Louvring It Up

Yeah, I know. And I'm not going to apologize for that pun. I don't think puns are the kind of thing a person should apologize for. I like to think my physics teacher from high school would be proud of moments like these. By which I mean moments I revel in the terrible corniness of my own puns, not moments in which I am unapologetic. But I digress.

"So, France?" you say? "Yes!" I would reply. I have now been to France. Paris - if we're being specific, which I will be for now.

Thursday night, three friends and I headed off to Victoria Station to catch an overnight coach to Paris. Armed with sleeping pills, an eye mask, and Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me podcasts, I was ready to pass out for the duration of the bus ride. My body and the border agents had different ideas. After waking up at the border to hand over my passport and drag my backpack through a scanner, I drifted in and out of drug induced sleep for the rest of the bus ride. Consequently, when we arrived in Paris before 7 am the next morning, I was not in the most navigation ready state for the walk to the 20 euro a night hotel we had booked. It was 5.2 kilometers away, but I had scribbled down directions before leaving Paris and we had a few hours to kill before we could check in, so walking was fine with me.

After some vague confusion, struggles to communicate, and a drawn out breakfast in a random cafe, we made it to the hotel. My friends took a short nap while I pored over a map of Paris and did some homework. Around 11, everyone who had fallen asleep was shaken awake and we ventured out to the streets of Paris.

The first day, we hit the Louvre and the Carrousel du Louvre. I don't know a whole lot about art and won't pretend to. We saw the Mona Lisa, which was crowded and smaller than expected, and then I spent the rest of my time in the museum wandering around taking pictures of art I thought was funny. Funny paintings? Pshaw! Well, art snobs, tell me this isn't funny:

I have more examples should any skeptics remain.

After the Louvre, we were pretty exhausted but found a place to have dinner. We ordered some escargot to share, and I excitedly ordered some sort of sandwich with raclette cheese on top of it.

"It's the food of my people!" I proclaimed to the table at large. I was met mostly with strange looks, as I so often am in life.

Fairly beat, we made our way back to the hotel.

On day two, feet still sore from the exhaustive walking of the day before, we set off to cross more things off the list of "must-dos" that I had gotten from a co-worker who is a retired French teacher as well as simply amazing. We made it to Notre Dame, Musee D'Orsay, Champs Elysee, Arc de Triomphe, and the Eiffel Tower with sandwiches and crepes eaten along the way.

I haven't the energy to write about everything in detail (particularly because I am procrastinating homework right now) but I doubt that anyone would have the energy to read all of that anyway. Right? Right.

The Musee D'Orsay, however, warrants a bit of dwelling on. It's a museum of modern art. Again, I spent most of my time looking for vaguely amusing pictures or things I've read about for various classes. The Musee D'Orsay used to be a train station, though, and after World War II prisoner of war, victims of Nazism, and concentration camp survivors would return to France via that train station. I was more interested in seeing the building for that reason than the art - given that I had already seen swaths of it the day before. The only reminder of its past, besides the interior architecture, was a plaque outside that we nearly walked past.

I was surprisingly adept at translating the sign for my friends. I don't speak the French, but the amount of cognates and the repetition certainly helped. I could give you my shoddy translation now, but it falls apart at the end and shoving it through a shitty translator would probably build character. For you. Not for me. You're welcome.

The final morning in Paris, two of my friends and I went to a big ass cemetery, the Pére Lachaise Cemetery. It's sprawling and home to a lot of formerly famous people that now have the potential to be famous zombies. Good luck to them and good luck to the Parisians at surviving that. My main focus for visiting the cemetery, besides liking cemeteries in general, was to see Oscar Wilde's grave. I may be writing more on that later. We shall see if I find the time and energy. Or if the zombie apocalypse comes. That would probably limit my ability to carry out many of my daily functions, let alone blog updating.

