Life Strikes a Chord

Do you ever associate a song with a place or a specific set of memories? I know I'm not the only one. You download new music, listen to it constantly for a few days or a week, and then forevermore when you hear that song, you will most likely think of the places you listened to it most or how you were feeling at the time. I went through several sets of songs like this during my time in London. Not as many as you would think, actually, but there are quite a few I could name off the top of my head. It really started to happen when I began to listen to my iPod on the bus to school. For the first few months I didn't take my headphones out and about because frankly, I'm a space case, and I was worried that I would be zoned out with music and get hit by a bus. As it turns out, that almost happened several times anyway.
Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" was my jam of choice during January. I was feeling pretty confident at the time, and the weather was disgusting, so strutting around with Sexy Back as my personal soundtrack made the gray a little more bearable. Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" fit that purpose as well.
Then came the era of "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men. I had had the song for a while but for some reason I listened to it almost constantly for a while in March. I was a little down at the time and there was something about it that made me feel, all at once, that it was alright to be sad, and that I wouldn't be for long. The song was right; I wasn't sad for long.
And how could I forget, the night I had Barber's Adagio for Strings on a loop and had a good sob (that my next door neighbor overheard) for no reason. I genuinely did not have a reason to sob. But it felt freeing I suppose. And now, I will forever associate that piece of music with that night.
The Lumineers' "Stubborn Love" was my museum perusing song of choice. In April and May, when I did the majority of my museum-going, that was always on my list. So now when I hear that song, I see Gauguin's floral paintings in my mind's eye.
The list could go on forever; Kesha in Hyde Park, Barbara Streisand in Kensington Gardens, Led Zepplin on the 84 bus........

The Chairs that Weren't Chairs

I'm going to tell you about the best meal I had during my whole year in London. It was simple, as the best things usually are. But I'll start from the beginning. I had been wanting to go to this one particular restaurant in central London, but no one had the time to go. It was also on the pricey side, so I can understand that my friends were hesitant to dole out the dough for trendy food. And my restaurant of choice was, indeed, very trendy. It's one restaurant with several different "rooms" that all have separate menus. There's the main restaurant with semi-fancy options (The Gallery), "The Lecture Room" (a Michelin star-status dive), and two smaller rooms that share an all-day economy-style menu, "The Parlor" and "The Glade".
I had had my eye on the Alice in Wonderland-esque decor of The Glade for months, and by the time my year was ending I realized how disappointed I was that I hadn't gone.
My friend Ruth was with me on my last full day in London and had offered to spend the night at my dorm with me and help me to Heathrow airport with all my bags the following morning. So in exchange for this brave offer of assistance, I told her we should go to lunch, my treat. So off we went to this super trendy, art gallery-restaurant hybrid in our jeans (flute bags in tow, of course).
We found the restaurant, on a street that juts off of Regent Street. For those of you that aren't familiar with London roads, Regent Street is the link between Oxford Street (the most bustling shopping district in the Capitol) to Piccadilly Circus (Times Square of London). So it's busy. And the street that our restaurant was nestled on just so happened to be where all of the super-posh designers were nestled as well. So Ruth and I went in, spoke with the high fashion hostess and waited to see if there was a table for us to lunch.
While we waited, we examined the chairs in the lobby and discussed (in hushed voices) the possibility that they were in fact just art, and not for us to actually sit in. We subtly attempted to seat ourselves in them after some deliberation, and when confronted with a slight crunching noise, quickly retracted our verdict that they were real chairs. They were so not real chairs. Luckily, the model-caliber hostess was away for long enough not to bear witness to our misjudgment.
She walked us back into the magical little room that is The Glade. The only space that hadn't been reserved for afternoon tea was at the bar, which was perfectly fine with Ruth and me. We awkwardly shoved our flute bags against the wall under our feet and hoisted ourselves onto the dainty wicker stools (which were, in fact, real chairs). I ordered an iced tea. The waitress proceeded to mix a blend of loose leaf tea, fresh lemon, fresh mint, and fresh strawberries, and pour it over a clear glass tea pot-full of ice. My mind was blown. I had never before been served a pot of iced tea; but the potted beverages were not the only awe-inspiring thing to be seen. The decor was whimsical, tasteful, and overall enchanting. The walls were all shades of green, a collage creating the effect of a forest. Blue and green curtains here and there provided the illusion of privacy for diners seated at various mis-matched garden furniture.
 I ordered a slice of bacon quiche, which was served on a wooden plank with a dollop of the best field-green salad I've ever had. The quiche itself was heavenly, the perfect blend of eggy base and salty bacon with a buttery crust. I also ordered a side of french fries (because that's what Americans do, right?) which came with a little dish of crazy. And by crazy, I mean ketchup that was made from beet root. It sounds, well, crazy... but it was honestly one of the best things I've ever eaten. The fresh after-taste of beet went perfectly with the stereotypical salty crispness of the fries.
I have contemplated doing a whole other post just to describe the dessert, but I feel that may be slightly excessive. I will try to keep it brief. It was called the Royal Rose; just a tiny stack of sweetness. A shortbread cookie, a dainty glob of rose ganache, a few fresh berries and a raspberry meringue, topped with a single rose petal. Besides being the prettiest little morsel I'd ever seen, it managed to be the most perfect culinary bite I could ever hope to eat. It was lovely. That's all I'll say.

