A warning: There's a very good possibility that my blog will be much more disjointed now that I am no longer required to keep a journal of my daily goings-on. I'll do my best, though.
So, to update you all on what has been happening since my last post...
I have made it safely and successfully to the University of East Anglia in Norwich. My first impressions of the campus? It's probably the safest place to go in the event of a nuclear attack. Even more so than ATS. The entire academic portion of campus and the two original residence halls (the ziggurats) are made of bland, grey concrete. Curse you, Denys Lasdun and your 1960s architecture.
Luckily, the campus is pretty well landscaped, which takes away from the harsh effect of the architecture, and the surrounding countryside is beautiful. Just past the academic buildings is the Broad, a gorgeous man-made lake surrounded by trees. Oh, and the entire place is overrun with rabbits.
I live in the University Village, which is about a ten minute walk from campus. Architecturally, it's not fabulous, but it's not all concrete. My room is small, but it's only for one person, so it's actually pretty good. There's a large desk, a good amount of shelf space, and a pretty sizable wardrobe. I even get my own bathroom, or "shower pod," as it's called. My one complaint would be, though, that my mattress is about half the thickness of a normal mattress, and therefore is quite hard. I normally prefer hard mattresses, but this is a bit excessive. It hasn't been that bad, but I suppose I could always get a mattress pad if it really starts to bother me.
In my flat there are six rooms and a kitchen. The kitchen is actually pretty nice. There's a large table, six chairs, two fridge/freezers, a large sink, six small cupboards and one large one, and a good amount of counter space. There's no oven, but somehow the microwave converts into an oven. We'll see how that goes if we ever want to bake a cake, but it's been working so far. There's a very small stove (or "hob" as it's known over here) which takes forever to heat up, and a grill, which is attached to the wall and looks more like a torture device than a cooking apparatus.
For the first two days, I was the only person in my flat. It was very lonely. On Saturday, four out of my five flatmates arrived. There's Kristy, a psychology student who's 22 and has been working at Cambridge for the past four years. The rest are 18 or 19. Corie, a bubbly, blonde business and computer science student. Matt, a tall, quiet English/Philosophy student who spends most of his free time playing guitar in his room. Adam, a slightly burly Math student from up north (his accent is a bit hard to follow at times). Then James came on Sunday. He's a History student.
We all get along (or "get on," as the Brits say) really well. Everyone's pretty respectful and willing to share. We all love curry and hopefully will actually have a curry night one of these days. We were hoping to do one once a week, but this week it fell through.
For the first few days, we went out at night to Freshers events ("Freshers" meaning Freshmen, and the events were social opportunities like themed club nights and concerts). We went as a flat, and it was always pretty fun, but for some reason we just naturally seem to split on a gender line. Not that we don't all get along, but the boys will go off to do something in one corner, and we girls turn around and the boys are gone. It's good, though, that they're getting close like that. Kristy and Corie have gotten pretty close very quickly, which is great to watch. I've certainly been spending more time with Kristy and Corie than with the "lads," but I haven't made quite the same connection. I'm not worried, though. I've only been here a week. I have had some good conversations with James, though, normally about food, and Adam is fun, too. Matt tends to keep to himself, but he's still a nice guy. In general, a lot of our conversations revolve around differences between England and America...specifically language, politics, and food. They eat the strangest things here, I swear. But I've learned some great British insults.
All five of my flatmates have significant others back home, so staying in contact keeps them all busy from time to time. Surprisingly, it's not awkward. Yet.
A brief schedule of my social outings this past week:
Saturday: a 90s themed party at the LCR (the on-campus club) featuring B*Witched (a 90s British girl group who had one or two hits in America, notably "C'est La Vie.")
Sunday: a Kaiser Thiefs (a Kaiser Chiefs cover band) concert at the LCR. It was really good.
Monday: the flat went to the Union Pub (there are four bars on campus) for a pint and I ended up meeting with all the Dickinson students I hadn't seen in days. It's almost like two worlds colliding.
Tuesday: It was Lauren's and my birthday. My flatmates were amazing and surprised me with a cake, candles, and a "Happy Birthday to You" sung in their adorable British accents. It was the first time we had really sat down to eat together, and it was really nice. Then we (my flatmates and I) met Chad, Leah, and Lauren and went to a "Fancy Dress" party at the LCR. A "Fancy Dress"party is essentially a costume party, except some people go absolutely crazy. This one was themed 999 (British 911) Emergency. The boys and I had gone out to Norwich Market to buy costumes earlier in the day, and they all looked fantastic in their flourescent construction vests and plastic fireman hats. Corie went as a police officer, complete with handcuffs, and Kristy somehow managed to find a stethoscope and was a nurse. I had originally planned to be really witty and go as someone's fairy godmother, but I chickened out and ended up being the most stereotypically American thing you could possibly think of: a western sheriff. Perhaps even sadder was that my costume was made up entirely of things that I borrowed from either Corie or Kristy. Oh well.
We stayed at the LCR for about an hour, but I people were supposed to come to my flat at 11:45 for a birthday party, so Leah, Chad, Lauren, and I left to change and get ready. The party went well and was blissfully incident-free, even quiet. Matt and Adam stumbled in for a bit and tried to set up some music, but my iPod died and so they just went to bed. I didn't see James the entire night and only found out later that he had come back before me and gone to bed. I kicked everyone out around 1:30 (I know, I've got no stamina). I wanted to read for a bit before zonking out, but Kristy came back having left her keys with Corie, and so we sat and chatted in my room before Corie came back, about 15 minutes later. Then they both stayed to talk (mostly to each other rather than to me) for a few more mintues before finally going to bed. By that point I was too tired to read.
Wednesday and Thursday I spent at home.
Friday: Kristy and I spent the afternoon shopping in Norwich. Most of the stores are a bit beyond my budget. The H&M here is about the same here as back home, except in pounds, not dollars, so it's actually twice as expensive with the exchange rate. Then there's TopShop, a very trendy place to shop, like an H&M but nicer and more expensive. Definitely out of my price range. My best friend has become Primark. The most expensive thing I saw there was a winter coat for 17 quid. It's fabulous. I was a bit shy of Primark because of the horrendous experience I had at the Primark on Oxford Street in London, but this one wasn't too crowded, and people were generally a bit more polite. I finally got a black dress (not quite what I wanted, but it was only 8 pounds!), a pretty blue cotton tunic, a small purse for going out, and a necklace, all for 15 quid. I'll definitely have to go back someday.
Kristy had to go back to the flat, but I had all day, so I took the bus further down to Morrisons to do some grocery shopping. Some places here charge for plastic bags, and I had forgotten my little environmentally friendly grocery bag back at the flat. But I figured that I could fit everything in my Primark bag, which I could...until the bottom fell out. Luckily, there was this nice Chinese girl sitting next to me on the bus who consolidated her groceries and let me use one of her bags. There are A LOT of Chinese students at UEA. On the bus ride back I learned that she is an enviromental science grad student studying here for a year. She immediately invited me to join her and her housemates for dinner sometime in the next week and told me to look her up if I was ever in Shanghai. This was all before we had even exchanged names. I am expecting to get a Facebook request from her, though.
