The City of a Thousand Walking Tours

I remember the last time I went to Oxford I was about to start my sophomore year of high school. It was summer, and the family was taking a day trip. I was struck by how crowded and busy the city seemed compared to Cambridge.

I returned last weekend, really for lack of anything else. I considered Liverpool for my free weekend, but Oxford seemed just as good. I traveled with another girl from the group, just for the security of another body. We left London from Paddington Station, and got to Oxford mid-morning. The plan was to drop out bags at the hostel, and then find out if I could make it into the C.S. Lewis-J.R.R. Tolkien walking tour. Thus began the weekend of walking tours.

Now, I am a fan of the aforementioned authors. I’m reasonably interested in seeing the places they worked. I expected with the recent release of film versions of “Lord of the Rings” and “Narnia” that this may be a fairly full tour. My ticket brought it to roughly ¾ capacity. Well, that’s fine; it’s early in the season! We arrived during exams and graduation! So off on our little tour.

Later that evening friend and I decided on the Ghost Tour. This was packed with people; ghost tours tend to be very well attended in my experience of tours, and this guy was really good. Not much to say about that, other than after the tour we ended up at the opening of the new Jamie Oliver Italian restaurant. Excellent experience and good food, although I normally shy away from celebrity chef places.

Now, the next day, which was the last day (brief excursion you see), friend wandered off to a Castle; I decided to skip the childhood home of Winston Churchill in favor of the “Inspector Morse” tour.

I am not particularly fond of Morse. There’s only one episode I really liked, and I tend to leave the room when the DVD sets come out. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the assembled horde of tourists waiting for the Morse tour. So many, in fact, that two sweet old ladies needed to be summoned from the Tourist Office to handle the group. We were split into two groups just under twenty each. I never imagined the popularity for the old detective; there were English, Scots, and Americans in my group, and although there was a trend towards a certain age, there were a few of us young’uns to shake things up.

And so I returned from Oxford, pausing briefly to see the Dodo. I realize this doesn’t sound terribly exciting. I really think I just walked for two days looking at the same buildings and hearing a different story about each one. But it’s nice to get away from London for awhile, even if the street were lined with glitter and other signs of celebration for the end of exams.

Fate and Fashion

I am a great believer in providence; last week in Salisbury I wandered into Boots for a bit of cosmetic shopping. I walked out with a coupon for half-price sunglasses. Yesterday, my sunglasses broke.

I should explain these sunglasses; I found them in the mall one August day nearly three years ago while out with a friend. She and I picked up some cheap, heavily $6 sunglasses. They were simple, black plastic frames with cherry details. For the first time, I became attached to sunglasses. I’ve never been able to hold onto glasses before, but something about this pair stuck with me. I used to get upset if I couldn’t find this pair and had to resort to the magic bin of half-broken glasses in the house.

I noticed the break on the right frame a year ago. It was just a small fissure, then a chink, and then, yesterday, I removed my glasses from my head where they had been serving the usual role of “hair-band”. Imagine my surprise at the new-found flexibility of my plastic frames. And then the lens popped out.

Being in London, I would have thought this would be fine; sun doesn’t exist here, right? Unfortunately we’re in the middle of a heat wave. I know this because the Tube announcements in the morning inform commuters that they should all be carrying around bottled water to keep hydrated. I always trust my public transport systems.

Luckily, I have this coupon- half price on any pair (excepting Ray-Bans). So I wander into the local Boots after visiting the Guardian with the group, find the glasses, pick up a pair, try them on, and think “well, maybe…” And then the price tag: £30. The mind boggles. I look at other price tags: 20, 30, 39, 43, and 50 quid. The numbers astound me, and even with the coupon the exchange rate makes me cringe. Then I stumble on the magic pair: £5. They’re the cheapest available pair. Maybe not the best shape for my face, maybe not the best thing ever, but they are the new sunglasses. I’ll have to toss the old ones, but at least tomorrow when I go to Bath, I won’t be blinded by the blazing English sun. Except the heat wave is ending soon, so I may end up blocking out the English rain.

One City, So Much to Say

It’s nearing the end of my second week in London, and my third in Great Britain. I’ve decided on a peaceful night in as I have to be up and out early for a foray to Oxford. The good news is that the Inspector Morse tour runs pretty near to hourly, so I don’t need advance tickets.