sketch.uk.com

The Antics of Klutzilla

What happens when patent leather touches other patent leather? It sticks. As in, grips with all its might. So if one patent leather heel touches another? Down goes the trendy lady in said heels, as if she were tripping over her own feet. Now, imagine this scenario taking place at a crosswalk with a single car stopped to wait for aforesaid lady to cross. She trips, in the middle of the street, directly in the driver's field of vision. Instead of getting embarrassed when the driver starts to laugh hysterically, she looks up at him and has a good chuckle as well. Imagine how liberating that must feel for the klutzy woman? Everyone does embarrassing things. Whether in the public sphere or in the comfort of one's own home, every single individual on this good earth has done something either klutzy, stupid, or both. I just so happen to be one of those people that has a talent for struggling in front of an audience. You may have guessed already that the trips-in-the-road chick was me. And I did in fact have a great laugh with that driver. It was the start to a fantastic day. I also laughed with the lady on the bus the next day when I lurched down the bus stairs and got my Starbucks all over me. Another fantastic day. (No sarcasm!)

When I lived in London, I did so many overwhelmingly embarrassing and idiotic things. At first I worried about it, turned bright red, tried to play it cool. But then it hit me. I would more than likely never, ever see any of those people again. If anyone had witnessed my klutzy antics, they probably just laughed at me and then forgot it ever happened. Or, I would become one of those stories: "Oh my gosh, one time I saw this girl....", which is absolutely fine with me. It just dawned on me, just like that. I'll never see them again, and at least I made someone happy. I like making people happy. So if my shoe falling off and tumbling down the stairs in the subway station made someone laugh, then I can laugh too, and find solace in the fact that I made someone's day a little better. The random stranger that saw me miss my mouth while taking a drink from a water bottle? I may just have made their day. So it's ok with me now. I don't mind embarrassing myself, because the worst that could happen is that no one is there to laugh with me. So there you have it. Liberating, isn't it? 

Blackbird's Roundelay

I'm about to do it again; pair a painting and a poem. Can you blame me though, really? The two go together so naturally. So here's my next match-up.

J. M. W. Turner

Sun Setting over a Lake

c. 1840

Oil on canvas, 91.1 x 122.6 cm

Tate, Accepted by the nation as part of the Turner Bequest 1856

Good-bye

Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home:

Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.

Long through the weary crowds I roam;

A river-ark on the ocean brine,

Long I've been tossed like the driver foam:

But now, proud world! I'm going home. 

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;

To Grandeur with his wise grimace;

To upstart Wealth's averted eye;

To supple Office, low and high;

To crowded halls, to court and street;

To frozen hearts and hasting feet;

To those who go, and those who come. 

Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.