Her house is near the Village, so we walked back together and happened to meet one of her housemates and a girl she had just met from Vietnam. The girl from Vietnam lived in the Village, too, and so we walked back together while the other two headed off to their house. They were all really nice.
In the evening James and I made an enormous amout of stir-fry. Matt was kind enough to run down to Tesco for some sweet and sour sauce (their preference, not mine. I prefer straight soy sauce), and the three of us and Kristy were all able to have a decent meal. Adam made his own dinner, and Corie had gone home to visit her boyfriend. I think it probably cost less than 5 quid in total, and we still had two servings left over so...we'll have to cook together more often.
I hung out for a while, until about 10, when I left for Chad's 21st Birthday Bash. His flat was packed when I got there, mostly full of drunk Dickinson students looking for an excuse to party. Chad was pretty drunk when I got there. I basically stayed in a corner with Leah, Tristan, and Lauren Martin, and sipped my Strongbow. Eventually I got tired and sort of bored, so I invited a couple people to come back to my room to watch Family Guy on my comptuer. I left to set it up, but it took every one else about twenty minutes to come over because Chad insisted on having a very drunken political debate with Lauren Deitz. Eventually, Lauren Martin, Tristan, and Chad made it over. We watched Family Guy and listened to Chad's hillariously drunken George W. Bush impressions. "Hell is reserved for gays and Democrats" is my personal favorite quote of the night. Everyone left around 12:30 and I went to bed.
Saturday: There were no social outings. In fact, there were no outings at all. I haven't left the flat all day. I woke up late, sat around for a bit, ate some left-over cake for breakfast, read A Midsummer Night's Dream for my Shakespeare class...I'm not sure what else. Talked to my flatmates on and off. James and I finished off the stir-fry for dinner. Corie came back with her boyfriend, Danny, who I've seen maybe once because he's pretty shy. I got out my juggling balls and hillarity ensued when Adam, James, and I tried to juggle in the kitchen. I brought my poi into the kitchen and we tried to get people to watch us though the window. I got a weird look from one of Duncan's flatmates, whose kitchen window faces ours, but other than that no one seemed interested in watching the Flat 17 Circus. Maybe after a few weeks in the Circus Society I'll actually have something worth watching. James has made it his mission to learn to juggle by the end of the year, though, and then we'll have a proper Flat 17 Circus. Oh joy.
I helped Kristy and Corie get ready for the Fresher's Bash, but have been spending the majority of my time online talking to Chad, Nathaniel, and Chris Eiswerth. It's 1AM now and I'm still online, writing this. Everyone sensible has gone to bed.
I guess it makes sense to add here that I've signed up for the Literary Society (LitSoc) and the Circus Skills Society. We'll see how those go. The first Circus meeting is tomorrow night, and there's a literary-themed Fancy Dress pub crawl on Monday.
I'll briefly describe my academic situation before crashing for bed. There is likely to be a heated rant to follow sometime tomorrow, so keep an eye out.
In addition to the Humanities 310 class that I have to take with the Dickinson group and Prof. Rudalevige, I'm in a Level 3 module (a final year seminar-style class) called Shakespeare's Moment, and a Level 2 (a second lecture/seminar) called Medieval Writing.
Shakespeare looks amazing. It's a historical look at the plays, and the professor and students all seemed interested and engaged. It will probably be about the same level of work as a Dickinson 300-level, maybe a bit less. The assessed work is certainly less taxing. My grade depends on two papers, one 2000 words and one 3000. Piece of cake.
My Medieval Writing lecture will probably be interesting enough for a lecture with 80 people and NO discussion. We're reading Chaucer and some others in the original Middle English, which will provide some mental stimulation from time to time. The seminar, however, will probably make me want to hurl myself out a window. At least the first one did. This will probably make my a good portion of my forthcoming rant, but for now just know that when when a seminar instructor has to define the word "vernacular" for a group of 15-0dd second-year literature students, the apocalypse is nigh.
So, that's it. Except for the academic rant, there's not much more to report. I'll keep you posted, though, on developments with the flatmates, gastronomic experiementation, and any attempts at suicide following a Medieval Writing seminar.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Last Day in London
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Today was our last day in London. We took the Overground out to Hampstead Heath and climbed up Parliament Hill. It was a gorgeous view of the city. I’m glad we went there last so that I could look over the entire city and be able to recognize everything and remember the time I had spent at each place. I really am quite sad to have to leave.After a while, we walked down the Heath to the village and were treated to lunch at The Holly Bush, a very nice, rather expensive pub. Then we had the rest of the day free to finish our trip in London.
I ran back to the Arran House to change for the Milton Evensong, then took the Tube to St. Giles’. The service was a bit awkward since everyone there knew the hymns and prayers, and everyone but me, it seemed, sang along with the choir. The music was beautiful, though. And the Archbishop of Canterbury gave a fantastic sermon. I wish I had copy of it to reference if I ever write another Milton paper.
Of course it was a very religious reading of the text (obviously), but basically he said that, even though Milton believed in the power of words to explain and influence everything, his later works show a resignation to God’s will, to just stand still quietly and wait for what is to come rather than wasting time with words. He cited the final line of Milton’s Sonnet XIX, titled “On His Blindness.” The line is “They also serve who only stand and waite.” This, he argued, was Milton’s acceptance of the fact that, though you want to try to influence the course of events through action, God’s will can sometimes be best achieved by simply standing quietly and awaiting the future. The Archbishop then reference the selection of Paradise Lost that had been read during the service, Book XII lines 485 to 504, in which Michael tells Adam of the coming of Christ who will save all people. The usually longwinded Adam here is speechless at the thought of his progeny being saved, even better off, because of his sin. Like Milton when considering his future, Adam has only to sit back quietly and wait for the Savior to come. The Archbishop made one more reference, perhaps his most poignant, to Paradise Regained, when Satan takes Jesus to the pinnacle and dares him to cast himself down and trust that God will break his fall. The climax of the piece, though, is Jesus’ brief reply: “Tempt not the Lord thy God; he said and stood.” Although he is quite talkative in earlier parts of the poem, here Jesus realizes that the best way to defeat Satan is to stand silent.
Milton, who strove his entire life to become a poet-priest and use his words to enforce God’s will, learns, like Adam and Jesus, simply to accept silence, thus explaining the style change between Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes. Although I read them, I’m not as familiar with the two later epics, but I remember them being very disappointing after Paradise Lost. Maybe the Archbishop is just trying to cover for Milton.
We leave for Norwich tomorrow. I’m very excited and also quite nervous. It’s going to be so different from Dickinson, even from this past month in London. I think that classes should be all right, but what I’m most nervous about is adjusting to the atmosphere of such a big school, and also the people. I want to meet people, but based on my limited and rather negative experiences with Londoners, I’m not sure how it’ll go.