For now, I must conclude this rambling, bullet point of a blog entry and try to return my focus to the homework I have been putting off. So, I'll leave you with one of my favorite Oscar Wilde quotes: "Life is far too important a thing to ever talk seriously about it."

Decor Tips

My lack of posting may lead you, dear reader, to believe that I have been kidnapped or that I have been leading a woefully boring life. The first, I can say with certitude, is not true. The second may or may not be true.

Last weekend, we took a trip to Hampton Court. It was Henry VIII's favorite hangout before the toll of constant remarriage caught up to him. Honestly, I don't see why he felt the need to divorce all his wives. If he was already fighting the church over divorce, why not just take it to polygamy? The palace certainly has rooms enough for all his lady friends. It also has a delightful shrubbery maze where he could hide his wives if he got angry at them. I imagine that would be more comfortable than getting beheaded. The maze wasn't actually built until the 17th century, but that's where my friends and I headed first.

The rain was threatening to fall as we entered the maze and started to come down a little bit as we wandered through the hedges. The maze was not terribly confusing until the exit, which was labeled as an exit only for the elderly and infirm but was actually an exit for everyone. The maze was hazardous, however. By which I mean there were children in it. Regardless of the rogue midgets, we made it to the center successfully and back out of the maze.

We spent a good chunk of the afternoon wandering through the rooms of the palace. I made notes for just how to decorate when I become a trophy wife. I've decided to get a giant four poster canopy bed. I have however decided I will not make intricate wall designs entirely out of weapons. Nothing says "Welcome to the palace!" like an array of guns on the wall.

With most of the open rooms explored, we ventured back onto the grounds to explore the gardens despite the rain. While looking for a way to the cafe for a snack and something warm to drink, we found the world's longest grape vine. It's true. They have the plaque from the guys at Guinness on the window. It was less impressive than it might sound. Perhaps if there had been grapes...

With that, I must conclude this hasty update. My friends and I are off to Paris for the weekend. We're meeting a few minutes to make sure we have all the required things for travel. Passports and snacks, you know, the important stuff.

Misnomers

It has come to my attention over the past week or so that the name of this blog is not entirely accurate. There are rhinos in London. In fact, there's one in my flat - albeit a small stuffed rhino from my pen pal - but even beyond the walls of my room, London is apparently teeming with rhinos. It's a bit odd, given they are so close to extinction. But my discovery of the various rhinos of London brings us back to my weekend with Andy, which I have promised to recount.

In a weekend full of adventure, Andy and I saw The Importance of Being Earnest (though my close personal friendship with Oscar Wilde did not earn us free seats), adventured to Greenwich to meet Andy's friend Norbert (where I met a Dane and bonded with him over our shared enthusiasm for Jon Stewart and our shared incredulity for Newt Gingrich's moon base plans), and went to Camden Market in search of leather pants for Andy. We also went to a trivia night Sunday night with some of my other friends. We were warned that there wouldn't be any American questions. Not a problem. I just needed my trivia fix. Away from Phil, the king of New Hampshire trivia nights, I was suffering from a spot of separation anxiety. Also, my useless knowledge was going to waste. So we settled in for a few hours of trivia. I startled everyone in my group - and the room, for that matter - by getting an obscure British pop culture question correct. It didn't help us. We came in last.

"There's no shame in coming in last," the host told us. We weren't ashamed anyways, but have vowed to brush up on British trivia.

But what of the rhinos? They didn't ask me how many kinds of rhinos there are (five) at trivia. The rhinos were discovered after our afternoon with Oscar Wilde.

Wandering back in the direction of my flat, Andy and I happened upon a gentlemen's club: The Spearmint Rhino. I've learned from the internet that such gentlemen's clubs also exist in the United States. But standing across the street from the Spearmint Rhino, I was confronted with the sad realization that I had misnamed my blog and that I probably could not hang out at the Spearmint Rhino. The fake mustaches back in my flat could only do so much for me.

