned into the streets . . . that I can remember.

In my case, the world was not unkind (it was a bit cold), but the circumstances (and my sense of direction) were. I had nowhere to go--I wasn't hungry and didn't even want to go to a coffee shop, unless the coffee shop had a napping room. I had already tapped into my map-reading reserves for the day, and wasn't eager to do more. In the midst of all this, I realized I had forgotten to bring a wristwatch, which meant I wouldn't know when the two hours were up anyway.

I ended up at that haven for lost souls, that refuge against all worldly ills--the bus station. True, it was a bit cold there, too; it featured a pigeon that you watched warily lest he try to eat your samosa; and you had to pay for the restroom. You also--well, I doubt anyone else would feel this way, so I also--had a covert, secret-agenty feeling because I was sitting in the bus station just like everyone else, but unlike everyone else, I wasn't intending to ride a bus! What would people think if they knew?

I'd like to say that these thoughts were a direct result of delirium brought on by jet lag. I'm sure they were not.

Unfortunately, the bus station did not sell watches. And so began a wild goose chase, during which I asked several people where I could find a watch, discovered a fancy jewelry store that was of absolutely no use, made my way to a stall in Victoria Station that was of more use, but whose cheapest watches were about seventeen pounds, and ended up in a store that sold all manner of things. It even sold electronics and travel items. But I couldn't find any watches. I knew (or nearly did) that there were none in that store . . . until I asked someone working there. "I don't care what it looks like," I said. And I thought I meant it. So, of course, when he showed me The Watch--for six pounds--I found I did care.

It was a tacky little thing, mostly black, with "I <3 London" on both sides of the band and the face. It was something only a tourist would wear, and I wasn't eager to advertise the fact. I had a wild idea to darken out the white letters with a pen, but the wristband was made of plastic, and it was impossible.

"It's the cheapest price you'll find in Victoria Station," said the man. Even if he'd been lying, I didn't want to look any more. Reader, I bought it. And it didn't fit.

This, however, meant I didn't have to wear it on my wrist. Throughout the trip, I stowed it away in my bag and, whenever I took it out, would try to put my fingers over the offending letters on the wristband. If anyone found out I was a tourist, it would be because they talked to me!

My room still wasn't ready when I returned to the Last Homely House, but this time I ended up in the breakfast room instead of the street. I could tell you of the fear that filled my soul when the wireless internet didn't work, and thus I couldn't contact my family to tell them of my arrival; the relief when I got into my room at last and the internet worked for the first time--but this post is quite long already. Suffice it to say that the internet was the last real obstacle between me and my nap.

And the next morning we had English Breakfast.

All you could want in a room: tea, a television, and a teddy bear.

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

** See above.

Ride on the Peace Train

noreply@blogger.com (the_lyrical_goose) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 06:44:00 +0000

First, I apologize for the long delay between posts--such a long delay, in fact, that I am home again at Corn Cross, USA (names changed to protect the innocent). Happy (late) New Year and Merry (even later) Christmas to you all; due to tremendous public outcry, The Penny Posts is back. And, since I am home and thus have access to my Cable of Uncertain Name, I will be able to post some pictures from the trip here. Although I do plan to write more about illuminated manuscripts, I warn you that this particular post is about the trip itself and may be of no interest to you unless you know me personally--maybe not even then.

Let's start with the first day. Everything went smoothly and according to plan--we poor plane pilgrims ate our dinners and breakfasts at the wrong hours, tried not to touch elbows with our neighbors, and gradually came to regard our seats as prisons and our seat belts as shackles. I have never been able to sleep well on planes, and, while this was not my worst experience, I did have a few moments of semi-desperation. At last I threw away my dignity and put my head on the tray table, which worked as well as anything. I arrived at Heathrow both jet-lagged and sleep-deprived--which was also according to plan. Perhaps there are some people who can step off international flights looking cool and cosmopolitan as the slight breeze ruffles their scarf and everyone else staggers toward the baggage claim like the walking dead, but I don't think I am one of those people because they would never have slept on a tray table.

However, I was lucky because an English lady on the same flight kindly gave me her fast pass through customs (being a British national, she didn't need it). And so what seems to be a series of hurdles began: after miles of airport corridors and the brief trip through customs, I gained a few pounds from an ATM and bought an oyster card for the underground. By some miracle, I managed to make it onto the right train.

