Stones and Scavenger Hunting

No, the zombies haven't come. I'm still alive, but it has come to the point in the semester when professors everywhere say, "Oh, so those students of mine... they probably need an assignment or two before the semester is over." So I've been doing a bit of that. Which means I haven't yet written about my visit to Stonehenge and Salisbury, even though I've gone on an adventure since then. I'm keeping my other adventure a mystery for now. They say mysterious women are more alluring. Here's to hoping.

So last weekend, we set off from London Saturday morning and headed to Stonehenge. Last semester I took a course called Astronomy and Culture and we studied Stonehenge a fair amount. On certain days of the year, the sun and moon rise over some of the stones when viewed from other stones. Most notably, the sun rises over the heel stone, which is a huge stone set apart from the rest, on the summer solstice. At the end of the term, my professor gave us an "Astronomy and Culture Bucket List" that included going to Stonehenge. Check.

On a related note, I emailed my astronomy professor before heading out to Stonehenge to update him on my bucket list progress. He answered with congratulations and post script saying that I could use my super hero cape (yeah, bitches, I have a super hero cape that I wear around, often to classes when I have exams) to fly across the ocean to the Inca Trial to get that check on my bucket list done too. I'm getting quite the reputation apparently.

As you might be able to tell from the above picture, it was cold, wet, and blustery at Stonehenge, so it was a relief to pile back on the bus and head to Salisbury even if it did mean I could not go try to frolic with the sheep in a nearby field. I was not sure why we were going to Salisbury, except that I supposed it was a town close enough to Stonehenge that we would not have spent hours on a bus just to turn around and go back.

We arrived in Salisbury and were instructed that after lunch, we would be going to the Salisbury Cathedral. I was less than enthused. I have lost count of how many different incarnations of churches I have been in. They all meld together after a while. And though there are occasionally stained glass depictions of Jesus being circumcised with what appears to be a banana, I have acquired so many pictures of vaulted ceilings I could wall paper my room with them.

But there we were, being handed brochures about the cathedral. Underneath the map of the cathedral printed on the inside of the brochure, the words "A monkey, cricket, and cat?" appeared in boldfaced print. Reading further, I discovered that in various places of the cathedral the figures of those animals were hidden. There were brief hints in the brochure, so I set out on my own "I Spy: Salisbury Edition."

The monkey was by far the hardest to find, because as you can tell from this picture, it's just a weird little ball. From the brochure, I was expecting to find a full sized monkey statue peering down at me. Alas! The disappointing monkey was not enough to dissuade me from looking for the cricket, though.

The cricket was much less unsatisfactory. This regal creature adorned the armrest at one end of some fancy pews. While most of the other armrests had pictures of dragons and dogs with angry faces, this slightly crazed cricket stole the show. I like to imagine that if I were a cricket, I would look as cool as this one.

Yeah, that's the cat. It's apparently graffiti that was carved into the stone a few centuries ago by someone that didn't know what cats look like. The cricket still won.

After finding the cat, I learned that Salisbury Cathedral is home to one of the four copies of the Magna Carta that England has kicking around, so I went to admire that before we finished up at the cathedral, got some ice cream, and headed back home to London. As I was getting off the bus, my professor told me she was sorry I didn't get to meet any sheep. Like I said, I'm getting quite the reputation.

"Someday," I answered wistfully. "Someday."

When the Zombies Come

Well, when the zombies come we're probably all doomed actually. I am sure there are a few people who appropriately prepared to battle the swarms of undead, but I am not among them. And I spend a fair amount of time in graveyards and other such places that would be dangerous to be caught if the zombie apocalypse began.  I live on the edge - what can I say?

I spent a lot of my childhood in graveyards. It was not an easy adjustment for a kid deeply enthralled in the world of superstition. While not a true believer, I resented being dragged to various cemeteries across the state of Connecticut by my aunt and mother. The dissatisfaction was rooted in boredom that came with tracking down the headstones of long dead relatives more than an investment in the idea that if I didn't hold my breath while passing (or walking through) a cemetery, ghosts would come after me and devour my soul. But since then, I have developed a fondness for cemeteries. And not in a creepy Ed Gein (almost serial killer, actual gravedigger, and skilled craftsman in the medium of human flesh) way. No, most of my current affection for cemeteries probably comes from visiting my best friend, Maeve, and her family in West Bumfuck, New York, where visiting the graveyard is one of the few things to do. That and the playground, but I already had an affection for those.