But there are rhinos in London. There might be more, too. I haven't been to the London Zoo yet, but if it's worth its salt, there will be at least one kind of rhino. And he will be named Bertram. It just seems like a good name for a rhino. No matter what his name may be, I was left with the knowledge that a strip club had made a liar out of me like it had probably done for so many before me, although in a slightly different sense, one assumes.

Solace came to me on Wednesday. Our history of London walking tour led us from the monument of the Great Fire of London around to St. Paul's. On the way, Katy led us down a street called Threadneedle Street.

"What kind of business do you think was on this street?" she asked.

"Tailors?" someone in my class said.

"No."

"Prostitution?" I offered.

It was. Katy told us it was originally called Gropecunt Street, but as sensibilities changed they altered the name. Apparently vague innuendo is more acceptable in street names than clarity. Either way, I think the City of London and I can both chalk the names up to creative license.

Really?

I feel woefully behind again, but I suppose that is to be suspected after the whirlwind of a weekend I had. I suppose the only place to begin is with sense of excitement I woke up with on Friday morning. We were going to see Mike's (my theatre professor) play in Bury St. Edmund a few hours to the north, and my dear and graduated friend, Andy, was coming to stay for the weekend.

After a two hour bus ride to Bury St. Edmunds, our professors told us we had a few hours to explore and find dinner before they expected us back at the theatre to see Stagefright. But once we stepped off the bus, the Bury St. Edmund's chamber of commerce and the towering facade of an old stone church that were beckoning to us were immediately forced from our minds. Two older women, wearing navy blue cardigans emblazoned with the Theatre Royal logo emerged from the theatre and would not let us leave. We were ushered inside the theatre for a tour.

Once inside, our tour guides revealed themselves to be Marian and Joan and the most patronizing tour guides the world has ever known.

"Does anyone know anything about theatre?"

"Have you heard of our theatre before?"

"Has anyone heard of any theatres in England?"

Yes, no, yes. But we were stunned into silence. I, for one, didn't know what we were doing here. I don't think any of us really did. But Marian pressed on.

"I've heard of your Broadway, you know," she said. Yes, but that itself isn't a theater. Would it count if I said the West End? And sure, I could have offered her the Globe or the Old Vic where we had seen our first play of the semester, but I didn't want to talk to Marian. In the back of the room, I could see my professor rolling her eyes.

Finally, someone suggested the Globe.

"Ah yes, and what is the Globe famous for?"

Really? Really?


"Shakespeare," a somewhat less incredulous classmate of mine called out.

It was downhill from there. Joan and Marian broke us into two groups. I was stuck with Marian, who first led us around the building, encouraging us to imagine that we were members of the upper class in the early 19th century. Now, I'm all for pretending, but not when Marian is the one giving me the prompts. I'm all for taking tours of theatres, too, but this one assumed that I was an idiot.

After telling us the clouds painted on the ceiling could actually rain because the theatre was, in fact, equipped with fire sprinklers, Marian led us onto the stage. One explanation of "upstaging" later, Marian was about to lead us onto the front of the stage, which was already cluttered with all the props and scenery for that evening's performance. Strongly doubting that this was really supposed to be part of the tour, I fell in line. The other tour group, which was already finishing and was out in the house with Joan, called out to us and told us not to go on the stage. That we weren't supposed to. That it was already ready for the show. That we could break something and screw over the actors for their performance that evening. No shit, Marian.

Unabashed, Marian backed off the stage, but led us downstairs. We stumbled into the green room, where the actors, the illusionist, the stagehands, and Mike were gathered. We definitely weren't supposed to be there either. Marian was about to tell us more about the green room when Mike stopped her.

"These guys actually are a bit short on time and have to get dinner so they can get back here and see the show."

Once safely outside and away from Marian, Mike turned to us.

"I am so sorry," he said. "I had no idea they were going to do that."

