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.

Waldorf says, "Hello" (in his fuzzy walrussy voice)

Well here we are. I've tried this so many times before, and I always end up being overly dramatic and artsy and trying too hard and then forgetting my password after a month. So I'm trying again, and this time, I will attempt with every fiber of my being to remain realistic. Let's keep it real, as I like to say. I'm in college. I'm an ex-artsy music school kid, future pre-law student, headed off to an adventure in the grand old southern state of North Carolina. Wake Forest University, here I come. And of course, I couldn't have picked that right out of high school like anyone else would have. No; I had to be different and seemingly amazing and go to the Royal College of Music. Live in London. Like so many American kids dream of. Just had to take off and be different. Well now I'm back, because I didn't want that any more. I don't want to be different and seemingly amazing right now, I just want to be good, even exemplary would do. Just not amazing. So there we are, I'm a transfer student. But even my transition to the norm couldn't be normal. I'll still stick out; be one of the ones no one quite knows what to do with. To be honest though, I don't know if I could be comfortable any other way simply because that's always how it's been. She's always the new girl, always the musical girl, always the homeschooled girl... always the something girl. Never just her.
Anyway, you may (if you are in fact reading this) be wondering who exactly Waldorf the walrus is. And I am here to tell you, my friend, that it will be revealed in good time. He's part of a story that I'm hoping to tell with this blog. Over the course of my endeavors as an amazing music kid (and please, realize my sarcasm when I say "amazing") I've managed to amass an incredible postcard collection. "Why postcards?" you may ask. "Well," I would say, "they're cheap, and they have better pictures of the stuff I've seen than I could ever hope to take myself." So there you have it. You will be getting a mixture of my postcards, my pictures, and my musings. I may also include, in addition to my musings, random vents, pensive rants... you know; whatever I feel like. And you are by no means encouraged to read it. I just have that annoying and all-consuming need for another human consciousness to read what I think, although it has no real relevance. Basically, I'm bored and a little bit lonely, so you, my unknown mystery reader are going to be my best friend for right now. Ok? Ok.