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.
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