The rest of the weekend was considerably better. Mike's show was a delightful mix of comedy and suspense and when the coach returned us to London that night, Andy was waiting for me across the street from my flat. He promised adventures that were sure to be more exciting than the hour and a half condescending tour I had just been on. A recount of those adventures is forthcoming.

Do You by Any Chance Work in Finance?

Tonight, I put on my finest monkey suit and set off for the Cape, a pub over in the City of London, a.k.a. the financial district. Why would I do that to myself? Because it wouldn't be a Colgate study group without the requisite networking outlet, now would it? Colgate has a hard-on for students glad handing alums so the gravy train of Colgate money can keep on rolling, after all.

Name tag securely in place, I was primed for my own personal mission: staking out a husband. I had been warned that the event would be over populated by "hedge fund boys," and as I have oft been told that there is no shame in marrying for money, I was eager to meet these financial wizards and slip my hand in their pockets filled with gold. That, and as a person who has only recently begun consuming alcohol, I decided filling up on a deep sense of irony rather than beer was the only suitable way to stomach encounters with that many smug, rich assholes.

I arrived with a cluster of other study group students, and we stumbled awkwardly towards the pockets of alumni near the bar. Slowly, students began to break off and talk to the alumni. I didn't want to. For all my husband hunting, I just wanted to duck my head rather than introduce myself, confess to being an English major, and find out, that yes, the finely dressed person in front of me did have a lucrative career screwing over the rest of us. But with one or two other students beside me, I approached my first alum: Samantha, who worked on the New York Stock Exchange and had just moved to London a week ago. She was only a few years older than me, but already unrelatable. As she didn't appear to be a lesbian, she also was not the best choice for my future spouse.

Then, as I was pouring myself a glass of water, I got introduced to Tom. Rather than working in finance himself, Tom helped people who were interested in finding a career in finance transition into that field. Tom was older, a little on the chubby side, and very interested in my opinion of whether or not Colgate still felt like a boys club. Not really, I told him, keeping back the fact that it still often felt very much like a country club. We chatted for a while, until I only had ice and half of a sad lemon ring left in my glass. They had started to put some food out, and Tom said he hadn't meant to monopolize my time. So we went over to the food table and I snuck away.

It was a while before I met my future husband, Patrick. Patrick, the investment banker. Patrick, the guy who works for Goldman Sachs. Patrick, the epitome of everything I have never looked for in a man. Patrick hung around and chatted with a few of us for quite a while. Each time a new student approached, Patrick again and again was forced to acknowledge that he was, in fact, an investment banker.

"It's a bit like saying that you're a pedophile these days," he said.

My future husband works next door to St. Paul's cathedral, which also happens to be where the Occupy London camp is set up. The first week here, some friends and I had wandered by the Occupy camp. In fact, I have a copy of The Occupied Times somewhere in my flat. I didn't tell Patrick that. I know enough about charming men into letting me be their trophy wife not to mention my connections to their archenemies.

Patrick, genial Goldman Sachs employee that he is, was interested in our career goals. When I told him I was interested in being a comedy writer, (I know, not the best line to convince the guy to take me as his wife) his face morphed into one of mingled shock and amazement.

"Are you funny? Can you be funny on demand?"

"Uhhh, sorry," I replied. "I'm only funny on Tuesdays."

He pity laughed. "That was pretty funny." He didn't really think so.

Another student approached the group and asked Patrick what he did.

"I'm an investment banker." He paused and watched what I can only assume was yet another face falling in dismay. "Yeah, sorry."

"Do you always have to apologize to people when you tell them what you do now?" I asked.

"Yeah. Well, only to people who don't work in finance," he said.

Shortly thereafter Patrick bought a bottle of wine and offered some to us, a nice gesture perhaps or an indication that yes, he was, in fact, every ounce the investment banker he told us he was. As he poured a few glasses for some of the other students, the wine bottle seemed to gurgle, "He is rich. Buying wine for English majors... he pities you and your future careers in waitressing."