Of course, at Heathrow, it would have been a miracle if I'd got on the wrong train, because all of them seem to go east into the city. Nevertheless, it was encouraging to someone with the sense of direction of a wild goose on Nyquil. We clattered out of the station and straight into the seedy part of town, complete with trash and graffiti by the tracks. C. S. Lewis wrote, "Towns always show their worst face to the railway," and London is no exception. If you revel in the London of dirt, grit, mud puddles, and convivial grime, much of the ride from Heathrow will warm your heart.

I had to change platforms at Hammersmith, which made me a bit nervous. I knew my guidebook said something about trains showing their final destinations on a little digital screen, but I'm not sure I completely understood how that would help me. But I had collected my first tube map at the airport, and I wasn't sleep-deprived enough to lose my reading ability. So, owing to some sort of collaboration among the map, the signs, and my overworked guardian angel, I made it onto the right train--again!

You have to celebrate small victories.

Underground sign for one of my "home" stations

Turning Darkness into Light

noreply@blogger.com (the_lyrical_goose) — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 00:38:00 +0000

Speaking of the Book of Kells, if you've ever wondered what medieval movies might have looked like, watch a clip of The Secret of Kells, which was made by a European team and released some months ago. In making the movie, which is a fanciful telling of how the Book of Kells was made, the artists took their inspiration from the Book itself, resulting in a stylized look.

If you've ever wondered what would happen if the various pieces of a medieval manuscript were animated, watch a clip of The Secret of Kells! Try watching this clip, in fact! This is the very end of the movie, when Brendan, our protagonist, hands the finished book to his uncle the abbot. The page you see is called the Chi-Rho Page after the Greek letters on it, which are the first two letters of Christ's name.

Yes, and the music is great, too.

Christine de Pizan Hath a Dog

noreply@blogger.com (the_lyrical_goose) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 12:42:00 +0000

Since I'm in the British Library right now, it seems an appropriate time to begin talking about what I came to London for in the first place--medieval manuscripts.

In preparation for this trip, I did a bit of reading from Patricia Lovett's book The British Library Companion to Calligraphy, Illumination, and Heraldry (I ordered it from my university library, but if you're interested in purchasing this, Ms. Lovett has produced a similar book called Calligraphy and Illumination: A History and Practical Guide, which you can purchase for much less, especially if you find a used copy). It was in one of these books that I found this picture of Christine de Pizan, a medieval writer and poet born in 1363:

You see this style of picture often in medieval books: the author or scribe sitting at a slanted board or some other surface and writing the book you are looking at. Sometimes the writer will have a pen in one hand and a knife in the other for cutting a new nib. I looked at this picture without much emotion until I noticed--she has a dog! Look at the little dog! And it has a collar, too.

Now, from this masterful bit of observation, I draw the conclusion that you have to look carefully at pictures like this--the more you do, the more there is to notice and think about. Consequently, the more we think about what is here, the more we can understand medieval life.

Another example of this is a picture from the BL's manuscripts exhibition. It was a painting of several noblemen, a churchman, and a king, I think, at a feast in one of their opulent homes. My natural inclination would have been to say, "Oh, all right, they're feasting," and move on, but I've been trying to make myself look closer. And when I paused a moment, the thought came to me that looking at these pictures might be a good way to see what the insides of castles looked like when they were decorated. I've wondered for some time, because of course all the furnishings and decorations are long gone by the time you arrive. I'm not sure whether there are any pictures of castle interiors, but if there are, I'd be interested in looking at them.

The exhibit also has a short video I wish I could show you about making illuminated manuscripts, but I can't find it on the BL's YouTube channel. So, in brief, here are the steps to making an illuminated manuscript. Keep in mind, as Patricia Lovett said, that to be a true illuminated manuscript, it must be decorated with gold. This means that the Book of Kells, although it is the work of angels, is not illuminated.

1. Starting off with a fresh piece of animal skin (parchment or vellum) or paper, write the text, using a knife to scratch off mistakes.
3. Paint the areas where the gold will be with a gluing agent. In the Middle Ages, they had at least two: gesso, which is made with plaster of paris and other substances; and glair, which is clarified egg white.
4. Place the gold (in leaf or powder form) on top of the gluing agent and breathe on it to activate the glue. Burnish the gold with a burnishing stone or other instrument.
5. Paint and decorate the page with pen work.

