You Were Here

  Even though London's maps constantly reminded me "You Are Here," sometimes it's more important to "Lose Yourself." And believe me, I did.

Bye London, it’s been great but it’s time for me to go home now.

Pastiche

       As the tour guide at Syon Park Estate was burbling facts about monarchs and marble tables, I was wondering which toppings to get on my Papa John’s Two-for-Tuesday special. I was bored, and it was glaringly obvious. The tour was not what I was expecting. Before arriving to the estate, I had high hopes for the day. Syon House is a Victorian home built in the 16^th century and currently belongs to the Duke of Northumberland. I wasn’t about to pass up the chance to spend a day inside a luxurious mansion surrounded by beautiful gardens. But, my expectations did not live up to reality. Instead of an elaborate mansion guarded by trees and flowers, the house is a plain beige cube in front of a flat sheet of grass.

        When our tour guide greeted us at the door, the dreary tone was set for the rest of the day. He was not particularly happy. We were a group of Americans who didn’t know a damn thing about Syon, and he clearly wanted nothing to do with us. I guess I can’t blame him too much. He had obviously spent a lot of time learning about the estate and was proud of his knowledge of history. I, however, did not share his passion for history. I was passionate about learning the variety of Two-for-Tuesday combinations.

          Throughout the tour, our guide prodded our intelligence by peppering in some American history. He probably thought we knew nothing about our nation’s history. Well, maybe he was on to something.

        “Surely you know who founded the Smithsonian.”

         We were silent. I could feel our guide bubbling with joy as he relished in his superior knowledge.

         Each time he mentioned an American historical fact, I felt as though I knew less about my own nation’s history.

        “John Quincy Adams was your sixth president, was he not?”

         Damned if I know. Sure, that sounds right, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it.

         I consider myself a fairly intelligent person, but I don’t have a strong grasp on American history when it comes to specifics such as names, dates, places, and facts. Being an American, I think it is safe to say that we don’t spend as much time reflecting on our history as the British do. To me, knowing whom the 9th or 12th president was is not a prerequisite to be an intelligent, well rounded person. Sure, it helps to be aware of your history, but I feel that in America, we’re constantly living in the moment. Since Britain has such a dense history, the British think of history in a different way. When you live down the street from a 17^th century building, it’s hard not to think about the type of people who used to live there. What was their story? What was life like during that time? Back home in New Jersey, I live down the street from a Dunkin’ Donuts. Needless to say, I don’t think about it that much.

         Our guide explained that the carvings on the wall were made of plaster and wood, and the marble columns were only marble on the outside. The estate was “pastiche.” It featured a hodge-podge of different materials thrown together to form an imitation of more valuable things. In a lot of ways, I think American history is pastiche. Our nation was formed by different types of people who came together from many places. While it may mean that our history is not as “pure” as the British history that does not make it any less significant. Our pastiche history is a work of art in its own right. So what if I know more about Papa John’s than John Quincy Adams or the Smithsonian? To me, some aspects of our pastiche history are more interesting than others, but they all make up my history as an American. And for that reason alone, I am proud of every aspect, even the Dunkin’ Donuts down the street. 

The Family Jewels

        

         The first stop our class made in the Tower of London was to see the Crown Jewels. As I made my way around the priceless items, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Apparently, a 3,000-carat diamond is a big one. The royal family certainly has quite the collection, but I think the Williams family has certain “jewels” that can rival the biggest diamond on earth.

         At the Tower of London, all of the items are placed behind bulletproof glass inside of a massive vault. Although my dining room table at home sits in the middle of the room, the way my mom treated it suggested that it should have been placed along side the Crown Jewels inside the cavernous vault. For the first 10 years of my life, we did not have a real dining room table. No, we did not eat off of the floors in a tiny little shack as mice brushed up against our knees. Our dining room table was small, seating only 5 people. I recall my mom’s frustration whenever we would have family over and people would be forced to eat in the living room. Grandma never mastered the art of eating on the couch without spilling food on the rug.

         Once our house was remodeled, we had a full-fledged dining room...but no table. My mom treated her search for the perfect dining room as the holy grail of furniture shopping. I actually recall overhearing her talk to my dad about renting a moving truck and driving to North Carolina to buy a table. I guess this was because for some reason southern people are more capable of putting together a table than us northern folk. The dining room was empty for at least 4 or 5 months before the perfect table was purchased. I have to admit, the table is very nice. It is black wood and square. It’s pretty big too; normally it seats 8, but with the extensions it can seat over 20. The chairs were also treated with care and finesse. Before I could even set foot in the dining room, the chairs had to be Scotch guarded.

         Once the dining room was complete with art on the wall and a matching china cabinet filled with new wine glasses, I was ready to sit at the table and experience high-class luxurious dining. Meatloaf would suddenly become gourmet when eaten at this table. One day, I was taking my lunch over to the table to enjoy my new, posh lifestyle when my mom stopped me in my tracks.

     “Where are you going with that?” my mom demanded.

     “I’m gonna go eat in the dining room.”

     “Do you realize how much I paid for that table?”

      Even at the age of eleven, I knew what this question meant. Apparently, we were not worthy of using something that we owned. Instead, all meals would be eaten at the island in the kitchen. Except for Thanksgiving and Christmas, eating in the dining room was off limits.

       I’m pretty sure if there was a fire in our house, my mom would have used her adrenaline induced superhuman skills to lift the dining room table to safety before making sure my sister and I were not burned to a crisp.