The evening whiled away, until we were finally free to button up our coats and venture back into the streets of London where the snow had again begun to fall. While the few alumni left at the pub went off to secure their cabs, I'm sure, I headed to the tube to catch a train back to the flat, curl up, and write "Mrs. Patrick, Class of '95" all over the pages of my English class notebooks.

"Don't Be a Twat"

On Saturday my study group had a field trip up to Bath. As with all the other field trips, it was optional but free. Being what I choose to call frugal but what others may choose to call cheap, I plan to go on most of them. By 9 Saturday morning, a handful of my classmates and I had gathered by platform 3 at Paddington Station, waiting for our professor to arrive.

Once in Bath, (which I keep wanting to leave uncapitalized, because most of my baths are not proper - proper nouns, that is) we wandered around and made our way to Sally Lunn's. Apparently one must have a Sally Lunn bun while in Bath. Perhaps because it rhymes?

I had the most delicious trencher, which is also apparently an old school way to eat. It's a bread plate rather than a bread bowl, in this case the bread being a Sally Lunn bun. I also can't think of the word bun without thinking of buns as butts. It made the meal vaguely more awkward, if only in my head. It also explains why the mug my parents have with a bear and a muffin tray that says "Love my buns!" is so unsettling to me.

After lunch we went to the Roman Baths. They had a self guided audio tour with several different listening options. My professor encouraged us to pick up the audio guides, since parts of the tour we could opt to have Bill Bryson's commentary during instead of some random expert. Bill Bryson was not as funny on the audio tour as he was in print, so I often opted for the kids audio tour which featured several different characters. In the caldarium, I got treated to a slave's explanation of how they needed to have different rooms for the men and women because coed nudity was frowned upon. The slave's commentary concluded with her telling me she had to go because her mistress was ready to have her armpits plucked. This was followed by a half minuted of gasps, ouches, and the occasional scream.

While we were visiting the baths, the snow that had been threatening to fall all morning, finally started to tumble towards us. The square stones of the street outside became slick with slush, and, gentleman that I am, I offered an arm to one of my friends whose boots had smooth soles. We slipped the way up the hill to Royal Crescent, which is where the pompous rich people lived in the 1800s. I resisted the temptation to say, "Hurumph, hurumph!" while we walked through the rooms of their old ass stuff.

After the Royal Crescent a few of us went swimming in the spa. I am not much of a spa goer, by which I mean I've never been to one before. My friends and I made our way up to the roof top pool for a swim, where we ran through the falling snow in our swim suits and clambered quickly into the water. From the roof, we could see the sky turning red at sunset and the top of the illuminated abbey nearby as snow collected in our hair.

On the train journey back, we were in a car with a group of drunks. Sitting with my friend Amy, I took great pleasure in trying to imitate them - quietly, of course. A favorite quote from the group? "He's been looking for a job since the industrial revolution!" I am not sure what being able to make historical references while drunk says about a person, but here we are. Luckily, we went largely unnoticed by the drunks until I stood up with my green monster hood on and was mistaken for Kermit.

"Hey, it's Kermit!"

"Kermit? Where's Kermit?"

"Behind you!"

"I don't see him!"

"Behind you! Kermit's behind you!"

"Hey, hey! Kermit come back. Where is he?"

I stayed tucked behind my seat, head bent to Amy, not wanting to interact with the drunks that had made a pair of bobbies board the train a few stations back. Why was it that these drunks had not taken their own shouted advice to each other from before? Don't be a twat.

Dumbledore Was Right

It's confession time, which I suppose is fitting since I visited Westminster Abbey on Wednesday. Mine is not the juiciest confession and certainly isn't the kind of confession that I used to be guilted into making by the Catholic church, but here we are: I love socks. It's one of my many foot related oddities.