In short--gold before paint.

How Not to Be Seen

noreply@blogger.com (the_lyrical_goose) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 00:37:00 +0000

Come to think of it, I shouldn't like travel. I'm not the type. As a rule, I'm fairly shy and quiet, I hate being in anyone's way, and I particularly hate looking stupid. I like knowing the rules. In short, I'm conventional and boring. That's why I muss up my hair, wear dusty clothes, and put on a beret whenever I write--otherwise I get absolutely nothing. For more important projects, I throw all the furniture out of my room and talk loudly about my inability to pay the rent. It's sort of a charade I put on for the muse, who prefers hotheaded revolutionary types.

But I digress. (*Adjusts beret.*) Travel--especially foreign travel--dumps you in a more or less alien environment where you're forced to ask questions, have no idea what you're supposed to do, and may not speak the local language, opening up infinite possibilities for looking stupid. I have it comparatively easy in London, but there are still plenty of opportunities to keep me cringing. And in London, you're always in someone's way. If you're not directly blocking a person's path or slowing them down, look around and you'll find you are ruining their picture of the Houses of Parliament.

It was only the other day that I experienced the horror of an oyster card that refused to work. This is what most people use for the underground nowadays in place of tickets: it looks exactly like a credit card, and you pay in advance for a certain number of days or else pay as you go. In the underground station, you place the oyster card on top of a round yellow scanner attached to a little gate, which then opens to let you make your way to the platform. When you've arrived at your destination, you go through the same process with another scanner and gate. Every station has several of these (or hundreds, maybe even thousands, depending on the size). Once you get the hang of it, it's easy--you just have to have your card out in time, or else be prepared to fend off the oncoming tides of people behind you who are also making for the gates.

And so, to fully comprehend the horror of a nonfunctioning oyster card, imagine a crowd of people leaving a football stadium all at the same time. Picture them passing through a maze of tunnels, escalators, and staircases, then being funneled through little waist-high gates as still more people arrive from other levels. Wait--this is what it's like to leave a football stadium, isn't it?

Then add heard and half-heard announcements over the PA system, the clashing of rails, "stand right and walk left" on the escalators, echoes of voices and machine noises from the walls, signs to read and signs that are irrelevant, and a sense of urgency. Yes, each morning everyone in London wakes up half an hour late and remembers they have to be at a meeting in which millions of dollars--whoops, pounds--are directly dependent upon their performance. At least, that's the impression you'll get on the underground. "Do not stop for any reason," is an announcement I've heard more than once, which doesn't do anything for the nerves.

And then my oyster card refused to let me through the gate! I tried again, and it didn't work! Again, and it didn't work! People lining up behind me, with no way to get out! I tried once more, but it didn't work!

I still don't know what was the matter. Everyone else's card (or most everyone's) seemed to be working fine, and so did mine not long afterward. I think it might be mildly sadistic, but I'm not sure. Maybe I should be glad it's about to expire.

Then there is the cringe-inducing Seating Debate. I walk into a restaurant and see no sign indicating whether I should seat myself or wait. I stand about feeling awkward (and wondering whether I'm in the way, since I'm not far from the door). Nothing happens, so I approach the two men at the table near me and ask. One of them answers. He speaks English (I think), but it seems he might not have understood me, and I definitely don't understand him. The only useful thing is a gesture toward the bar, where I hie my embarrassed self and find that, indeed, there is self-seating.

One final example. I was in the ladies' room of the V&A Museum when all of a sudden a watch fell to the stall floor. "Oh no," I thought, "someone must have walked by and dropped their watch, which slid under my door," because all my thoughts are formally and logically phrased and in complete sentences. And so, wasting little time, "Oh--someone's dropped their watch," I announced. A second later, I realized it was my watch, of course.

I spent some extra time in the stall so that no one would see my face.

Brightest Heaven of Invention

noreply@blogger.com (the_lyrical_goose) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 02:54:00 +0000

Shame on you, Jane Austen, for making me snigger in the British Library! I expected you, of all people, would have a proper sense of decorum.