So, to reflect on the past month…
I can’t decide whether I’m more surprised at how different things are or how much there is that I recognize. The aspect of London that I find most different is the people, which is strange, because I haven’t met any. Perhaps it’s a city thing, the same stereotype Americans hold of New Yorkers, but generally people I see in London aren’t really willing to interact with people they don’t know. They’re always in a hurry and expect you to be just as quick as they are, and they don’t have much patience if you’re a bit lost. That isn’t to say I haven’t met helpful people. They’re fine with offering directions, but no one goes out of their way to help. I was especially surprised to find that in big clothes shops like H&M or Urban Outfitters, no one once asked me if I needed help, and even looked affronted when I asked the simplest question. Again, I suppose this all most relate back to the idea of privacy. They aren’t risking invading my privacy by coming to talk to me, and, in turn, they don’t expect me to talk to them, either. I expect people to be a friendlier in Norwich, where there’s a bit more space and people can afford to be a bit more open.
Another thing I find interesting is they way “British” is defined. There’s the BNP member who defines being truly British against being a recent immigrant from Southeast Asia or Eastern Europe. Then of course, like America, Britain has pretty much always been a country of immigrants. So, on the one hand society practically deifies their royalty, and considers that there’s nothing more British than the aristocracy, even when their all from either Norman, Dutch, or German ancestry. England is also proud of its Roman heritage, considering itself the second Troy. Yet there is a large and valiant statue right off Westminster Bridge dedicated to Boadicea, the Iceni warrior queen who let an unsuccessful revolt against the Roman forces in London around 60AD. Even though the uprising was quelled and she, supposedly, poisoned herself in order to evade capture, she’s been a symbol for legendary British courage and strength since Victorian times. She represents the determination and courage of the British against invaders, which I can only imagine was particularly poignant during the Blitz. And yet the Norman kings are still considered very important to British culture, even though they were invaders just as were the Romans that Boadicea fought. Then again, as much as they respect the Norman kings, they hate the French.
That’s another aspect of British culture I find fascinating: general respect for the royal family. They might mock them, but since there is a separation between the queen as the head of state and the prime minister as the head of government, any dislike of the government is directed at the prime minister, and people generally love the queen. I remember in Salaam Brick Lane, when Hall is talking to his carp-smuggling friend, a man who openly defies the law but eagerly defends the queen. I wish I had met some more British people while in London because I would have loved to ask them their opinion of the queen. I once met a British woman on a plane and I remember her saying that most older Britons will have a picture of the queen somewhere in their houses, and that she herself will be “so sad when the queen dies.” I don’t think we have anyone analogous to this particularly type of celebrity in America. It’s hardly routine to have a picture of George Bush in your living room, and generally our anger at the government is displaced toward the current administration, although we respect the idea of a president. Pop icons have the same sort of following, but not universally. There’s no single person that the entire country can rally around. Here the queen is a source of national pride for many people, the embodiment of Great Britain and all she stands for. I’ll have to make sure to ask when I get to Norwich. I wonder if support for the queen varies the further you get from London. Or if it’s actually stronger the further you are away from the center of political upheaval.
I have thoroughly enjoyed my time in London. I’ve had so many experiences that no average tourist can claim, and I’ve even surpassed being a tourist because I feel so familiar with the city—its geography, its history, and some of its culture. Norwich should be a completely different atmosphere, and I’m curious to compare London to a smaller city.
Today was our last day in London. We took the Overground out to Hampstead Heath and climbed up Parliament Hill. It was a gorgeous view of the city. I’m glad we went there last so that I could look over the entire city and be able to recognize everything and remember the time I had spent at each place. I really am quite sad to have to leave.After a while, we walked down the Heath to the village and were treated to lunch at The Holly Bush, a very nice, rather expensive pub. Then we had the rest of the day free to finish our trip in London.
I ran back to the Arran House to change for the Milton Evensong, then took the Tube to St. Giles’. The service was a bit awkward since everyone there knew the hymns and prayers, and everyone but me, it seemed, sang along with the choir. The music was beautiful, though. And the Archbishop of Canterbury gave a fantastic sermon. I wish I had copy of it to reference if I ever write another Milton paper.
Of course it was a very religious reading of the text (obviously), but basically he said that, even though Milton believed in the power of words to explain and influence everything, his later works show a resignation to God’s will, to just stand still quietly and wait for what is to come rather than wasting time with words. He cited the final line of Milton’s Sonnet XIX, titled “On His Blindness.” The line is “They also serve who only stand and waite.” This, he argued, was Milton’s acceptance of the fact that, though you want to try to influence the course of events through action, God’s will can sometimes be best achieved by simply standing quietly and awaiting the future. The Archbishop then reference the selection of Paradise Lost that had been read during the service, Book XII lines 485 to 504, in which Michael tells Adam of the coming of Christ who will save all people. The usually longwinded Adam here is speechless at the thought of his progeny being saved, even better off, because of his sin. Like Milton when considering his future, Adam has only to sit back quietly and wait for the Savior to come. The Archbishop made one more reference, perhaps his most poignant, to Paradise Regained, when Satan takes Jesus to the pinnacle and dares him to cast himself down and trust that God will break his fall. The climax of the piece, though, is Jesus’ brief reply: “Tempt not the Lord thy God; he said and stood.” Although he is quite talkative in earlier parts of the poem, here Jesus realizes that the best way to defeat Satan is to stand silent.
Milton, who strove his entire life to become a poet-priest and use his words to enforce God’s will, learns, like Adam and Jesus, simply to accept silence, thus explaining the style change between Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes. Although I read them, I’m not as familiar with the two later epics, but I remember them being very disappointing after Paradise Lost. Maybe the Archbishop is just trying to cover for Milton.
We leave for Norwich tomorrow. I’m very excited and also quite nervous. It’s going to be so different from Dickinson, even from this past month in London. I think that classes should be all right, but what I’m most nervous about is adjusting to the atmosphere of such a big school, and also the people. I want to meet people, but based on my limited and rather negative experiences with Londoners, I’m not sure how it’ll go.
So, to reflect on the past month…
I can’t decide whether I’m more surprised at how different things are or how much there is that I recognize. The aspect of London that I find most different is the people, which is strange, because I haven’t met any. Perhaps it’s a city thing, the same stereotype Americans hold of New Yorkers, but generally people I see in London aren’t really willing to interact with people they don’t know. They’re always in a hurry and expect you to be just as quick as they are, and they don’t have much patience if you’re a bit lost. That isn’t to say I haven’t met helpful people. They’re fine with offering directions, but no one goes out of their way to help. I was especially surprised to find that in big clothes shops like H&M or Urban Outfitters, no one once asked me if I needed help, and even looked affronted when I asked the simplest question. Again, I suppose this all most relate back to the idea of privacy. They aren’t risking invading my privacy by coming to talk to me, and, in turn, they don’t expect me to talk to them, either. I expect people to be a friendlier in Norwich, where there’s a bit more space and people can afford to be a bit more open.