I’ve been busy to say the least. Every morning class at nine, ending at one; lunch break, then afternoon session at three; more often than not I’ve been at the theatre or some other evening event. I don’t know anytime when I’ve been busier; I must admit it’s rather exciting to live a life where I spend my days jaunting through museums and chatting with authors, and then the evening at book launches and the theatre. If it weren’t for the exchange rate I could get quite accustomed to this life. I have a little flat in Islington, and I have begun to adore public transport. As much as I miss my car at home, I like knowing that I’m never too far from shopping, entertainment, and parks. I’m a short train ride from most of the country, and it’s quite a lot of country to see.

This week I went to see “Pygmalion” at the Old Vic, starring Tim Piggott-Smith. I may have finally gotten over the trauma induced by “Jewel in the Crown”. Last night was Regent’s Park for “Twelfth Night”. That really is a fun little play, and one of the better shows this trip. Part of this program includes a focus on Shakespeare’s plays, which is why we saw 12^th, and “Midsummer” last week. Still have a “King Lear” to come. I have never been so, well, bored by Shakespeare. I didn’t much like certain aspects of “Midsummer”, “12^th” was good enough to entertain and I’m not thrilled by the prospect of four hours standing at the Globe for “Lear” (“Midsummer” was three hours as a groundling. My knees did not function for the hour following the show). Actually, I’m most interested in wandering off to the National Theatre one night to catch “Revenger’s Tragedy”. I rather enjoy the idea of seeing something contemporary to Shakespeare, but slightly less familiar. And it’s the cheapest ticket that involves real seats.

I’m rather excited about taking this weekend. I spent the day wandering the city until my tired feet demanded I continue my exploration of the BBC. I’ll get out to a quieter city, have a few good photo ops, and come home Saturday evening for some grocery shopping (maybe), and spend Sunday at museums and finally some theatre on my own terms. Perhaps the best bit of London is knowing that the majority of the museums are free. Hours of free entertainment in a city that lets Americans hemorrhage money.

Nearly a Month!

I am remiss. I should have said many things in the past, uh, month. But I have been a bit busy in the mean time, I assure you. So, a recap:

I got home, safe and sound; British Airways again delivered good food, and fabulous movies. My time at home was filled with visiting relatives and friends, and somewhat stunted. I arrived home on May 2, very late, and departed on May 19.

This time, I flew into London, and didn’t continue on to the continent. Instead, I found myself in a rental car with my parents, struggling to stay awake as we headed to Wales.

I should explain my newfound fascination with Wales. I’m of Welsh descent, and of all my ethnic extractions, it’s the one I cared least about. I mean, it takes a lot of effort to be Irish and English, keeping up with all that history, and the folk songs and traditions. Not to mention the cultural tensions. And then, I had the whole Polish thing; defending my heritage from those who would mock me. Doesn’t leave much time for Wales, which hasn’t been to verbal in the last few centuries to make me take notice.

And then came Russell T. Davies, and his new “Doctor Who”, and spin-off of “Torchwood”. Now, I’ve been a Whovian for some years, and really love the old series and its endless quarries; but the new one seems to find it necessary to highlight Cardiff, and all of “Torchwood” is set in Cardiff. My interest? Piqued. And that’s how I found myself in a hotel in Bridgend for four days.

The second day (because the first never really counts), I saw iron works and the Big Pit coal mine. The second day was Cardiff city, including the Doctor Who exhibit. The fan girl in me giggles at the memory. Third day was Swansea and castles, and Arthur’s Seat. Fourth was Caerphilly and driving back to England and Swindon.

I remember lots of sheep and rocks from the country, and the simple beauty of the place. I really did love Cardiff, and would love to go back for an extended time. Much as I love London, Cardiff is just so much calmer and easier to live in, I think.

Which brings me to now; I’m in London, in the little one room apartment I get to myself for the next three weeks. I arrived last Sunday to start my second study abroad program. I get to stay settled in one city for a month, and really get to know London.

It’s been a busy week. I’ve been up early and home late everyday, and each day is packed with walking tours and shows and all sorts of goodness. It feels as though I’ve done so much I could never really catch up on everything, and certainly not tonight. I have to be up for a Stonehenge excursion early in the day, and I’m feeling a bit under the weather at the moment. Could be all the rain, or any number of things, like my lack of proper rest these few days.