I am going to my own hearth-stone,

Bosomed in yon green hills alone, - 

secret nook in a pleasant land,

Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;

Where arches green, the livelong day, 

Echo the blackbird's roundelay,

And vulgar feet have never trod

A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 

I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;

And when I am stretched beneath the pines,

Where the evening star so holy shines, 

I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,

At the sophist schools and the learned clan;

For what are they all, in their high conceit,

When man in the bush with God may meet? 

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

My Little Postcard Da Vinci's

 A detail from The Virgin of the Rocks (The Virgin with the Infant Saint John adoring the Infant Christ accompanied by an Angel), about 1491-1508
Leonardo da Vinci, 1452-1519
Oil on wood, 189.5 x 120 cm
Bought 1880
The National Gallery

 A detail from The Virgin of the Rocks, about 1491-1508
See above

 A detail from The Virgin and Child with Saint Anne and the Infant Saint John the Baptist ('The Burlington House Cartoon'), about 1499-1500
Leonardo da Vinci, 1452-1519
Charcoal (and wash?) heightened with white chalk on paper, mounted on canvas, mounted on canvas, 141.5 x 104.6 cm
Purchased 1962
The National Gallery

See above

Two Masterpieces are Better Than One

"Landscape with Psyche outside the Palace of Cupid ('The Enchanted Castle')", 1664 

Claude, 1604/5?-1682

Oil on canvas, 87.1 x 151.3 cm

The National Gallery, London

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosey lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

~William Shakespeare 

This painting is hanging in the National Gallery. I didn't spend an overwhelming amount of time there, but every time I went, I wound up just staring at this painting. No one else seemed particularly interested, but I was in awe. To me, it is the perfect blend of the real world and the romanticized mythological realm of Psyche. So many works of art transport the viewer to the subjects' world; and here I was being shown how Psyche had ended up in some corner of my world. It was as if Claude had given me hope that the beautiful and the fantastic were possible. It was the same feeling I had when I read Sonnet 116, actually. Somehow the two are tied together in my mind now, as if the strokes of Claude's brush had produced the visual version of Shakespeare's words. Which, now that I really think about it, is a bit odd because Psyche doesn't really have anything to do with Shakespeare. Maybe it has something to do with the story of Cupid and Psyche, and how relevant this Sonnet is to their relationship... Anyway, these two little bits of heaven are filed away together in my mind, next to all the other bits of heaven I've seen so far in my short life. Enjoy.

Flower Power

These postcards are some of my absolute favorites from my collection. They're reproductions of posters that were used in London Underground stations during the 1920's to advertise Kew Gardens.

A Patchwork Palace

Isn't it funny how different a place can seem with different people? I'm going to tell you about two trips, both of which I actually took with other people. This is one of the few instances in which I did not just venture off on my own. The first time I went to Hampton Court Palace was during my first week at Royal College of Music. I went with three friends; two British and one other American girl who was there for her Masters degree. It was beautiful outside; summer had stretched out into September and not even a hint of fall's chilly tendrils could be felt in the air.
We had a fantastic time. Took the bus, got lost, walked a few miles, finally found the castle and had some lunch before we started exploring. The palace itself was incredible. It's a bit of an architectural hodgepodge, if you will. Half of the palace was built by Cardinal Wolsey and given as a gift to Henry VIII. The other half is distinctly baroque in style and was added during the reign of William III, intended to rival Versailles. Though no one can do ornate like the French, I must say, William gave them a run for their money. The gardens are divine, perfectly symmetrical, perfectly manicured; the corridors, ballrooms and bedchambers are all the picture of luxury. When little girls dream of their Cinderella palaces, this is what they dream of.  
My friends and I spent the whole day at Hampton Court Palace. It was a lovely day, one of the best I had during my time in London.
My second trip to Hampton Court was in January, with a friend that came over from the US to visit me. The gardens were still just as lovely then, as the grass in England is always green, it was just a bit cold out. But nothing really to stop us from having a good time. But we didn't; I took my friend there to share the joy of the first experience I'd had there. He, however, simply wasn't interested. His indifference left a sour taste in my mouth. It's strange; I shouldn't have let that bother me, but somehow, the fact that he didn't enjoy it at all tinged my last happy trip with an odd sort of sadness. It was sort of like what had made me happy before wasn't good enough anymore. I felt betrayed, and disappointed, as if I had failed. He wasn't even just happy to be with me, he was more concerned with being unhappy with where I had taken him. The whole thing was very disappointing.
Looking back on the two now, the happy overshadows the disappointing, and I'm thankful for that. I think the sadness was swept off with the rest of the clutter I dusted out of my life in March. But that's a story for another day. Maybe I'll sneak that in with the British Museum. Now, pictures!