Another thing I find interesting is they way “British” is defined. There’s the BNP member who defines being truly British against being a recent immigrant from Southeast Asia or Eastern Europe. Then of course, like America, Britain has pretty much always been a country of immigrants. So, on the one hand society practically deifies their royalty, and considers that there’s nothing more British than the aristocracy, even when their all from either Norman, Dutch, or German ancestry. England is also proud of its Roman heritage, considering itself the second Troy. Yet there is a large and valiant statue right off Westminster Bridge dedicated to Boadicea, the Iceni warrior queen who let an unsuccessful revolt against the Roman forces in London around 60AD. Even though the uprising was quelled and she, supposedly, poisoned herself in order to evade capture, she’s been a symbol for legendary British courage and strength since Victorian times. She represents the determination and courage of the British against invaders, which I can only imagine was particularly poignant during the Blitz. And yet the Norman kings are still considered very important to British culture, even though they were invaders just as were the Romans that Boadicea fought. Then again, as much as they respect the Norman kings, they hate the French.
That’s another aspect of British culture I find fascinating: general respect for the royal family. They might mock them, but since there is a separation between the queen as the head of state and the prime minister as the head of government, any dislike of the government is directed at the prime minister, and people generally love the queen. I remember in Salaam Brick Lane, when Hall is talking to his carp-smuggling friend, a man who openly defies the law but eagerly defends the queen. I wish I had met some more British people while in London because I would have loved to ask them their opinion of the queen. I once met a British woman on a plane and I remember her saying that most older Britons will have a picture of the queen somewhere in their houses, and that she herself will be “so sad when the queen dies.” I don’t think we have anyone analogous to this particularly type of celebrity in America. It’s hardly routine to have a picture of George Bush in your living room, and generally our anger at the government is displaced toward the current administration, although we respect the idea of a president. Pop icons have the same sort of following, but not universally. There’s no single person that the entire country can rally around. Here the queen is a source of national pride for many people, the embodiment of Great Britain and all she stands for. I’ll have to make sure to ask when I get to Norwich. I wonder if support for the queen varies the further you get from London. Or if it’s actually stronger the further you are away from the center of political upheaval.
I have thoroughly enjoyed my time in London. I’ve had so many experiences that no average tourist can claim, and I’ve even surpassed being a tourist because I feel so familiar with the city—its geography, its history, and some of its culture. Norwich should be a completely different atmosphere, and I’m curious to compare London to a smaller city.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
One Nation Under CCTV
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
This morning I went to Harrods with Leah, which was an overwhelming experience. It’s just so big and luxurious. We only managed to buy lunch. I think it was all we could afford. We grabbed our food and took the Tube to Marble Arch to meet the Banksy group for their tour.
Banksy is a British street artist whose unique style, political messages, and intriguing anonymity have earned him widespread popularity. He’s kind of like a modern day Robin Hood, providing a voice for people oppressed by those in power, and laughing in the face of authority as he does it. One of his main topics of complaint is CCTV, or Closed Circuit Television, a network of security cameras that keep the majority of the country under constant surveillance. One of the elusive graffiti artist’s largest, most recent, and most famous works is a sixteen foot piece showing a small child in a red coat on a ladder painting the words “ONE NATION UNDER CCTV” while a police officer and his dog watch from the corner. The piece is on a wall just outside of a Royal Mail dispatch center in central London, a gated government building surrounded by security cameras— cameras that, ironically, couldn’t catch Banksy. Here Banksy is both poking fun at the government and the ineffectiveness of CCTV, while trying to alert the public to what he sees as a gross invasion of privacy. But does it work?
In 2002 a paper was written that estimated the number of CCTV cameras in the United Kingdom to be somewhere around 4,200,000, or about one for every fourteen people. Recently, researchers increased that number to one camera for every twelve persons. In London alone, one study estimates that you are on camera approximately three hundred times a day. You might think that there should be some enormous outcry, that British authority is just like Big Brother and that my month in London has been some sort of Orwellian nightmare. Don’t worry. I haven’t been hauled off to the Ministry of Love just yet. There’s been no outcry. In fact, the majority of British people don’t mind it at all.
All over the city there are signs that read “CCTV is watching” and P.A. announcements telling you that “For security purposes, this area is being monitored by CCTV.” The government claims that CCTV is necessary to help reduce the crime rate, an excuse that the public seems to buy into. However, more skeptical minds, like Banksy, fear what such extensive surveillance can do in the wrong hands.
So, all this got me thinking: Would people ever stand for this in the United States? My guess would be no. We are so attached to the idea of privacy and our right to privacy, and we have such an inherent distrust of the government, that the possibility of being on camera for the majority of our day-to-day lives would be an outrageous imposition on our civil liberties.
I remember when we brought up how bizarre we, as Americans, found CCTV, the people at the Cabinet meeting related it back to the American public outcry at government wiretapping. They found it ridiculous that Americans got so up in arms over something that, to a Brit, is routine and even to be expected.
Personally, I have yet to be bothered by it, but that could be because I’m not committing any crimes or planning to cause some sort of public disturbance that needs to be documented for security purposes. Or, as Banksy would argue, maybe I’m just jaded like the rest of Londoners and I need to be reminded by a sixteen foot graffiti painting. Either way, you can’t argue. The man certainly knows how to get a point across.
The group got some wine to celebrate the project being over. We all had a bit and got ready to see Billy Elliot. The show was good, but not great, and it will NEVER work in the U.S. I know it’s supposed to open on Broadway soon, but I think it’s too uniquely British. Aside from the slang, there’s the political history of Maggie Thatcher and the Mining Strike which Americans might not know. There are also the class issues, which are far more pronounced in the UK than they are at home, and the regional conflicts. It was simple enough to figure out, but the full gravity of the “backward” northerners against the “posh” Londoners might not make as much of an impact on an American audience as it does in the UK. I’ll be interested to see how it’s received on Broadway.
I was planning to go clubbing tonight with the Banksy group, but I got too tired...yet again. So I came back to do journals.
Tomorrow, though is our last day in London. I can hardly believe it. I’ve got the Milton Evensong in the evening, and then…Norwich!
This morning I went to Harrods with Leah, which was an overwhelming experience. It’s just so big and luxurious. We only managed to buy lunch. I think it was all we could afford. We grabbed our food and took the Tube to Marble Arch to meet the Banksy group for their tour.
Banksy is a British street artist whose unique style, political messages, and intriguing anonymity have earned him widespread popularity. He’s kind of like a modern day Robin Hood, providing a voice for people oppressed by those in power, and laughing in the face of authority as he does it. One of his main topics of complaint is CCTV, or Closed Circuit Television, a network of security cameras that keep the majority of the country under constant surveillance. One of the elusive graffiti artist’s largest, most recent, and most famous works is a sixteen foot piece showing a small child in a red coat on a ladder painting the words “ONE NATION UNDER CCTV” while a police officer and his dog watch from the corner. The piece is on a wall just outside of a Royal Mail dispatch center in central London, a gated government building surrounded by security cameras— cameras that, ironically, couldn’t catch Banksy. Here Banksy is both poking fun at the government and the ineffectiveness of CCTV, while trying to alert the public to what he sees as a gross invasion of privacy. But does it work?
In 2002 a paper was written that estimated the number of CCTV cameras in the United Kingdom to be somewhere around 4,200,000, or about one for every fourteen people. Recently, researchers increased that number to one camera for every twelve persons. In London alone, one study estimates that you are on camera approximately three hundred times a day. You might think that there should be some enormous outcry, that British authority is just like Big Brother and that my month in London has been some sort of Orwellian nightmare. Don’t worry. I haven’t been hauled off to the Ministry of Love just yet. There’s been no outcry. In fact, the majority of British people don’t mind it at all.