I know I've already mentioned (if briefly) my adventure to the big ass cemetery in France that's name is eluding me at the moment. But this weekend, our professor took the very few of us who were interested to Highgate Cemetery. It was opened (if you can call it that - I've never seen a "Grand Opening!" banner above the gate to a graveyard) in 1839 because they had run out of room to bury people within the heart of London. Highgate became quite the fashionable place to be buried. If there's one thing I strive for in death, it's to be fashionable.

It has become quite overgrown. Oh, what the fancy Victorians would think if they saw their graves now! They probably would be pleased to know that visitors must pay to enter the cemetery, though. In the West Cemetery, visitors must be on a tour. There is no wandering. I was also informed by my professor that I could not be weird in the cemetery. Of special note, she told me I should not make sheep noises. I am pleased to report that I succeeded rather admirably at keeping my animal impressions to a minimum.

After a tour of the West Cemetery, we went down to the East Cemetery. Go figure. It had a separate entrance fee. Because why wouldn't it? We were still in London after all. This interesting bit of capitalism makes knowing that Karl Marx is buried in the East Cemetery all the more special. Apparently his grave didn't used to be super impressive, but a few years ago the North Koreans paid to have a crazy ass monument put up.

Now, I don't want to be buried when I die because a) I don't want to become a zombie and b) I don't want to be made into a lampshade by someone like the aforementioned Ed Gein. But if I did want to be buried, I really don't think I would be happy with anything less than a giant bust of my own face on the top of it.

This weekend, I also tried to go to the Oxford/Cambridge goat race. Yes, I meant to write goat. Boat races of fancy-pants rich boys do not interest me as much as speedy goats, but by the time my friend and I had conquered the partial line closures and delays on the Tube, the goat race was over. I did get to see the goats, make friends with a cat, and snap a great picture of a cock.

Then, if I hadn't put myself in zombie danger enough this week, on Wednesday we got a super special tour of St. Paul's because one of the higher-ups there apparently used to teach for the London Colgate study groups. Our stickers even said "supertour," so we were pretty fancy. Our supertour didn't include that many extra stops, but we got to see Christopher Wren's model of St. Paul's, the mathematical staircase, and a small trampoline that they keep hidden upstairs.  I don't know why. We also climbed to the top of the dome, where I managed to take a few pictures before my camera battery died.

Then we descended to the crypt, so I could again tempt fate. Fun fact: Lord Nelson is not a zombie. Yet.

Winston Churchill's Silk Pyjamas

Today we're time traveling, dear reader. Given that we've been traveling already, I hope this isn't too much of a shock, but if you need to rest for a few minutes or put on a pot of tea to calm your nerves, I completely understand. I'll just be here waiting for you to stop being such a pussy little bitch.

We're not time traveling to the 1940s, however, as I suspect you may have guessed given the title of this post.

We needn't go nearly that far. No, just set your DeLorean for early 2010 and we'll be off.

I was a freshman at Colgate, and I'd signed up for a course called War and the Holocaust in Europe. Most of the history classes I'd taken in high school were U.S. history and ambitiously claimed that we'd make it close to present day after beginning with colonial underpinnings. The farthest we ever seemed to get was the Civil War. Maybe Reconstruction, if we were lucky. So I signed up for different history.

Snatches of information from the class have remained with me, though the dates I was forced to memorize have not. I have kept one fact in my memory quite clearly. It was probably the most trivial fact that I could have stored away from all the information presented to me in lectures and readings, but I delight in quirky information.

Winston Churchill liked to wear silk pajamas.

His love of cigars is well documented and his habit of eating well has been recorded widely by historians and witnessed in his girth. But silk pajamas? It's the kind of fact I would make up. I have been known to spread rumors about friends of mine dating former press secretaries, dining with literary giants, and being involved in the assassinations of heads of state. But this is a fact that was printed in a nonfiction book that I had to read for War and the Holocaust in Europe.

John Lukacs, a historian with a professed fondness for Winston Churchill, taught me of Churchill's love of silk pajamas. Apparently Churchill was wearing silk pajamas on the morning of May 10th as Hitler began his invasions of Holland and Belgium.

I was incredulous when I first read about Churchill's pajama habits. Not because I didn't believe Winston would wear silk pajamas. I had never really thought about his bedtime attire before. I don't often think about what world leaders wear to bed. Perhaps I ought to. But I digress. I was incredulous because I was not sure how Lukacs had happened upon the information of what Churchill was wearing on the morning of May 10th, 1940 when he sat down to breakfast. Somehow that seemed like the kind of thing that wouldn't be recorded as war broke out in earnest across Europe.

But I have seen Winston's silk pajamas.

