So This is England, huh? (The Rest of It)

I told myself I'd write something every night I was in England. That didn't happen. Still, here's my muddled together thoughts on everything I did and saw, with some events possibly rearranged and forgotten. And as always, I continue to be amazed by Blogger's ability to format things in an unexpectedly unreadable fashion.

Day Three – Patria et Familia

The real reason I went to London was to meet the newest member of my family, who turned out to be pretty damned awesome. Going four months old, he's already completely unflappable, drinking in the priest and the chapel at his baptism with this statesmanlike calm, relishing a quiet afternoon in church before heading back to another hectic cabinet meeting with his stuffed animals. The only thing that got him a little upset was having some cold holy water poured over his head, which I would have thought would be welcome on a hot afternoon, but he brightened right back up as soon as the priest gently toweled him off. Dressed to the nines and enjoying the spa treatment: definitely my sister's kid. I love this guy.

The priest's message to all of us, parents and godparents, beyond the quick highlights about the importance of Jesus Christ and eternal salvation, was Fear and Love. We are all entrusted with a responsibility to teach this little guy to live without fear, a lesson I which more people would learn (myself included). Love he should find in abundance in this world from his mum and dad and friends and family, and no matter what other disappointments people throw at him he'll always have his crazy godfather from America looking out for him. His godmother is my cousin who's super-organized and professional and will help him to believe he can get everything right the first time, and if it doesn't work out he's got me make him laugh away tears and spin him around to try again. It was a really good day, and my only regret is nobody took the opportunity to ask the Godfather for a favor... maybe that's only at my daughter's wedding.

Since I was in England over the 4th of July, my sister threw an epic Independence Day party, covering the whole house in red, white and blue, 160 cupcakes laid out like the American flag, and I added one more touch by bringing my brother-in-law a replica of the polite but strongly worded note Thomas Jefferson drafted for Fat George. Guests of note included my nephew all proudly decorated in his US Olympic colors, a farmer who used to till half of Latvia, and an intensely creepy cardboard figure of Uncle Sam. I am constantly amazed how my sister can take things to the most enthusiastic extreme but still maintain this air of class around the whole affair. A confusing but endlessly fascinating contrast.

Day Four - The Mighty Bowels of the English People

I really do enjoy being a dorky tourist, riding around on open topped bus and hearing terrible tour guide jokes. It is almost always rewarding when one can lose the self-consciousness "sophistication" and be able to just take in new things, and get excited about seeing the Tower Bridge opening. Or going into the National Portrait Gallery and staring for much longer beyond the "appropriate" amount of time at the visage that somebody else may have taken weeks to properly capture. There is that pronounced need for the Sofisticati to be themselves seen in the act of seeing, to make sure their audience understands the entirely higher level they're seeing things on. This creates my favorite uncomfortable art gallery moment: the time limit on how long one is allowed to look at an image of a nude woman before moving on or commenting on the technical aspects, the brush strokes, the artist, or anything to make sure nobody thinks you're just enjoying what you see. Because clearly that would not be art.

The root word of tourist is tour, and I was quite struck by how much of the tours I took were devoted to the mighty bowels of the English people. On a bus tour of the city, they make a huge point of explaining the existence in modern London of Fleet Street, covering the open sewer and threat to health and sanitation that was the Fleet River. The Tower of London is sure to point out Water Street, laid on the filled in moat that used to surround the Tower and filled up with enough raw sewage it could be smelled miles away. And I swear over half the tour of Shakespeare's Globe was devoted to how bad the place smelled, being filled with the unwashed masses passing around buckets in the yard to answer the call of nature. That being said, the Tower of London tour was full of bloody stories of torture and severed heads, all told by a distinguished 40-year infantry veteran with a very commanding demeanor and an earthy charm that didn't distract from his sense of occasion, while the tour at the Globe was given by a young woman whose bizarre, pausing speaking style was not enhanced by a make-up job applied by the late Amy Winehouse. I can certainly tell you which one of those tours I'd recommend.

The many stories of the mighty English bowel may take a strong stomach, but they aren't the most disturbing thing I encountered in Jolly Olde England. It also takes a strong stomach to hear the legend of the ravens of the Tower of London, not because of the story itself, but because of what the superstitious, pagentry-obsessed fuckheads who came up with that country's whole "watery tart throwing a sword" system of government. But anyways, the story goes that if the ravens ever leave the Tower of London the monarchy will fall, and to insure that such a thing never occurs the raven master or whatever he's called clips the wings of some of the ravens so they can never fly away. If your reign is dependent on the superstitious maiming of birds, denying them the joy of flight that is their birthright, isn't it about time to move on? On my way out I was watching this little future serial killer chasing ravens trying to kick them, and I really wish somebody would let the black birds decide their own future.