All over the city there are signs that read “CCTV is watching” and P.A. announcements telling you that “For security purposes, this area is being monitored by CCTV.” The government claims that CCTV is necessary to help reduce the crime rate, an excuse that the public seems to buy into. However, more skeptical minds, like Banksy, fear what such extensive surveillance can do in the wrong hands.
So, all this got me thinking: Would people ever stand for this in the United States? My guess would be no. We are so attached to the idea of privacy and our right to privacy, and we have such an inherent distrust of the government, that the possibility of being on camera for the majority of our day-to-day lives would be an outrageous imposition on our civil liberties.
I remember when we brought up how bizarre we, as Americans, found CCTV, the people at the Cabinet meeting related it back to the American public outcry at government wiretapping. They found it ridiculous that Americans got so up in arms over something that, to a Brit, is routine and even to be expected.
Personally, I have yet to be bothered by it, but that could be because I’m not committing any crimes or planning to cause some sort of public disturbance that needs to be documented for security purposes. Or, as Banksy would argue, maybe I’m just jaded like the rest of Londoners and I need to be reminded by a sixteen foot graffiti painting. Either way, you can’t argue. The man certainly knows how to get a point across.
The group got some wine to celebrate the project being over. We all had a bit and got ready to see Billy Elliot. The show was good, but not great, and it will NEVER work in the U.S. I know it’s supposed to open on Broadway soon, but I think it’s too uniquely British. Aside from the slang, there’s the political history of Maggie Thatcher and the Mining Strike which Americans might not know. There are also the class issues, which are far more pronounced in the UK than they are at home, and the regional conflicts. It was simple enough to figure out, but the full gravity of the “backward” northerners against the “posh” Londoners might not make as much of an impact on an American audience as it does in the UK. I’ll be interested to see how it’s received on Broadway.
I was planning to go clubbing tonight with the Banksy group, but I got too tired...yet again. So I came back to do journals.
Tomorrow, though is our last day in London. I can hardly believe it. I’ve got the Milton Evensong in the evening, and then…Norwich!
Elementary, my dear!
Monday, September 15, 2008
Today began with the Sherlock Holmes Tour, led by Emma, Ben, Annie, and Sarah V. We started off interestingly enough, though not necessarily due to the subject matter. Right as we all met at the Sherlock Holmes statue outside of the Baker Street Tube station, a woman, followed by cameras, ran up to us and asked, “Which U.S. state is the surname of an actor from The Pelican Brief?” I don’t think any of us had seen The Pelican Brief, but we all guessed Washington for Denzel Washington. Then the woman ran off, cameras following, and a woman with a lot of legal papers and a headset stopped us and had us sign a release form. As it turns out, the woman was on a TV gameshow, and now we’re all going to be on Channel 4. Too bad I don’t have a TV. From the Tube station, we walked to the Sherlock Holmes Museum at 221b Baker Street and took a look around. From there, we took a quick stop at the Sherlock Holmes Hotel, which has no relation to the stories except the name, and then walked to where Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had his unsuccessful medical practice. The next stop was Scotland Yard, and then to the Sherlock Holmes Pub. One thing that each presenter kept stressing was that London, and the U.K. in general, basically treats Sherlock Holmes as if he was a real person, he’s so important. In fact, some ridiculous percentage thought he actually was a real person. It sort of reminds me of the Harry Potter hype, and how Kings Cross Station put a little plaque for Platform 9 ¾. The Sherlock Holmes tradition, though, seems to go beyond that, or maybe Harry Potter just hasn’t been around long enough. In addition to the Sherlock Holmes Hotel and Pub that we saw on the tour, there is obviously the fact that someone thought to buy the correct house on Baker Street and decorate it as if Sherlock Holmes and Watson had lived there. Then there’s the tube station, which is decorated with tiles showing the famous silhouette. There’s also an international Sherlock Holmes Society. In 2002, Holmes was actually inducted as an honorary fellow into the Royal Society of Chemistry.
I can’t think of any fictional character so honored in America. No matter how much a part of the fabric of society they are, there’s no one I can think of who is commonly mistaken for a real person. I wonder if it’s because the British are used to respecting idealized figureheads (that are nearly fictional for their distance), and therefore they are more open to accepting fictional characters. In America, we have pop icons, actors and musicians, but in general we grow attached to people that we can relate to. Sherlock Holmes’s past is so enigmatic and his intelligence so difficult to match, that he really is a distant figure. Perhaps, like the gardens, fiction is even more of an escape for the British than it is for Americans.
After the tour, a much of us got lunch at Sainsbury’s. Then I went back to the Arran House and had a celebratory piece of fudge cake with my Peter Pan group. In the afternoon I went to Camden Market with Lauren Deitz, Zach, Emma, Juli, Meghan, and Tristan. It was really cool, and sort of overwhelming. I bought a jacket, finally, which I think I’ll be using quite a lot. Camden is a great place, full of punk/goth/alternative/new age market shops and stores. It’s crazy, but wonderful.
I ate dinner at a pizza place on Goodge St, then did laundry. About 9 I got a pint with Katie at the Marlborough Arms just a block away. Now time for more work and bed.
Today began with the Sherlock Holmes Tour, led by Emma, Ben, Annie, and Sarah V. We started off interestingly enough, though not necessarily due to the subject matter. Right as we all met at the Sherlock Holmes statue outside of the Baker Street Tube station, a woman, followed by cameras, ran up to us and asked, “Which U.S. state is the surname of an actor from The Pelican Brief?” I don’t think any of us had seen The Pelican Brief, but we all guessed Washington for Denzel Washington. Then the woman ran off, cameras following, and a woman with a lot of legal papers and a headset stopped us and had us sign a release form. As it turns out, the woman was on a TV gameshow, and now we’re all going to be on Channel 4. Too bad I don’t have a TV. From the Tube station, we walked to the Sherlock Holmes Museum at 221b Baker Street and took a look around. From there, we took a quick stop at the Sherlock Holmes Hotel, which has no relation to the stories except the name, and then walked to where Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had his unsuccessful medical practice. The next stop was Scotland Yard, and then to the Sherlock Holmes Pub. One thing that each presenter kept stressing was that London, and the U.K. in general, basically treats Sherlock Holmes as if he was a real person, he’s so important. In fact, some ridiculous percentage thought he actually was a real person. It sort of reminds me of the Harry Potter hype, and how Kings Cross Station put a little plaque for Platform 9 ¾. The Sherlock Holmes tradition, though, seems to go beyond that, or maybe Harry Potter just hasn’t been around long enough. In addition to the Sherlock Holmes Hotel and Pub that we saw on the tour, there is obviously the fact that someone thought to buy the correct house on Baker Street and decorate it as if Sherlock Holmes and Watson had lived there. Then there’s the tube station, which is decorated with tiles showing the famous silhouette. There’s also an international Sherlock Holmes Society. In 2002, Holmes was actually inducted as an honorary fellow into the Royal Society of Chemistry.