A few days ago, I visited the British Library for the first time. It's right down the street from the King's Cross (!!)-St. Pancras (!?) underground station. In my first year of graduate school, I wrote a paper about the British Library, and, to my delight, found out that it looks like this:

Wonderful, isn't it? Ah, but I had not done enough research, for this is actually the old part of the library, which I believe is now used as the reading room (at the British Museum, I think, because the Library was originally part of that). The new Library looks like this:

Not the castle-like structure in the background: that's a hotel. No, the BL is the thing that looks like an aircraft carrier, although that's really only showing part of it. I understand there is a current trend in the museum community that museums should be less like temples and more like community centers, places to freely exchange ideas, but does that mean their outsides have to look like prisons? I do admit that this really does look more like a ship to me, but it's still quite--well--where are the windows?

Just to take our minds to strange places, consider this. Here is the Library's iconic gate:

And here is the gate of Dachau concentration camp:

"Work makes free"

Hmm. I just thought of something else, too. When you go inside, you can see this bench on your right:

Who would chain this poor book? Can I post bail for it?

But you should still visit the British Library, unless you're a gigantic metal book, I suppose. On the first day I was there, I went into the John Ritblat gallery, the "treasures" gallery, where you can find . . .

-Handel's handwritten score for (at least part of) the Messiah
-A 1611 King James Bible
-A copy of the Magna Carta (because, as I recently discovered, there isn't just one Magna Carta)
-John Milton's book of quotations, which he collected to cite in his writing
-One of Jane Austen's notebooks, containing her writing as a young girl

. . . and so forth. If you want to see what Queen Elizabeth's signature looked like, seek no further! If you want to see how Charlotte Bronte wrote the line "Reader--I married him," come on down ! If you want to see handwritten drafts of Beatles songs, reconsider your musical taste! All right, I guess I like some of the Beatles' music, too. You can find them along the wall with the other pieces of music. There are even headphones to listen to the music you're looking at--you put them on, press a button, and take in the fact that this music is coming from little black circles and lines that were written hundreds of years ago. And they're right over there in a book.

There are also touchscreens with which you can examine several of the books in more detail. Jane Austen's History of England by a Partial, Prejudiced, and Ignorant Historian was the one I looked at longest. It gives a small humorous "biography" of each of the kings and queens of England, with the thirteen-year-old Jane providing only the information she chooses ("There will not be many dates in this history," she warns at the beginning). She dislikes, or pretends to dislike, Queen Elizabeth very much, saying that the English people deserved the persecutions of Bloody Mary at least partly because they ought to have foreseen that, since she had no children, she would be succeeded by "that disgrace to humanity, that pest of society, Elizabeth." Remembering that was what made me laugh. Jane Austen could never have imagined that her writing would end up not thirty feet from documents signed by the Pest of Society. Or could she? People imagine strange things sometimes.

Whenever I'm Bored, I Travel Abroad

noreply@blogger.com (the_lyrical_goose) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 00:48:00 +0000

. . . I wish.

Today's title is courtesy of the awesome "Posh" song from the movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, which is posted below for your listening pleasure. In a bizarre twist (though what is Chitty Chitty Bang Bang but a bizarre twist?), this poor fellow is in the far-from-posh situation of being dragged through the air by a band of Eastern Europeans. Don't ask me why. In an even more bizarre twist, that building he's in is not supposed to be an outhouse, unless that is an unwritten joke I didn't get.

Notice the Union Jack attached to the--er--edifice, as well. I suppose this is all rather stereotypical, but I excuse it on the grounds that it's so endearing.

Now that I've thrown away all moral credibility, on with the list!

4. Visit Greenwich
Which is of course Grin Itch, not Green Witch, though given that I wonder why we don't say "sanditches". . .
Anyway, I'm a bit of a Royal Navy buff, so I'm looking forward to the National Maritime Museum (which I once pestered for sources about a paper I was writing) and the antique shops. I'm hoping to find something from the Napoleonic Wars or thereabouts that I can fit into my suitcase, like a cannon. Or maybe something I could actually afford, like half of a teacup.