Cromwell the Corgi

Me again. Ready for another story? I thought so. And just a bit of a disclaimer, these aren't in chronological order. Not that it really matters, I suppose. But what I got out of each experience was definitely contingent upon my mental state when I experienced them. So if you look at it that way, it does matter. But I have chosen not to look at it that way. And there you have it.
I'm not going to tell you about Waldorf yet. His story is for a different day. I will, however, tell you about Cromwell the Corgi. (He's Waldorf's best friend, in case you were wondering.) Cromwell hails from Windsor, England, the site of one of Her Majesty's Royal Residences. Windsor Castle is located about an hour train journey outside of London. I decided I wanted to see it, and after a week of inviting people who managed to find every excuse known to man not to go, I took off on my own to see it. If you continue reading this blog, you will see this emerge as a pattern. (The whole taking off on my own thing.) Anyway, I got up early, got myself to Waterloo Station, and hopped on a train to see the royal dwelling. The trip was actually quite pleasant. I saw some sheep. Sheep are always good. I was worried about finding my way from the station, but I realized about thirty seconds out the door that the castle was about the only thing I could see. It completely dominated the town, glowering down from the top of a massive hill. I hiked up said hill, found the front gate and collected my super-dork audio guide (which I had brought my own headphones for... yes, I know). The first part of my walk was the outer walls. Shocking, right? I made my way into the main part of the castle, the semi-state apartments. They are full of incredible works of art, priceless furniture and hundreds of years of meaning. So much has happened there; so many things thought, wars planned, triumphs celebrated, people broken... I think, maybe, it's a good thing that I went alone. If I had been with other people I don't think I would have grasped the weight that kind of age can bring. So many years; just so much, all in that exquisite old place. I was by myself to think about it. I think that's best. The chapel there is incredible, too. Henry VIII is buried there, as well as his third wife Jane Seymour. It's a place of ironic reverence, if you will. So much blood was spilled, so many people crushed by his rule, and there are his mortal remains surrounded by the most tranquil and decadent architecture the human race has produced. It just struck me as I was standing there in that quiet place, that dear Henry should have had just about anything but the best humanity has to offer. Anyway, it was beautiful. And humbling, as most spaces of impeccable craftsmanship usually are. After my jaunt through a landmark of Western civilization, a trip to the gift shop was in order. Did I pick a replica of the royal china? Or perhaps a Christmas ornament? Or maybe a souvenir guide book? No, of course not. I got a stuffed corgi, complete with a "Royal Palaces" medallion around his neck. Thus, Cromwell the corgi became my companion for the remainder of the academic year. He sat in my dorm room, alway regal, always fluffy, always ready to make me smile. Am I embarrassed? Absolutely not. Should I be? Possibly.

452 to Willesden Bus Garage

London busses are world famous for their vibrant shade of rouge, their double-decker stature and their other-worldly ability to successfully maneuver the perilous streets of the British Capitol. But I'm here to give you a first-hand account of what life is like when a London bus ride is part of your every day. My dorm was located in the Shepherd's Bush area of town, out West, almost to Chiswick. My school, however, was located in the most affluent part of town just to the west of Buckingham Palace, known as South Kensington. The actual distance from my domicile to my place of study was a mere three miles, but given London's perpetual state of drizzle, walking was never advised. The bus route to school was simple: hop on the 94 east bound right outside the building, change to a 52 or 452 at Notting Hill Gate and wait until "Royal Albert Hall" was announced over the speaker system. Poof, just one block from school when you hop off. To get home, it was exactly the same only in reverse (obviously).