I can’t think of any fictional character so honored in America. No matter how much a part of the fabric of society they are, there’s no one I can think of who is commonly mistaken for a real person. I wonder if it’s because the British are used to respecting idealized figureheads (that are nearly fictional for their distance), and therefore they are more open to accepting fictional characters. In America, we have pop icons, actors and musicians, but in general we grow attached to people that we can relate to. Sherlock Holmes’s past is so enigmatic and his intelligence so difficult to match, that he really is a distant figure. Perhaps, like the gardens, fiction is even more of an escape for the British than it is for Americans.
After the tour, a much of us got lunch at Sainsbury’s. Then I went back to the Arran House and had a celebratory piece of fudge cake with my Peter Pan group. In the afternoon I went to Camden Market with Lauren Deitz, Zach, Emma, Juli, Meghan, and Tristan. It was really cool, and sort of overwhelming. I bought a jacket, finally, which I think I’ll be using quite a lot. Camden is a great place, full of punk/goth/alternative/new age market shops and stores. It’s crazy, but wonderful.
I ate dinner at a pizza place on Goodge St, then did laundry. About 9 I got a pint with Katie at the Marlborough Arms just a block away. Now time for more work and bed.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Picky, picky.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Today was not too eventful, although it was an absolutely glorious day. Leah and I went to St. James Park to enjoy the fabulous weather. We ate lunch beneath a tree and Leah wrote her journals while I practiced poi. We walked around the pond and fed the massive assortment of water fowl and pigeons. It’s a bird-watcher’s paradise.
Originally I wasn’t going to mention one incident that occurred, because it really did bother me, but, from an academic standpoint, it’s a point of interest. As we were walking along a path, I saw some fallen flowers, which made me want to go pick a flower. A little ways off was a patch of grass, not fenced in, with some flowers just scattered around. Since it wasn’t fenced off, people had been walking over them and many were trampled. Now, I know perfectly well that you’re not supposed to pick flowers from other people’s gardens, and I really shouldn’t have tried. But, at the time, my logic went, “Well, they’re trampled and going to die anyway. I’ll just take one.” Of course, this is the same logic that is causing the rainforest to disappear, but that’s another issue. In any case, I went over to the flowers and found one that had most certainly been trampled. I picked it, and no sooner had that flower left the ground then I heard someone shot from behind me, “What the hell do you think you’re doing!” I turned around and some man with his young son was standing behind me, and he looked absolutely shell-shocked. “Picking flowers from a park! I’ve just told my four-year-old off for doing that! What kind of a person are you?!”
I stated plainly that the flower had already fallen, and walked off. I didn’t want to deal with him.
As I walked away, I realized that I really shouldn’t have picked a flower from a park, that I had been taught not to do that since my Girl Scouting days. What bothers me, though, is not that I was called on my error in judgment. It’s the way he said it, as if he was scolding me or accusing me of murder. He could have just as easily have said, “Excuse me, you really shouldn’t pick the flowers,” or something like that.
Now, humiliating as this was personally, it does bring to light some interesting social issues. I was immediately reminded of something that I had learned in French class last semester. In general, Europeans (and I assume this, at least in part, applies to British culture as well) have no problem with scolding their children in public, because the humiliation helps enforce the adult’s authority over the child, and shows who is in charge to anyone watching. Apparently, they don’t have a problem with scolding other people’s children, either.
This also demonstrated something else I had heard about the British. They are very serious about their gardens. I remember in Salaam Brick Lane when Hall described the roof gardens and how, even in the dingy, urban East End, it is important to have just a small bit of greenery around. It’s easy to see this in London, since there are so many parks and it seems as if everyone has a garden or at least a flowerbox on their windows. I remember walking through the Barbican for the first time and marveling how beautiful it looked, despite the fact that it’s a mass of concrete, because almost every single flat had a flowerbox hanging over the side of the balcony. I can only imagine that this insistence on gardening must come from the fact that, in such a large city with such a limited amount of space to call your own, having a garden allows you to extend your reach a little, gain a bit more privacy, and have a little more control over life in such a busy atmosphere.
Moving on, I ate hummus for dinner and hung out with Chris, Alana, Katie, Jen, and Lauren. We all decided to go down to the Thames Festival, since we had missed it the night before. Chad and I got separated from everyone else, but still had a good time walking around and getting lost in crowds. Everyone else wanted to get drunk anyway, and Chad and I weren’t in the mood. Toward the end I stumbled upon a poi store, and across from it were two people spinning poi and other pyro-theatrics. We watched them for a while, until the fireworks started. That was quite an impressive display. Not necessarily choreographed in any particular way, but they were bright and loud, so I say they did their job. It was a good night, overall. I love London at night—it’s absolutely beautiful.
Today was not too eventful, although it was an absolutely glorious day. Leah and I went to St. James Park to enjoy the fabulous weather. We ate lunch beneath a tree and Leah wrote her journals while I practiced poi. We walked around the pond and fed the massive assortment of water fowl and pigeons. It’s a bird-watcher’s paradise.
Originally I wasn’t going to mention one incident that occurred, because it really did bother me, but, from an academic standpoint, it’s a point of interest. As we were walking along a path, I saw some fallen flowers, which made me want to go pick a flower. A little ways off was a patch of grass, not fenced in, with some flowers just scattered around. Since it wasn’t fenced off, people had been walking over them and many were trampled. Now, I know perfectly well that you’re not supposed to pick flowers from other people’s gardens, and I really shouldn’t have tried. But, at the time, my logic went, “Well, they’re trampled and going to die anyway. I’ll just take one.” Of course, this is the same logic that is causing the rainforest to disappear, but that’s another issue. In any case, I went over to the flowers and found one that had most certainly been trampled. I picked it, and no sooner had that flower left the ground then I heard someone shot from behind me, “What the hell do you think you’re doing!” I turned around and some man with his young son was standing behind me, and he looked absolutely shell-shocked. “Picking flowers from a park! I’ve just told my four-year-old off for doing that! What kind of a person are you?!”
I stated plainly that the flower had already fallen, and walked off. I didn’t want to deal with him.
As I walked away, I realized that I really shouldn’t have picked a flower from a park, that I had been taught not to do that since my Girl Scouting days. What bothers me, though, is not that I was called on my error in judgment. It’s the way he said it, as if he was scolding me or accusing me of murder. He could have just as easily have said, “Excuse me, you really shouldn’t pick the flowers,” or something like that.
Now, humiliating as this was personally, it does bring to light some interesting social issues. I was immediately reminded of something that I had learned in French class last semester. In general, Europeans (and I assume this, at least in part, applies to British culture as well) have no problem with scolding their children in public, because the humiliation helps enforce the adult’s authority over the child, and shows who is in charge to anyone watching. Apparently, they don’t have a problem with scolding other people’s children, either.
