Mind the Gap

So after spending a week in Britain one does get to notice the differences. Cars driving on the other side takes some getting used to. The impulse to jerk your head warily in the wrong direction is astounding, like it’s all been a joke and this time the car will come from the other direction. Fortunately, in London at least, many of the main streets had useful notes saying “<--look left” or “look right -->” painted onto the asphalt. I wish I could say that after a day or two we no longer needed these, but they continued to be a relief and I miss them in Scotland.

During the intermission of “Warhorse” (a very cool show with massive horse puppets) the snack of choice was ice cream. Now certainly some American theater snacks are messy, but I would dare to say that other than sitting on your chocolate bar so that it melts none is as hazardous as melted ice cream. It was vaguely wonderful to see the older gentleman next to us delicately eating a tiny ice cream with a small spoon.

And lemonade is carbonated.

Now onto language – starting with “concession” which in American theaters makes me think of food and here refers to an elderly person. One can buy concession tickets rather than have a senior discount. “What’s on” is the phrase for events at a certain venue, and “take away” means “carry out” or “to go”.

Our host in the first hostel explained that Oxford St. was where we should go if we needed the “bits and bobs” and he was amused by Chelsea and my insistence on taking multivitamins (third syllable pronounced as in “it” rather than “ite”).

“To let” meaning “to lease” or “rent” gave Chelsea some pause and I have been grateful to my BritComs. They have been useful.

And of course there is the ever popular “mind the gap”, dutifully repeated by the many mechanical voices of the underground and train systems. I will also admit that hearing a very proper and refined woman’s voice inform us that the Piccadilly line terminates at Cockfosters nearly made me giggle at every stop.

As I find/remember more we might get a “Mind the Gap II” but that’s it for now.

Cheers, man.

Tower

So today we spent our morning at the Tower of London.

Now this is tricky. The Tower is a major historical site, a huge tourist trap, a checkmark on the superficial list of must sees in London. It has guards in red coats and black hats who march five paces in each direction in front of a little wooden structure about the size of a telephone booth with absolutely nothing in it. People take pictures of their children smiling in front of these guards.

And yet. It is the Tower.

We walked through rooms where prisoners had carved their names into the stone, a man who was part of the Gunpowder Plot. Some carved symbols of faith. One carved an astronomical chart. Towers and rooms were marked to show which monarch constructed them, right back to William the Conqueror. Traitor’s gate still rests in shallow water, and the ravens prance and cackle. And the jewels. You can’t forget the jewels.

And in the end, no amount of Henry VIII collectible dolls, no amount of fellow tourists exclaiming “It’s a unicorn!” in derision and disbelief, can really destroy the power that lives in that place.

The reason that I wanted to see the Tower was Lady Jane Grey.

For those of you who haven’t heard me babble about Jane Grey, she was Queen of England for nine days between Edward VI and Mary Tudor. She was seventeen when she was crowned, deposed and beheaded. And she was imprisoned and beheaded in the Tower.

It is not strange to encounter a historical figure who enchants you, and Jane Grey has always been one of mine. I’m not remotely alone in that. If you want a dramatized version there is a movie called “Lady Jane” with Helena Bohnam Carter and Cary Elwes which I adore and my family is sick of. Or you can read her letters.

One in particular. A letter to Thomas Hardy, written in the Tower, extolling him not to break with his faith, with Protestantism, for the sake of his immortal soul. It is beautifully written. And it was written when a conversion to Catholicism would probably have saved her own life.

At the Tower is a monument, two glass circles with the names of those given the honor of an execution within the Tower grounds. It is an unremarkable space, a field off a walkway, the walls are far away and it is open to the sky. Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard are there, and Countess Rochford who was Anne Boleyn’s sister-in-law and survived that queen only to be taken down in Katherine Howard’s fall.

And there is Jane Grey, the nine days queen.

I heard someone remark that it was too modern an object, out of place with the rest of the Tower.

Perhaps. But we are out of place, voyeurs who half understand what we are seeing. We don’t have time to really know this place, we who have a morning to spend glimpsing the behemoth that is history. I stood over Jane Grey’s name and mourned for her a little. Because I think she was brave. Because seventeen is too young. Because there was a person who walked from the Tower to this patch of ground and who, blind-folded, could not find the block.

That’s it really. I went looking for that moment and I found it, created it maybe. But I think that is what you have to do. It’s easy to forget the human beings involved in light of little paper dolls demonstrating how the rack worked.



“The soul takes flight into the world which is invisible, and there arriving she is sure of bliss and forever dwells in paradise.” – Plato, translated by Jane Grey for John Feckenham, who, bless him, wrote it down.

Of Planes and Sleep Dep

Once upon a time, twenty-four hours ago, Chelsea and I arrived at Cleveland Hopkins International Airport. We got there two hours early. Our plane arrived forty-five minutes late.

Upon realizing the imminent problem of this situation, Chelsea pointed out to the lovely flight attendant that we would miss our flight to London and that this would be infinitely sad. And so the attendant, as a back up, reserved seats for us on a different flight, this one to Amsterdam. Amsterdam and London, close enough, right? At least we would get across the Atlantic on the right day.

However Detroit had other ideas. As we descended into that city, we realized that our flight to London should already have left and even the plane to Amsterdam might be tricky to get to on time.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Detroit airport, it is divided into two terminals: concourse A and concourses B and C. International flights leave from A. Domestic ones come in to B or C. The only way across from one to another is a tunnel. Now this is a lovely tunnel, its walls glow with rainbows, a soft soothing music emanates from its shimmering ambiance. It is an attractive, if strange and out of place, bit of architecture. It is less appealing when you have run all of concourse B and are preparing to do the same with as much of concourse A as is necessary.

Chelsea, bless her heart, but slowed momentarily. I worried that I had allowed myself to get horribly out of shape and would now have to catch up to her athleticism. I was soothed to discover that she was merely more stubborn with better hunting instincts and visualization. We collapsed together with mutual panting, shortness of breath and winded pain on a plane bound for Amsterdam.

Now one thing about planes, particularly those that cross oceans: If you have watched any of the series LOST, you try desperately not to think of it as you fly. It can be a quiet inner struggle, something put aside as you snooze and half-watch Avatar, but when a monstrous burst of turbulence hits, that image of Jack Sheppard opening his eyes on an island to the sound of screaming comes back with a gut wrenching jolt.

We had some of the worst turbulence I have ever felt, bouncing us around inside our flying metal canister for a little over half an hour. The plane did not break in half, which is awesome. That however, combined with a boisterous family of loud blonde Dutch children, apparently of the mistaken opinion that rest is for the weak, lead to very little sleep.

Our connecting flight left us briefly in the land of orange, clogs and tulips before dumping us into

London which welcomed us with grey skies and drizzle. Highly appropriate.

The long and the short is that we made it here, and I am certain it will be funnier in the morning. Sleep well all.