I haven't always had such a deep affection for socks. My love of socks started in earnest during my senior year of high school - though I did have an affectionate relationship with a sock puppet named Abner about four years earlier. But my senior year of high school I decided that I would wear mismatched socks every school day. My slightly strange logic was that then even if I didn't get into college, I would have accomplished something. When I entered college in the fall, I was still wearing mismatched socks.

People have noticed both my mismatched socks and my affection for them, and I consequently get a lot of socks as gifts. As Dumbledore said, "One can never have enough socks." That, and I believe socks are one of the greatest gifts a person can receive. While a practical gift on the most obvious level that everyone needs to wear socks - to face winters in New England in any case - socks serve another function that I am more concerned with.

Separated by time and space from so many people I love, my socks provide with me walking mementos. I have a sock drawer full of friends and family and not in the creepy serial killer kind of way. I have superhero socks from my brother, starry socks from my parents, and panda and stripped socks from best friends. So as I walked by the Houses of Parliament and along the Thames this week, my feet and I were thinking of you. Unless you haven't given me socks. In which case, maybe I was still thinking of you, but you'll just have to take your chances now won't you?

Tomorrow, I head off on a day trip to Bath, where I will have to remove my socks at some point. But hey, that means I'll be thinking about a lucky one among you while I strip. Ish.

At Least Nobody Shits in the Pools at the Tower of London

I have finally sat myself down to write about my adventures last weekend. I have armed myself with a bag of cheese savouries, so the task of riffling through my memories to remember where I went only a few days ago seems less daunting.

Friday marked a group field trip to the Tower of London and Borough Market. Our tour at the Tower sufficiently stocked my squeamish quota for the rest of the day. I could have heard about just one disembowelment and/or beheading and that would have been fine, but instead I got to hear probably half a dozen tales of heads being hung on London Bridge after their owners had finally been beheaded. Sweet dreams!

I couldn't help but think about Water Country, my place of summer employ, while we were walking through the Tower of London. Certainly there is more value in a castle, parts of which that date back to the eleventh century, than there is in a small New England amusement park from the eighties, but it was a connection I couldn't not see. (Thankfully, I didn't see any ass crack though, which is not a guarantee at Water Country.) In any case, as our tour guide Steve led us into the chapel for the end of the tour, I found myself wondering how someone got themselves a job as a tour guide at the Tower. Also, didn't it get boring as fuck?

Apparently not. Once in the chapel, in the FAQs portion of the tour, Steve told us about how august his position was. Apparently it takes years of military service, achieving a certain rank, and then a fairly competitive application process. Perhaps it's the years of Water Country speaking - or a misunderstanding of the prestige of working at one of the world's foremost tourist attractions - but it doesn't seem worth it.

That said, beyond the slight Disney-esque feel of the tour, the history of the place itself is astounding. The highlight for me was seeing the room in which the Duke of Clarence, of Richard III fame, was likely killed in. We also went to see the crown jewels, and holy shit that is some ridiculously fancy ass headgear. Royalty must've had ridiculous neck muscles. Yet another reason I don't want to be a princess/queen.

After the Tower of London, we headed across Tower Bridge to Borough Market which has a lot of produce, cheese, and the odd stall of exotic meats.

I did not buy any kangaroo burgers. As a rule, I don't eat animals that have bifurcated penises. Sorry, wombats, that means you're out, too.

After not getting enough of London market life on Friday, some friends and I set out to find one on Portobello Road on Saturday. Portobello Road is apparently one of the unmissable things to do in London, so when we ended up on two shorts streets with people selling laptops from the late nineties and hairdryers with broken cords, we were unimpressed. Cold and disappointed we set off back towards our flats. We had almost reached the tube station when I saw a large tent down a side street. Hoping we had actually found the market now, my friends and I set off again and this time actually found the market which sprawled across several street and down the road.

In other news, despite my inability to find Portobello Road, last week I was asked for directions to the British Museum, which I was able to successfully deliver. Admittedly, we were only a couple hundred feet from the museum at that point, but I'll take whatever reassurances I can get.