I’ll give a better update, and my feelings on being back here soon. Suffice to say, I’ve seen David Beckham live, and on the day of his 100 caps. Life is good.

I'm Going to Go Back There Someday

This is it everyone, the night before I fly home to the United States. It’s hard to believe that it’s been fourth months (well, close enough) in Europe. I’m still not entirely sure that I had classes. I have a few memories of wasted hours spent staring at a blank document for some “assignment” to remind that I did have academics demands on my time.

Now, as I sit in my room, all of my very heavy luggage waiting downstairs for the morning bus to Milan, I keep thinking back on all the things I’ve done, the things I have yet to do, and the changes that occur within a single semester.

Living in Riva has been very much like living in a bubble; news from the outside world reaches us through the internet and e-mails from home, and none of us are terribly rigorous about reading the news, much less talking about it. I see the same group of people everyday; 27 other students, three teachers, an RA, and sundry architects circle around us, but this group of 27 was together quite often. Too often some might say; I’m surprised by the way this semester has ended or the friendships that exist. I have learned over the years that pledges of parties and constantly hanging out and eternal friendship usually end as lovely memories and broken promises. High school taught me that lesson three years ago.

In the end, I don’t truly think much about the changes of group dynamic or friendships made and broken over a given span of time. I’m thinking more about how I have changed since January. I remember visiting Nice that first weekend in February; that was the first trip I took while here, and the first time I had ever arranged for a hostel or train transport. I was travelling with two people, and I couldn’t say I knew either one very well. Looking back, I was so tentative about that trip, and so ill-informed.

At dinner the conversation tended towards packing; I have never taken a trip in the United State without a reasonably sized suitcase for checked luggage, no matter the duration of the trip. Now, the thought of taking something larger than a backpack for a weekend, or even four days seems so excessive. How could I possibly need so many clothes for such a short time? Even while packing today I had to throw away my normal pack-rat tendencies. I’m still wondering if I should go back and throw out more items.

I know that the "me" going home tomorrow is different from the one who left in January. There’s nothing quite like a semester in foreign lands to force the maturation process in humans.
I know that Saturday morning I will be thrust back into reality with acres of paperwork and other responsibilities and pressing concerns. Until that time, I have a full day of travel to isolate myself with the in-flight entertainment, and the rest of tonight to consider the semester that has passed and the person I have become.

Here’s to hoping that British Airways doesn’t strike tomorrow.

Et in Arcadia Ego

We have entered the lazy golden days that herald the end of spring semester, and the beginning to the long, lovely summer.

Of course, now that I’ve begun higher education, and my first tentative steps into the “real world”, the blissful empty days of summer tend to mean: find a job/internship, make arrangements for the next school year and beyond, and squeeze in a few adventures with friends when you can spare the time. This year is means a month in London, followed by five weeks working at camp before needing to pack to go back to Tech for my senior year. Down at Tech, I would be in the full thrall of the final days of classes, and preparing for exams. Technically, I’m doing that over here as well.

But, I am still in Switzerland, and the sun shines down on our little valley. And for a few hours, I can ignore the call of my essays and the 18 hours of travel that await me in a week as I finally return to the States.

I am surrounded by my fellow students, but we have all succumbed to the lethargy that sunshine brings, and so we all venture forth to the garden, and soak up the April UV-rays, enjoying the slight disconnection that being in a foreign country creates.

Which is why I spent five hours of my Friday, the day after I took two exams, and with several essays still to go, laying out on the lawn reading Camus’ “The Plague” and burning my back and shoulders to a crisp. And for those five hours of roasting and reading, never once did I think about the troubles and tasks that await me inside the villa, and within the next few weeks. All I could think was that there must be something wrong with stretching out in a tank top and short and reading something called “The Plague”.

I should clarify; I don’t find a problem with settling down for some serious tanning with works of what I am led to believe are “great” literature. That’s my usual summer schedule; the difficultly lies with the subject matter. In my family, my father is notorious for finding and reading books about the plague (and I do mean the bubonic type). This is usually a source of much amusement among the children, and has created an aversion to anything plague-oriented. And yet, I was drawn to a plague-book, albeit not one that also dealt with the medieval period. I suppose it’s simply a sign that I will eventually turn into my parents, but for now, I shall enjoy the sun and self-imposed ignorance of responsibilities.

