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Travel Journal 10: The Welsh invade London

Wednesday 17 May, 2006

At night the city is no more full of dreams than at any other time. That's where people go wrong. They think that the daytime city, full of money and work and people who know where they're going, is the real one. But I look all the time for the real city, and I know it's not as simple as that. It's not simple at all. You might think you might find it by digging holes or staring at the pavement, but it's not there in the mud and stone and brick. The real city is alive and breathing. You can look for it in the buildings, in the way they're built and why, and how they look in the light; what someone called the spectacle organised by architecture. But how could that be the real city? The real city is not organised by anyone. It just uses certain places to make itself seen, and the best architects know this and don't overreach themselves. I don't know about the people. They seem to be living some great truth, like the dance of atoms and, of course, it's not anything they understand individually. But still, you could investigate them, follow a few threads of their lives, their friends and those they work with. You could even find out what remains of their ancestors, and you'd be no closer to the thing that moves and connects them. It is that which gives me a feeling I've never known before. I'll call it a religious feeling, 'cos I've no other word for it. When I see all of this, this city, full of light and sound, and there's so much that you can't even imagine knowing all of it, so beautiful and so hideous all at once. It's then I start to think there might be a new god that only lives in cities. It's not every day you discover a new god, especially such a powerful, ambivalent one. Sometimes a drunken, stinking, dangerous god, certainly. But still, the correct response to a god, or goddess, any kind, is worship. I don't care what anyone says, and that's what I want to do. I feel like Saint Joan must have felt when she heard her voices: like a blasphemer. But I think we could do with more gods, not less, and I'll take that chance. And, of course, the presence of a god makes the city a sacred place, which is what I always felt anyway. Look at it, just look at it. How could it not be?

Shriekback "3am (Search for the Naked City)"
written by Barry Andrews with London in mind.

I understood this on a certain level long before I came to London. I caught of sense of it when I went to New York City my first time, when I was six years old. And, although Asheville is a mere speck in the scheme of things when compared to cities like NYC and London, I felt a deep connection with the soul of my home town, and still do when I'm fortunate enough to visit. I even wrote a poem that predates Sacred City by six or seven years called "The City Sings" (under the pen name Mahalia Bergestonian, my Jewish Gospel alter-ego.....long story.....), and it expresses the same sentiment as does the concept album, but on a less eloquent and mature level. So I related to the message of the album until I entered into London...and then I grokked Sacred City.

( The Barnes Cottage )

When we came back in from the garden, Nick produced a map of all the London bus routes and gave falkenna some tips on how to get where we wanted to go. We got Aunt Tudi in the wheelchair and headed down to one of the local shops to purchase day passes for the bus. After that, we hopped on the bus to Westminster and began our day in London.

( The Touristy Bits )

falkenna texted Barry earlier to let him know we were in London. He texted back to let us know he was in the throws of family issues and couldn't get away at the moment, but he'd try later on and would let us know. That was around 3 PM. It was now around 5 PM, so we decided to make our way to Whitechapel in order to beat the traffic and ensure that we weren't late for the Ripper Walk, which began at 7 PM. We were all parched and hungry, so we popped into a pub nearby and got us some beverage and Chicken Yakatori. Basically, it tasted like chicken teriyaki on sticks that is, chicken teriyaki kebabs. Verily, did we all nosh with enthusiasm. We left the pub around 6:30 and hopped the bus to the place where the Ripper Walk was to commence. falkenna checked her phone and had a message from Barry saying that he was exhausted and was sorry to bail on us, but he needed to go home. Ah well, such is life. To be honest, I wasn't sure I could have handled going on a Jack the Ripper walking tour with Barry Andrews. There's something not quite kosher about the mere idea of it. No. ::wibbles::

( In the Jungle of the Senses, Tinkerbell and Jack the Ripper.... )

We arrived back at the cottage around 11 PM, tired, wet, and a little on edge. falkenna hates the city and Aunt Tudi isn't too very fond of large cities herself. Me? I could have stayed there and wandered about forever....just not in Whitechapel, dig.

We told Stevie and Nick about our day and, somehow, the conversation became a debate about the difference in British and American aid to the poor or disenfranchised. This was perpetrated by the edgie duet themselves, falkenna and Aunt Tudi. Me? I just sat there and gave Stevie and Nick the "roly eyeball" and twiddled my thumbs. When Midnight struck, we bid the men adieu and headed back to Brighton.