This also demonstrated something else I had heard about the British. They are very serious about their gardens. I remember in Salaam Brick Lane when Hall described the roof gardens and how, even in the dingy, urban East End, it is important to have just a small bit of greenery around. It’s easy to see this in London, since there are so many parks and it seems as if everyone has a garden or at least a flowerbox on their windows. I remember walking through the Barbican for the first time and marveling how beautiful it looked, despite the fact that it’s a mass of concrete, because almost every single flat had a flowerbox hanging over the side of the balcony. I can only imagine that this insistence on gardening must come from the fact that, in such a large city with such a limited amount of space to call your own, having a garden allows you to extend your reach a little, gain a bit more privacy, and have a little more control over life in such a busy atmosphere.
Moving on, I ate hummus for dinner and hung out with Chris, Alana, Katie, Jen, and Lauren. We all decided to go down to the Thames Festival, since we had missed it the night before. Chad and I got separated from everyone else, but still had a good time walking around and getting lost in crowds. Everyone else wanted to get drunk anyway, and Chad and I weren’t in the mood. Toward the end I stumbled upon a poi store, and across from it were two people spinning poi and other pyro-theatrics. We watched them for a while, until the fireworks started. That was quite an impressive display. Not necessarily choreographed in any particular way, but they were bright and loud, so I say they did their job. It was a good night, overall. I love London at night—it’s absolutely beautiful.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Metafictional Madness
Saturday, September 13, 2008
This morning, Leah, Tristan, Lauren Deitz, and I met to finalize tour information and itinerary. We went to Kensington Gardens about 45 minutes early to eat lunch and admire the view. It was a gorgeous day. I can’t imagine anyone being more enthusiastic about their tour than we were. For days we’d been researching and simply spewing facts and throwing quotes about. We relished every chance we got to reference faeries or flying or pirates. I can’t say our audience was as enthusiastic as we were. We began with a brief history of Kensington Gardens and how it came to be known as a place inhabited by faeries. Then we walked to the Peter Pan Statue and Leah discussed the statue itself and public reaction to it, etc. Tristan took us across the gardens, using his Liberty Cap skills to walk backwards while enlightening our group about the Llewellyn-Davis family and J.M. Barrie’s relation to them. It took a bit longer than expected to walk across the Gardens, and still longer to get to the Tube station, and even then it took forever for the right train to get there. Finally, we reached Embankment and walked up to see Barrie’s house, which is uninteresting in itself but served as the perfect platform for Leah to explain about Barrie’s personal life, his upbringing, his psychogenetic dwarfism, and his failed marriage. From there we walked up to the Duke of York’s Theatre, where Lauren gave us a brief history of Edwardian theatre and of Peter Pan as a show. Then took the Tube to Holborn and walked to the Great Ormond Street Hospital, where I talked about Barrie’s love of children and his gift of the Peter Pan royalties to the hospital and the subsequent copyright issues that have arisen over the years.. We ran about ten minutes over our two and a half hour limit, but (except travel time) we filled the time with information. I’m not sure how to read the reaction. Everyone seemed excited at the outset, but the walking tired people out by the end and they just seemed like they wanted to get it over with. Prof. Rudalevige seemed unimpressed, but he also isn’t a terribly emotional person. We’ll see.
Our group went back to the hotel and rested after the long walk. Then I went with Tristan and Leah to Sainsbury’s to get food. We had to rush back, eat, and get changed for the National Theatre. It was cruel to make us walk through the Thames Festival on our way to the theatre and not have opportunity to stop and watch. At the theatre we saw “A Slight Ache” and “Landscape,” two short plays by Harold Pinter. They were good, in the sort of obscure metafiction school. The first play reminded me of a short story I’ve read called “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Stacy Richter’s “The Cavemen in the Hedges.” Both these stories, like Pinter’s “A Slight Ache,” involved some element of the supernatural which the everyday people treat as if it is entirely normal. In the play, an elderly village couple with serious communication problems invites in a creepy, semi-supernatural matchstick man who has been standing outside their back gate for, presumably, a number of months. The husband invites him in to finally find out why the matchstick man has been standing there, but both he and his wife end up making up their own stories about him, imposing their fictional identities on him. Eventually the matchstick man and the husband switch places, and the final scene shows the husband lying unconscious on the floor with the matchstick man’s tray on his stomach while the wife and matchstick man walk off hand in hand. You could tell that everything in the play was a symbol or something, and that it had something to do with communication between this married couple.
The second play was just as bizarre, although more for its structure than its content. The woman was sitting downstage in a chair facing the audience, while the man was upstage left at the end of a long table, for the most part addressing the woman. This, I believe, also had something to do with communication. From the dialogue (if you can call it that) you learned that this couple was married, but not happily. They were both reminiscing about the good times, but the man was trying to coax the woman out of her stupor, and the woman was addressing the audience, telling the story of how she met her love (who we can only assume was the man in his younger days). I enjoyed both of the plays, but I don’t understand them.
On our way out, we went down to the beach of the Thames, where it seemed like a beach rave was being held, but it ended not long after we got there. I really wanted to stay. Even with the music gone, there were a lot of people and it seemed like a lot of fun, but everyone else was tired and still had to work on their project. Oh well. I’ll go tomorrow night. I’m due for some fun.
This morning, Leah, Tristan, Lauren Deitz, and I met to finalize tour information and itinerary. We went to Kensington Gardens about 45 minutes early to eat lunch and admire the view. It was a gorgeous day. I can’t imagine anyone being more enthusiastic about their tour than we were. For days we’d been researching and simply spewing facts and throwing quotes about. We relished every chance we got to reference faeries or flying or pirates. I can’t say our audience was as enthusiastic as we were. We began with a brief history of Kensington Gardens and how it came to be known as a place inhabited by faeries. Then we walked to the Peter Pan Statue and Leah discussed the statue itself and public reaction to it, etc. Tristan took us across the gardens, using his Liberty Cap skills to walk backwards while enlightening our group about the Llewellyn-Davis family and J.M. Barrie’s relation to them. It took a bit longer than expected to walk across the Gardens, and still longer to get to the Tube station, and even then it took forever for the right train to get there. Finally, we reached Embankment and walked up to see Barrie’s house, which is uninteresting in itself but served as the perfect platform for Leah to explain about Barrie’s personal life, his upbringing, his psychogenetic dwarfism, and his failed marriage. From there we walked up to the Duke of York’s Theatre, where Lauren gave us a brief history of Edwardian theatre and of Peter Pan as a show. Then took the Tube to Holborn and walked to the Great Ormond Street Hospital, where I talked about Barrie’s love of children and his gift of the Peter Pan royalties to the hospital and the subsequent copyright issues that have arisen over the years.. We ran about ten minutes over our two and a half hour limit, but (except travel time) we filled the time with information. I’m not sure how to read the reaction. Everyone seemed excited at the outset, but the walking tired people out by the end and they just seemed like they wanted to get it over with. Prof. Rudalevige seemed unimpressed, but he also isn’t a terribly emotional person. We’ll see.