On a happier note, one great thing about being a tourist is I get to go to the theater and officially not care about what's going on backstage. I'm actually pretty good at this usually; as long as the play actually good I'll buy into their fictional world. But I still sit down to my plush balcony seat in London's glittering West End and the first thing I notice are... the ellipsoidal spotlights fastened to the front of the balcony. I was curious how they attach and power everything, and how it's dressed, and what might be different from the little bit I've learned. I'm just eternally grateful that unlike many (real) theater people I can still forget about it once the show starts, because the unbridled joyous laughter of One Man, Two Guvnors would have been a hell of a sad thing to miss while looking for the trap doors and audience plants and everything else peeking from behind the curtain. The woman who brought me in to the theater (where I'm sitting right now) told me that for 50 years she has approached everything from the perspective of an audience member, and I'm glad that still continues to be my favorite vantage point. I love being a tourist.

Day Five - Exit Through the Gift Shop

I love gift shops. I'm such a sucker, even for the store at the Big G where I used to uncrate all the new stuff and buy a new Intelligent Homosexual shirt every time I needed a clean shirt. So of course I had to go back and raid the Globe gift shop for everything I felt I could justify, stopping short on only a few items that I couldn't possibly fit in my bag... and still regretting I didn't just shell out for the folio recreation of Macbeth. Yes, I'm a shameless sucker, but my most ridiculous shopping expedition turned out to be a great idea.

Back in 4th grade, one of my best friends introduced me to the magic, the mystery, and the magnificence that is Dr Who. As the years have gone by the zippers on the monsters became more apparent, and I will occasionally cringe at the acting performances for a show that tried to do drama on a children's television budget, I've still never quite been able to outgrow the magic of the time traveling police box full of eccentric geniuses and the ladies they hung out with who were hot and strong... like a really good cup of tea. So I took the tube out to find this Doctor Who store, in the slightly less glittering East End of London.

When I got back, everybody asked when I got back if I saw any Olympic venues, and I guess I saw that weird spire thing out the window of the tube, so that was one mission accomplished. I don't know if that thing is the Olympic Torch (put out by London rain) or whatever, but there it was. More interestingly, popping out of the train at Upton Park, I felt for the first time like I was in another country. Funny accents? We have those in America... plus I hang out with actors, who all think they have the best funny accent. But out there with a largely South Asian sub-culture, a very different retail selection, it reminded me a lot of going out to the Thieves Market in the Indian section of Singapore. It's not quite so bright or lively in London, but it's still a trip to get out of Bayswater and the City and see another side of old Londinium.

I also liked walking past the Boleyn Ground, proud home of West Ham United Football Club, with its only slightly cheesy looking castle turrets which may or may not be haunted by one of Ms Boleyn's former maids who may or may not have lived there. Okay, not as imposing as one might hope, but I do like urban stadia (using the British plural for snootiness) with huge walls and stands rising up out of an actual city. My favorite thing about Verona is the first view of the ancient Roman amphitheater right in the middle of town, dominating the skyline like a giant breathing in all the air... compare that to the sad lumps Giants Stadium and Brendan Byrne Arena appear to be rising up (kind of) out of the swampy Meadowlands. I just think The colossal roar of the crowd should echo into the streets, keeping the party going as the fans flow out into the street and back into the rest of the life of the city... not just shut the fuck up and get back in your car so you can sit in traffic. So yes, I am quite relieved that the new Vikings Stadium will not be located in some ex-burb that I can't even place on a map.

As far as trinkets from my favorite things in London, I have a few. I have a stuffed raven from the Tower of London, because I liked their quietly alert character, the majesty of the White Tower and the dream of flight. I have a small fake lego replica of the Tardis, because it reminds me of one of the vibrant spirits of my childhood. I have a book from the National Portrait Gallery because I like the salty, warm beauty of real people. I have a sweatshirt from the Globe that says "Hood make not monks" (Henry VIII) because I am a dorky tourist. And I have a picture of me holding my nonplussed nephew, just because he's awesome and I love him. And that was my few days in London.