Perhaps it is now fitting for us to come out of time travel mode. This week, my history class visited the Churchill War Rooms and the attached Churchill Museum. Wandering among the artifacts of Churchill's life I stumbled upon his nap time togs. I was delighted and disappointed by my find.

I was standing in front of the pajamas that I had long regarded as a historical myth comparable to Columbus being the first to spin the idea of the world being round - if slightly less widespread. I had found the abominable snowman. But I still felt cheated. Winston's silk pajamas were, as you can see, white, plain, and conservative. In all the time I had imagined Churchill in his pajamas, which is probably more often than I should admit, I had not pictured his silk pajamas looking so boring. I wanted them to be red, shiny, and a little bit sexy.

But as the placard explained, the folded white shirt in front of me had been Churchill's nightshirt. I take some solace in the fact that even if Winston did not dress nightly in shiny, red silk, he at least could feel the breeze flowing in through the bottom of his nightshirt.

And Then There Were Sheep

I don't know if you've noticed, but I've become more sporadic with tales of my adventures. I wish I could say it's because I have been fighting pirates, flying planes around the world, and fitting hippos with tuxedos, but I have not been not. No, I have been distracted by much less exciting things: homework and course selection for next year. But I return to the interblogs with a vaguely complete account of the pirateless, planeless, and hippoless exploring I've done.

This weekend, my entire study group was carted off to the Lake District and Scotland via bus piloted by the slightly odd and slightly annoying Terry. I variously chose to call him Terrence and TerrBear, though he was not particularly aware of his nicknames just as he was not particularly aware that most of his commentary on the VAT refund and highway naming habits was unnecessary.

We set out Thursday and arrived in Grasmere. As it was late and I had eaten half a chunk of fish that had been all but injected with oil, exploring beyond the walls of the hotel was not on my agenda.

The next day we were off to Dove Cottage to see if we could be as inspired by daffodils as William Wordsworth. Wordsworth has never been my favorite romantic poet. I'm more of a fan of Percy Bysshe Shelley, mostly because he was such a fan of the ladies. But I will take this opportunity to instruct any of you that have not seen MC Nutz rapping "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" to youtube that shit. I hope it doesn't spoil any of the mystery when I tell you that MC Nutz is a rapping squirrel.

Some friends and I headed into the village of Grasmere after Dove Cottage and stopped by Wordsworth's grave. Funnily enough, his is not the fancy one with the sheep carving. That's his daughter Dorothy's grave. She was, by all accounts, his favorite child. At least try and hide it a little, Will. Come on.

We had lunch in Grasmere and then got on the bus to head towards Helvellyn for a bit of a hike. Helvellyn has been made vaguely famous by various writers and painters (including Wordsworth) but we didn't have enough time to climb it, so we settled for climbing up to Red Tarn where we could get a view of the peak. On the way up, I spotted a lone sheep wandering the mountainside. I desperately wanted it to be my friend. She had other ideas and kept running away. I did get to see her stop and take a piss though, so I like to believe that makes us pretty close to friends. It's not love until you've seen someone pee, I always say.

Red Tarn offered us the opportunity to cool off our feet, though most of my classmates thought the water was too cold. As a native of the New Hampshire seacoast, I begged to differ and gratefully waded into the tarn before joining a few classmates who had enough energy to hike up one more ridge. It was definitely worth the extra climb for the staggering views.

We descended the mountain to meet an impatient Terry and climbed back on the bus for Edinburgh.

Saturday was spent wandering around Edinburgh. We began the day together on a bus tour, but soon got off to visit Edinburgh Castle. From the castle, I set out with my friend Amy to wander around Edinburgh. We found an awesome toy store and a market to have lunch in. In the afternoon we hopped back on the bus tour for a while until we came to the Museum of Childhood. The museum isn't huge but did manage to gather together the world's largest collection of creepy dolls.

This doll haunts my dreams.

Amy and I hiked up Calton Hill later in the afternoon to visit some of the monuments. After meeting a couple who asked to take a picture of them for Vogue, puzzling over a group of people dressed in red that appeared to be doing some sort of adventure yoga, and sharing an orange, Amy and I went to the Royal Botanical Gardens and then headed back to the hotel to meet our friends for dinner. I am proud to say that I did try a spot of haggis. It's not terrible but not terribly delicious either.

Sunday was mostly spent on a bus, trying to ignore Terry breathing into his microphone while I was trying to read, but we made it back to London in time to attend trivia. I am proud to state that though my team came in last as usual, I was able to earn us a point by knowing that the act of putting jewels and glitter on one's vagina is called Vajazzling. Because every once in a while my awkward knowledge just has to pay off.