Our group went back to the hotel and rested after the long walk. Then I went with Tristan and Leah to Sainsbury’s to get food. We had to rush back, eat, and get changed for the National Theatre. It was cruel to make us walk through the Thames Festival on our way to the theatre and not have opportunity to stop and watch. At the theatre we saw “A Slight Ache” and “Landscape,” two short plays by Harold Pinter. They were good, in the sort of obscure metafiction school. The first play reminded me of a short story I’ve read called “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Stacy Richter’s “The Cavemen in the Hedges.” Both these stories, like Pinter’s “A Slight Ache,” involved some element of the supernatural which the everyday people treat as if it is entirely normal. In the play, an elderly village couple with serious communication problems invites in a creepy, semi-supernatural matchstick man who has been standing outside their back gate for, presumably, a number of months. The husband invites him in to finally find out why the matchstick man has been standing there, but both he and his wife end up making up their own stories about him, imposing their fictional identities on him. Eventually the matchstick man and the husband switch places, and the final scene shows the husband lying unconscious on the floor with the matchstick man’s tray on his stomach while the wife and matchstick man walk off hand in hand. You could tell that everything in the play was a symbol or something, and that it had something to do with communication between this married couple.
The second play was just as bizarre, although more for its structure than its content. The woman was sitting downstage in a chair facing the audience, while the man was upstage left at the end of a long table, for the most part addressing the woman. This, I believe, also had something to do with communication. From the dialogue (if you can call it that) you learned that this couple was married, but not happily. They were both reminiscing about the good times, but the man was trying to coax the woman out of her stupor, and the woman was addressing the audience, telling the story of how she met her love (who we can only assume was the man in his younger days). I enjoyed both of the plays, but I don’t understand them.
On our way out, we went down to the beach of the Thames, where it seemed like a beach rave was being held, but it ended not long after we got there. I really wanted to stay. Even with the music gone, there were a lot of people and it seemed like a lot of fun, but everyone else was tired and still had to work on their project. Oh well. I’ll go tomorrow night. I’m due for some fun.
Jack the Ripper Eats Curry
Friday, September 12, 2008
This morning we went to the East London Mosque in Whitechapel, the seedy haunt of Jack the Ripper. Our tour was given by an American woman from Georgia who converted to Islam some years ago. Hers was a very interesting perspective, but she seemed to be too complacent about her place in the religion. She was very happy with it and had no real complaints. When we discussed the visit later, we all were curious what someone who had grown up with the religion would think, as opposed to someone who consciously chose it. Her husband also gave us a tour around the community center. They do a lot of good and it seems to be a great place for the community.
After our tour, Lauren, Chris, Katie, Jen, and I wanted to eat Indian food on Brick Lane, so we got lunch at a place called Brick Lane Cuisine. It was delicious.
We hurried back to the Arran House for a class session to discuss our trip. The basic consensus was that the East End as dodgy as we thought it would be. Through our reading and rumors we’ve heard from various people in London, the East End has always been painted as a place no civilized person goes. To be honest, we stayed in what have become the rather gentrified parts of the East End— the now-famous Brick Lane and Whitechapel made famous by Jack the Ripper. I cannot be entirely sure that what I saw is the “true” East End, or whether it has just been improved from its shady past due to recent interest and popularity. The sari boutiques, Indian restaurants, and Bangladeshi sweet shops certainly catered to the public, but there was a fair amount of tourists there. It was interesting to learn that there was a public outcry when the movie of Brick Lane was being filmed because East Enders felt that it did not accurately represent their community. I can’t blame them. When I was reading the book, I did not really get a sense of the community at all, only the disjointedness between genders, cultures, and generations. I wish that I had read Salaam Brick Lane first. I would have had a much clearer understanding of the community in which Nazneem was living. I think that the East End population would prefer Salaam Brick Lane if asked, because, probably by virtue of it being non-fiction, it gives a much clearer picture of the community, both immigrant and Cockney.
The East End is certainly not the London you think of when you envision Big Ben, St. Paul’s, and Harrods. It’s dingier, lower class, and mostly populated by immigrants, many of them Muslim. But, at least at the East London Mosque is working to balance individual culture with mainstream British society. It really does seem to be an immensely positive force in the community, focusing on the very specific needs of a marginalized and not necessarily appreciated group of people. Because it working to have such a positive influence on the community and a positive relationship with the rest of the city through its various service programs, education, job preparation, etc., it creates a safe haven for Muslims throughout the East End. With all the stereotypes and negativity toward Muslims, especially because of recent world events, all of this positive influence, I hope, will help foster a better understanding of Islam as a religion as the various South Asian cultures that have settled in the East End.
.
After our discussion, we were free for the rest of the evening. I wanted to go out and have some fun, but I ended up spending the evening researching for tomorrow’s tour.
This morning we went to the East London Mosque in Whitechapel, the seedy haunt of Jack the Ripper. Our tour was given by an American woman from Georgia who converted to Islam some years ago. Hers was a very interesting perspective, but she seemed to be too complacent about her place in the religion. She was very happy with it and had no real complaints. When we discussed the visit later, we all were curious what someone who had grown up with the religion would think, as opposed to someone who consciously chose it. Her husband also gave us a tour around the community center. They do a lot of good and it seems to be a great place for the community.
After our tour, Lauren, Chris, Katie, Jen, and I wanted to eat Indian food on Brick Lane, so we got lunch at a place called Brick Lane Cuisine. It was delicious.
We hurried back to the Arran House for a class session to discuss our trip. The basic consensus was that the East End as dodgy as we thought it would be. Through our reading and rumors we’ve heard from various people in London, the East End has always been painted as a place no civilized person goes. To be honest, we stayed in what have become the rather gentrified parts of the East End— the now-famous Brick Lane and Whitechapel made famous by Jack the Ripper. I cannot be entirely sure that what I saw is the “true” East End, or whether it has just been improved from its shady past due to recent interest and popularity. The sari boutiques, Indian restaurants, and Bangladeshi sweet shops certainly catered to the public, but there was a fair amount of tourists there. It was interesting to learn that there was a public outcry when the movie of Brick Lane was being filmed because East Enders felt that it did not accurately represent their community. I can’t blame them. When I was reading the book, I did not really get a sense of the community at all, only the disjointedness between genders, cultures, and generations. I wish that I had read Salaam Brick Lane first. I would have had a much clearer understanding of the community in which Nazneem was living. I think that the East End population would prefer Salaam Brick Lane if asked, because, probably by virtue of it being non-fiction, it gives a much clearer picture of the community, both immigrant and Cockney.
The East End is certainly not the London you think of when you envision Big Ben, St. Paul’s, and Harrods. It’s dingier, lower class, and mostly populated by immigrants, many of them Muslim. But, at least at the East London Mosque is working to balance individual culture with mainstream British society. It really does seem to be an immensely positive force in the community, focusing on the very specific needs of a marginalized and not necessarily appreciated group of people. Because it working to have such a positive influence on the community and a positive relationship with the rest of the city through its various service programs, education, job preparation, etc., it creates a safe haven for Muslims throughout the East End. With all the stereotypes and negativity toward Muslims, especially because of recent world events, all of this positive influence, I hope, will help foster a better understanding of Islam as a religion as the various South Asian cultures that have settled in the East End.
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After our discussion, we were free for the rest of the evening. I wanted to go out and have some fun, but I ended up spending the evening researching for tomorrow’s tour.
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