It really is just like a BBC miniseries

I have this image of Venice in my head based entirely on the BBC; most notably “Brideshead Revisited” and “Casanova”. Thanks to the BBC, I see Venice as a city of sun-dappled piazzas and coffee shops. Gondolas float by gently, steered by men in striped shirts with flat straw hats, sometimes singing. The sky is blue interspersed with a few fluffy white clouds, and the water is the most beautiful jade color. All the buildings seem to be held up by pure faith, and are in some quaint state of decay; delicate structures of plaster that you’re fairly sure can’t possibly be where people actually live.

It turns out Venice is exactly like that. Remarkable, really; Venice is the only city that actually fits the idealized view. And I didn’t see everything actually; completely missed the interior of the Doge’s Palace and the Accademia.

The recap goes something like this: Woke up before dawn was even an option, and got on a train for Venice; arrived around noon, checked into the world’s most “interesting” hostel, and decided to go searching. I had no idea what I was supposed to see in Venice, other than a vague notion of this “San Marco” place, and the Rialto. Luckily signs were everywhere to point me towards things. From the hostel to the Rialto I wandered through cramped streets, twisting with no great sense of where I was going. Every thoroughfare was packed with tourists, and I was fairly close to not enjoying this as much as I would have liked, and then I could see down one alley the edge of a really big bridge. Follow instinct, I discovered the Rialto; white and shining in the sun, even covered in shops and tourists, spanning the green waters of the canal. Clearly, I was going to be surprised.

From the Rialto visit I followed signs to San Marco. I emerged from the darkness of the alleyways into an open space, bathed in sunlight. And then there’s the Basilica, golden with mosaics, and edged in a variety of marbles. Next to the Basilica is the Doge’s Palace, and beyond is the open water, and a few islands.

I spent six hours simply walking to get a feel for the city, and when I finished for the day I was exhausted. I still had no idea what I would do for the remainder of my trip. As it turned out, I met some girls at breakfast on the second day who were studying in Barcelona, and originally from Chicago. We bonded over knowledge of neighborhoods, and I ended up spending the day with them. This happened mainly because I joined the three of them to share the cost of a gondola ride.

Yes, I was excessive and went for a gondola ride. Arguably the best decision ever. Rain was expected for the duration of my trip, but while we were on the canal, nothing but pure sunshine. Our gondolier, Marco, was friendly and informed, and I got the memory of being on the canal. After that we wandered the city, got a late lunch, did some Rialto shopping, and finally visited Santa Maria della Salute.

The third day only really counts as a half day, as I needed to get to the train station by mid-afternoon. I had originally thought to visit the Doge’s Palace, and actually go inside something. When I reached San Marco’s, I discovered the piazza covered in four inches of water. Yes, the rain I had been promised had delivered, but at night when I was safe in my bed. In another city, waking up to a sunny day after a rainy night would have little or no consequence. Venice is not “another city”; it’s below sea level, and so a night of rain leads to flooding. San Marco was covered, and the only way to the Doge’s Palace, or into the Basilica was on a series of platforms only four feet wide. You try shuffling several thousand tourists across a single platform path four feet wide, and not lose your patience. I gave up on my thought of the Doge’s. I managed the interior and museum of San Marco’s, but I think I will someday make it back to Venice, before it finally sinks. For that reason, I turned away from San Marco’s, wandered to the Rialto, and then found a quiet spot to enjoy the sunshine. Sunshine and spring weather has been in short supply of late, so simply sitting outside was lovely.

Just before I left I paused in the church next to the train station to let my feet rest, and my back recover from wandering with a heavy backpack. It was a lovely little baroque church, and wonderful to simply sit and enjoy the peace of the building. I’m somewhat burnt out on churches and museums at this point, so being able to sit with no need to admire some aspect of a building because someone else told me it was important was a bit of a treat.

I left Venice with some lovely memories, and a mind to return someday. I have just less than two weeks before I fly home, so the time for reflection has begun. Venice is my favorite Italian city, and the only one I think I would like to return to within the next few years, given the opportunity.