So this is England, huh? Day One/Two

So apparently you're not supposed to order pancakes outside the United States, and nobody told me. The ones I got were certainly edible, fresh and fluffy and covered in blueberries, so I don't know what the fuss is about, but I still feel obligated to pass on that bit of advice. It seems when we go to war with a country we do introduce them to McDonald's, but thus far we have not passed on the elusive secret of making pancakes that don't suck (throw the first one away).

In other areas of human culture, this England place seems alright. My first day I spent dealing with jet lag, severe compression issues from fitting into an airline seat and riling up the seemingly demonically possessed nerves in my back and legs, and just really getting to know the newest member of my extended family, who unfortunately still regards me like he's thinking, "Mommy, why is the guy from The Hangover in our house?" So today I got to spend some quality time wandering about and just getting the feel of the place, before catching a bit of culture in the National Gallery (apparently Titian has started painting again or something) and the surprisingly interesting National Portrait Gallery. It seems obvious in retrospect, but it honestly never occurred to me how much I would love such a place, despite my constant visual fascination with random people, like the guy in my sister's favorite breakfast nook who looked just like Stephen Yoakam (the actor, not the country singer). And no, it wasn't actually Stephen Yoakam unless he suddenly became an English builder and started wearing dusty jumpsuits, and... well, you know when certain British men look really sophisticated and statesmanlike but then they start talking in this high, squeaky cartoon character voice with no consonants besides F's and Y's? Yeah, it wasn't Stephen Yoakam. But the portrait gallery was really interesting, from beknighted actors (Dame Judi and Sir Ian) to fiancees who agreed to come over and pose naked to aged aunts... who also agreed to come over and pose naked... interesting stuff.

But the best thing today was getting to see The Globe, which I will profess is a special place, even though I certainly had my doubts. I'm not big on nostalgia and the weight of the past, and I rarely let it all in about "hallowed ground" preferring to let things be built in the moment, but this one really did get to me, partly because it isn't what it claims to be. It's not the theater of Shakespeare, where the Bard himself once trod the boards, and it could so easily be a kitschy museum piece turned into a theme park for tourists, some deadly throwback straight out of Vegas or Epcot, but it's not. Recreating the old wooden theater with uncomfortable benches, interrupted by rain and pigeons and the roar of jet engines as life goes on in the city brought forward the spirit of the theater, not just the bones, the spirit of this place just across the river where stories came to life in dangerous ways and the armies who clashed at Agincourt could come alive and squeeze into this tiny wooden O.

Twenty minutes before showtime I was standing outside looking at the muddy river and downing this fantastically earthy garlic smoked cheeseburger in the fading rain, but then I never had to go back inside. I didn't have to leave my real world, senses and belly all filled, in order to enter theirs. Musicians came out and started playing until they'd fought hard enough for our attention to begin, which seems like the dirty secret of the opening of every Shakespearean play: he knew somebody was going to be talking the first few words, if not more, so nothing was presented to a darkened, hushed audience collected into a single receptive body. The sun was shining, people were making out, a couple wide-eyed nerdy girls had their chins raptly thrust onto the lip of the stage, and we were all together in that space. My boss's boss's (boss's) boss talks about how he won't do Shakespeare in Elizabethan era regalia, tights and wooden sets because it all looks like something pulled out of a museum, and it's dead. Peter Brook talks about the Deadly Theatre as the laborious recreation of an image of something we all agree theater used to be, or is supposed to be, assembled rather than born. This was the opposite: alive and awake to the world, and refusing to play dead. Only this time around instead of boys playing ladies, it seems ladies now play boys.

A final note about English cuisine as I've experienced it so far: there's really a lot of meat going on. Some of that is the insistence by my friends and family that if there's L'Entrecôte to be had in town, we must go. (I've now gone in three countries on two continents.) And the garlic smoked cheeseburgers at the Globe really are good, maybe not £6 good, but good. But a side of bacon turned to be like, a SIDE of bacon, and I really thought there might be something else in a meat pie, like some vegetables or something. On the other hand, my brother-in-law's pub makes a really nice onion soup... won't find at the Onion Garden (ironically). And who am I kidding, I'm tempted to buy a groundling ticket just to go back and have another garlic-smoked cheeseburger.

Next: How to Celebrate the 4th of July in England Without Anyone Beating the Star Spangled Bejeezus Out of You