5. Attend a concert at St. Martin-in-the-Fields
St. Martin's is a church right next to Trafalgar Square. I discovered it by accident one day when I was looking for a rendition of the overture to The Marriage of Figaro on YouTube. There was a version done by the academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields (great name) and conducted by Sir Neville Marriner (also a great name . . . at least the last part). Then I found their rendition of "Sheep May Safely Graze."
[Brief digression: isn't it frustrating how awesome British names are? It wasn't enough to call the church St. Martin's--no, we needed to be told that he was in the fields as well. If you're ever looking for St. Martin, you'll know where to find him. This is all probably a dreadful cultural offense, but I say it because I've already thrown away my moral credibility.]
St. Martin-in-the-Fields developed its own impression in my mind, and when I was in London three years ago, I was rather moved when I realized I was looking at its spire from my seat in the National Portrait Gallery's restaurant. Today I went inside the church for the first time and someone happened to be practicing the organ, and even though much of the time the organist paused about every fifteen seconds, once or twice it came close to being a sublime experience.

6. Pick up a centuries-old roof tile and/or pipe stem
Apparently you can find these along the Thames when it's at low tide. I can't remember exactly why so many tiles wound up in the river, but pipes were disposable in the eighteenth century. People just tossed them away, leaving the stems as presents for wide-eyed history geeks. I have a feeling this dream won't come true, partly because I'm not sure about the safety/legal issues of wandering along certain parts of the Thames, but still . . .

7. Eat Christmas Pudding
Yes, more about eating things. I have a terrible habit of eating things and I can't seem to shake it. Christmas Pudding is like mince pies in that I remember it from my childhood reading, and it is a mystery to those of us whose ancestors decided to forget all about it, yes, former colonists, I'm looking at you. From what I've seen, Christmas Pudding is shaped like a bowling ball or, perhaps, something like a bucket of wet sand when you dump it out to make sand castles, is trimmed with holly, and lit on fire. That's right, colonists, they light their Christmas dessert on fire. And we--well, we have pumpkin pie.

The Ghosts of Trips Past and Future

noreply@blogger.com (the_lyrical_goose) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 07:17:00 +0000

I was once in London. It was a few years ago, on a tour that included England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and a series of large buses. There were about thirty of us tourists in all, including several of my friends from college, and we swarmed over Britain like brightly-backpacked locusts. We waded in Loch Ness, witnessed A Midsummer Night's Dream in the Globe, gobbled pasties, searched for our may-or-may-not-be ancestral tartans, and took silly pictures wherever the fancy struck us. We took silly pictures set in a cranny of Blarney Castle; draping our hair out of a window at Beaumaris Castle to imitate Rapunzel (I think I was the only one who did that); sitting on the column bases of a ruined Roman theatre; in a hut at Bog Village; in front of a monument downtown; at a bath of Bath; near the pasty shop; and other diverse places, I am sure. Dear reader, we had to. For no significant historic site can be properly experienced unless one has taken a silly picture there--yea, verily, and posted it on Facebook.

In short, it was a nice trip, even though you can't help feeling like a thundering herd when you're in a group of thirty. Everything was arranged beforehand, which relieved us of that particular burden, but this convenience also meant that our schedules were somewhat prearranged, too. On this trip, however, I am returning to London with some Mel Gibson-style FREEDOM.* What shall I do with it, apart from my project work? I have some ideas . . .

1. Buy an illuminated manuscript print.

I was hoping the British Library would be selling some for the exhibit, and it turns out they are! Even reproductions can be expensive, so if I could find a more reasonably-priced print, I think that would be a good souvenir.

2. Visit Cornelissen's.

A few weeks ago, I was able to hear two talks by Patricia Lovett, a noted calligrapher and illuminator, about illumination and writing in the middle ages. During one of the talks, she mentioned Cornelissen's store as a great resource for modern scribes, and recommended that we visit it even if we didn't buy anything. It has all an aspiring illuminator could want--paint, ink, gold, pens, vellum, etc. Funnily enough, I think I've actually been there before. It's right by the British Museum, and I seem to remember popping in and purchasing a pen, which I was woefully ignorant of how to use. But it will mean more to go back now, strange as that might sound. And anyway, "Patricia Lovett told me to come here" is never a bad reason. Cornelissen's also has a handsome green webpage, and they aren't paying me to tell you that. Not nearly enough, anyway. Moving on . . .