This deceptively simple bus route took 30 minutes on a good day, and there weren't many good days. The amount of emotional trauma I experienced on London busses is slightly disturbing. There's traffic, road work, diversions that add hours to your trip and trap you on the bus, crazy people yelling, people touching you, driver changes, random service terminations... the list goes on. My point is that as a Londoner, you spend a lot of time on busses, and a lot of your emotional state is contingent upon how your bus journey is on any given day. You also have a lot of alone-in-public time to zone out and ponder the grander questions of life; Why am I here? What on earth am I doing with my life? Why does the person sitting next to me smell like mayonnaise? Could that child scream any louder? 

A bus ride in London is never simply a bus ride. It may be your breaking point, for example. I have both seen people crying on a bus and been the person crying on a bus. Neither experience is particularly enjoyable. I have witnessed the whole scope of human emotion, from anger (a fist fight) to ecstasy (literally, people on drugs) on the London transport system.

 My own time on the bus was usually spent daydreaming about something or other, once to the point where I sauntered off without my flute bag, which I left to continue it's tour of the city from the top window seat. It must have had a lovely view. I learned a lot about the London bus system that day; and yes, I did track it down. And no, nothing was stolen. I was lucky. I think my determination and willingness to venture into the super sketchy part of town that was the home of the Willesden Bus Garage paid off in the eyes of the transit gods.

 These moments and so many others, too numerous to name, enriched and colored my time in London. So thank you, double-deckers. Thank you for giving me time to think, and at times to keep me from thinking. Thank you for keeping me on my toes, helping me to become more familiar with humanity as a whole. I am sure we will meet again some day. Hopefully after the construction at Notting Hill Gate is done.  

Orchids and Self-Sufficiency

 I'm going to tell you about a trip I took while I was in London this past year. You might think that a trip to the National Gallery to see Da Vinci's works would be the most profound, or perhaps a stroll through Westminster Abbey where so many men and women of faith have sent their prayers into the heavens; but no. One of my most defining days was spent wandering the traces of Kew Gardens. It was a cold, grey February afternoon. Not exactly garden weather. I was determined, however, to see the orchid exhibition that they were holding in one of their greenhouses. For those of you that don't know, Kew is the Royal Botanical Garden which is located on the Western edge of London, almost out of the city. A few hundred acres of green settled on the outskirts of a major world metropolis. The gardens hold everything from greenhouses brimming with exotic plants to acres of wild woodland reserve. I started out with the orchids, and they were stunning. I've always had a soft spot for quirky flowers, but these were out of this world. A whole sprawling greenhouse full of decadent, crisp little bursts of nature. It was breathtaking; thousands of alien blooms in the most tantalizing colors, twining their way up columns, serenely floating in pools surrounded by primordial koi fish, reaching out from archways that held them suspended in the muggy air. If there is such a thing as Wonderland, I found it that day on my own at Kew. I finally wandered back out into the cold and started to walk. I had no idea really where I was going, but I've found that's the best way to experience anything. At first I followed paved paths, making my way past the daffodils that were just beginning to sprout above the ever-green english grass. Then the trees began to get taller, the paths less defined, until I was out in solitary lawns of wild grass. I kept walking. I found a stream with a bridge that had no real railing. I made friends with a tiny British robin in the tall grasses near a pagoda. I also made friends with a duck. And when I say I made friends, I mean that I had a chat with them. There was no one around to look at me like I was insane, so why not? Birds need friends too. I kept wandering and I made my way deep into the forest reserve part of the garden that no one else was crazy enough to trek out to in the cold. I found where all of the peacocks hide from tourists. And yes, they do just have wild peacocks that wander around Kew. It's not as if they're going to fly off into Central London. I made friends with them, too. I was just so alone. Or at least, it seemed like I was. I know that I was still surrounded by people, relatively speaking. But it was so quiet and so still. Sometimes, when you're lonely, finding absolute quiet is the only thing that will make you realize that you've got yourself for company. That's what I needed. I needed to be reminded that I was enough. Just me and the flowers. And the birds, of course.