It was nigh onto 2 AM when we got home. Even though I was tired, I was also energised by the presence of the city in my mind. falkenna was perplexed that a misanthrope such as myself could enjoy being in such a vastly populated place. I tried to explain that it wasn't the people necessarily, but the human energy over all. To me, London was like a gigantic organism with a very thin epidermis that one can ease through to find the wonders therein. A city that large, like New York, which falls into this category, but not as strongly as London, at some point no longer depends on humans as individuals; rather, it is its own Being, powered by the energy drawn from the human whole from which it feeds. It's a living thing filled with mysteries waiting patiently to be discovered by the right explorer. I hope to someday go back and do just that, be an explorer of the greater mysteries. I'll leave falkenna and Aunt Tudi behind, and they'll thank me for it, 'cos they're just not cut out for roaming about and watching to see what happens. Give them the countryside and they will be happy.

After eating a bite, we all bid each other a good night, and Aunt Tudi and I retired to our room to pack for the trip home the next day.

The final chapter, hopefully later on today, after I've gotten a couple hours of sleep....good god it's 4:10 in the morning! Kill me now.

The ungodly early morning Sunday-go-to-meetin' quiz bible study and potluck feast

( what else can I do? insomnia SUCKS )

Travel Journal 11: Farewell Jewelled Isle

We had to be up early as our flight out was at 11:56 AM and we had to be at the airport 2 hours prior for, for lack of a better word, processing. 7 AM came too soon for someone who last looked at the clock a mere two hours before. I was beaten down and Aunt Tudi was worse than me, her spine snapped in at least 14 places thanks to all the mad travel. It would have been nice to stay put for a couple more days just to recover from it all and spend more time with falkenna. We didn't even clean up much, deciding to impose our misery upon our fellow passengers, especially if any of them had small children with little to no parental supervision. A pox on all their houses I say! Yea and verily.

Right before we left for Gatwick, I came through on my promise to falkenna to sing for her. After doing that and getting all verklempt with falkenna, we hit the road right on time. The security at Gatwick was seriously more forgiving than at any American airport. I thought I heard one of the employees tell a passenger to not forget his semi-automatic. That's not true. I'm kidding. But, seriously, Aunt Tudi had no problem getting through security at Gatwick. Everyone was kind and understood that she was a disabled woman who wore orthopaedic shoes.

We said our last goodbyes to falkenna and climbed aboard the airplane for the long flight home.

As far as security, everything changed when we got to Cleveland. I had no problem, but Aunt Tudi, because she was wearing thick-soled shoes and riding in an airport wheelchair, was taken to one side and frisked so much that everyone had to have a cigarette afterward. Once we got through that, we had to go through customs. It wasn't a problem except for the wait. After that, it was time to make the long trek to our gate. We had 30 minutes. The airport employee who was pushing Aunt Tudi had had a hip replacement and carried himself with an atrocious limp, but he was so fast I literally had to scamper along to keep up. Imagine my dismay when we passed a Ben & Jerry's kiosk and I saw that they were selling........

WAVY GRAVY

Yes, they'd resurrected the flavour and had it featured in the Cleveland airport. I couldn't stop to buy any then because I had to keep up with Mecha-Wheelchair-Man. Once we got to our gate, I told Aunt Tudi I was going back for some Wavy Gravy. I only had 10 minutes and the kiosk was, oh...a mile and a half away! But I was willing to take the risk. I flagged down one of the electric carts and he had me to the B&J place in no time. I bought two pints. YES, TWO PINTS. And I ran back to our gate only to find that our flight had been delayed because the attendant that was to be on our plane was on another delayed flight.

So Aunt Tudi and I slurped on Ben & Jerry's Wavy Gravy for an hour until we could finally fly the friendly skies again. It was well after 6 PM EST and we were both running on 2 hours sleep for the past 36 hours, or thereabout. We were only a little over an hour away from home and, boy howdy, we were ready to get there! The flight was uneventful. Both of us tried to snooze a little, but it just didn't work out. I've never been so happy to land at GSP.

I called Janice to let her know we'd just landed and she headed our way to pick us up, but she got caught in a traffic jam on I-85, so we had to wait a while outside for her to arrive. When she did, I had to fight hugging her and kissing my car. I really really really REALLY needed to get home. On the way, we stopped at a convenience store for a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, and a box of macaroni and cheese.

Once home, I made us the mac & cheese and then we both passed flat out.

I know it sounds like I was happy to get home and away from England, but that can't be further from the truth. I just wanted to lie the fuck down! I was tired and low on psychic energy. I could live in England, no doubt about it. Moreso, I could live in Wales! But I couldn't think about any of that on the 18th of May. All that was on my mind was collapsing in my bed and falling into a coma.

So ends my Travel Journal for the England trip. As Eddie Izzard would say, "I do like to end the show with a kind of 'Oh' feeling, and I think I've done that quite well."

oh..