3. Eat a pie.

If you read enough English literature, you're going to run into pies and then more pies. First of all, there is the meat pie, which for some reason seems to turn up in medieval stories. (Why am I thinking of The Prince and the Pauper?) Then you have the Mysterious Mince. Everybody in Victorian novels eats mince pie, which, as it seems to have never quite caught on in this country, leaves me with only my imagination and what scraps of fact I can piece together. I had a vague impression of chopped meat, probably sweetened, whenever the puzzling item appeared; but, I thought, who would want to eat sweetened chopped meat as a filling? It was as though some unfortunate cook in the days of old had run out of fruit and been forced to sweeten bits of meat instead.

I've done a tiny bit of research in hopes of shedding light on the Mysterious Mince. Sadly, at this moment I can remember only three things: first, chopped meat is indeed an ingredient; second, I saw a picture of a mince pie or tart that looked as though it were filled with chocolate, but of course it could not be; third--suet. Suet appeared in my mind, but I cannot remember if it, too, is a component of mince pie, or whether it belongs solely with Christmas Pudding (we'll talk about that later).

Oh, a fourth thing, too--I got the idea that Mince Pies May Vary. If any bakers of mince pies happen to be reading this, perhaps you can help.

But the pie I mainly want to try is of the Medieval Meat variety. Why is this? After all, I basically know what I'd be getting, Sweeney Todd jokes aside.** Well, to answer that, I guess I'd have to dig deep into the recesses of my childhood memories--reading The Prince and the Pauper (an abridged version, of course), for instance, thinking about starving children and comfort food in a warm flaky crust. That didn't sound right. Sweeney Todd jokes aside, I say!

Anyway, it's a touch of medieval London, which lasted through to Victorian London, which carried on into modern London, in a warm flaky crust. The crust is important.

I shall continue this list in the next installment.

*Braveheart is just one of a list of classic movies everybody has seen and I have never seen.

**Which I have also never seen.

Reverse Immigration, or Annoying the Pilgrims

noreply@blogger.com (the_lyrical_goose) — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 07:15:00 +0000

I have my tickets now, which is about as official as you can get. Now there is nothing left to do but hope and pray that nothing bizarre or unforeseen happens to prevent me (e.g., being called for jury duty or the closing of airspace over the Atlantic Ocean), because I am going to town in the Jane Austen sense. That is, I . . . am . . . going . . . to . . . London.

Sometimes you have to say things in slow motion, I suppose. But there are other ways to say it: breathlessly incoherent repetition is one; accompanied by high-pitched squealing is another.

Strange as it seems, the squealing is one of the reasons I wanted to create this blog. For when I do arrive, it won't be proper to go about shouting, jumping up and down, or whispering things like "OhI'minLondonI'minLondonI'minLondon" or "I feel it would be appropriate to lie down in this very spot and die of the sheer awesomeness which surrounds me," under my breath. So, to avoid being forced to explain myself by a museum employee, policeman, or guard in a tall fluffy hat, I shall endeavor to refrain from (most) eccentric behaviors, and I shall share my reactions with everybody in the world instead.

It sounds strange if you've never experienced it before, but it is possible to fall in love with a country, and I have fallen in love with England. In a sense, it's exactly like falling in love with a person. Your native country is like family or friends: you love it, but it's so--well--familiar. You know its faults; you complain about it; you occasionally get swept up with emotion over it, but the emotion eventually levels off. On the other hand, a foreign country is covered with all sorts of intoxicating illusions. Perhaps, when you get to know it better, you love it more deeply still; perhaps the illusions are cleared away instead. I can't know which of these will happen in London, or if either of them will. But the worst thing would be not to go at all.

I definitely plan to do some sightseeing, but the reason for this trip is to visit a special exhibit at the British Library called Royal Manuscripts: The Genius of Illumination (which you can read about here). I noticed it one day on my homepage and thought, "Ah, what a shame I cannot go." Then, in about the same instant, "Maybe I could . . ."

It was to open in November and close in March. That meant I could technically go over the Christmas break. But I couldn't go all the way to London simply to see an exhibit--could I? Perhaps if I made a project out of it--perhaps if I, for instance, wrote an article . . .

So that's the plan. I'll be gathering information for the article, but I'll be keeping up this blog as well, so family and friends can follow along with the trip if they so desire. I admit it will be a mishmash--a travelogue with odd forays into illuminated manuscript territory--but I hope you won't mind that. And if you've read this much, thanks! I warn you now: there will be more to come.