       My dad’s “crown jewel” is actually rather new. In November of 2010 he bought a boat. For my entire life, my dad has wanted a boat. Now he has one and I worry that I’ll never see him again. Once the boat was put in the water in May, he’s gone to visit it every day after work and God forbid we don’t spend at least 8 hours out on the water every weekend. Recently, I asked my dad for some gas money, but he told me he needed his cash to buy more supplies for the boat. I see how it is. Dad has a new favorite child. I bet the boat will get better Christmas presents than me. Actually, I’m not even sure he realizes that I’m in London. I haven’t heard from him much since I got here; maybe he thinks I’ve just been upstairs in my room this whole time.

       While my family jewels aren’t 3,000-carats, they’re still pretty special, if not for the memories alone. I doubt the Queen shares the same attachment to the coronation crown as my mom had to the dining room table or my dad has to his boat, but if she does, I guess that means I’m not allowed to eat PB&J anywhere near it.   

Make Yourself at Home

        

       Our apartment is constantly filled with random strangers filing in and out faster than I can keep track. For guys who use the word “bro” as punctuation and whose idea of cultural stimulation includes getting trashed almost every night, I’m surprised that my roommates have so many European contacts. While I’m glad my roommates are friendly and genial, it might not be the best idea to treat the apartment as a free hostel without alerting your other roommates. I was never consulted about these visitors, or asked if their presence would bother me. Instead I was treated to surprise after surprise in which I would play a game in my head where I would try to guess the person’s name because none of them would ever introduce themselves.

       Frenchie was the first one. She showed up on the second day we were here. The story of how she and my roommate met is just like a fairy tale. They met on Chat Roulette, a disgusting social website that allows complete strangers to video chat with each other. She lives in France, but the two of them exchanged information (it’s always a good idea to share your personal info with a complete stranger who lives in a foreign country). Their casual relationship is one similar to the many romantic comedies that have become popular today in which two consenting adults become friends with benefits with no strings attached.

      Frenchie confined herself mostly to the double bedroom in our apartment. Sometimes I would be in the living room and she would shuffle out of the bedroom to get something to drink. Then, she would silently shuffle back in. In the two and a half weeks that Frenchie lived with us, I didn’t even speak to her. Once in awhile I would hear her mummer something in broken English, but that was about it. I began to wonder if there was some type of mail order bride aspect to her relationship with my roommate. Or perhaps it was an exchange. He provided her with a place to stay and she provided him...well, you know.

      After she was with us a few days, I came to the awkward conclusion that I didn’t know her name. It was too late to ask, and I didn’t want to seem like an idiot. One day, I was back in the apartment and I realized that the silent sex slave had left as mysteriously as she had come. Then, 2 weeks later, she was back for another week. During this visit, I learned her name and the fact that she literally cannot boil water. What a keeper.

       Besides Frenchie, my roommates have been known to entertain overnight guests and often I will go into the living room to find a random gathering of GSB bros or the evidence that a gathering took place not long before my arrival. One time, I found the remnants of a game of beer pong in the middle of the kitchen. It was only 8pm and our floor was covered in a thick layer of sticky spilled beers.

       Currently, we are housing a guest by the name of Matt. I learned his name only after he had stayed with us for four days. He’s still here and shows no signs of leaving. Like the other guests, he has not spoken to me or bothered to introduce himself. One night he entertained a lady guest in “his” room. The noises that emanated from the room suggested that they were doing something physically exhausting. Maybe they were playing a sports game.

       One of the reasons these unexpected, mysterious guests are so jarring is because we recently received a notice that there was a robbery in our building. I’m not saying that the people who stay over are potential robbers, but my roommates have grown accustomed to leaving our door bolted because there is no other way for our hostel's guests to get in. Call me paranoid, but maybe it’s not such a good idea to be leaving the door open when there’s a robber on the loose.

      The morning after the robbery notice, I walked past the living room and saw someone sleeping on the couch. Oh, that’s Brendan’s friend, Matt. I was so proud of myself for finally knowing who was in our apartment and their reason for being there. I had kept up with the parade of guests. I deserved a medal, or perhaps even a statue. Later as I was walking into the shower, I was caught off guard by a goateed stranger in the hallway.

      “Hey man,” he said.

      This was either a very friendly robber or another friend of one of my roommates. So much for knowing who was staying in my apartment. I mumbled something to him and took my shower. By the time I got out, he was gone. I guess I should consider myself lucky. At least none of them have started a fire or stolen anything...yet.

      If you find yourself around Crawford Passage, stop by. We’re in flat 8 and the door is usually open. Come on in, make yourself at home. If we’ve been robbed, kindly alert the police. As you wait for them to arrive, you can dine on some leftover Papa John’s in the fridge. Don’t bother asking anyone if you can have it, our other guests have learned to help themselves. Also, when I come back, just ignore me and don’t introduce yourself. I’ll have a fun time trying to guess your name, and if you’re interesting enough I might even write an essay about you. 

GTL: Greed, Tragedy, Lust

           

        To me, the works of Shakespeare and “Jersey Shore” are no different. Millions adore them, and while I understand the appeal of both and the types of audiences they attract, I find neither to be entertaining. There are better ways for me to spend my time than watching Snooki rub up against a greased up guido or hearing Macbeth recite a soliloquy.

         For those of you who feel I haven’t been exposed to enough Shakespeare, I can assure you that I have. In high school, I read Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, and King Lear. You might think that my lack of enthusiasm stems from being taught by bored teachers who didn’t bring Shakespeare’s words to life. While this might have been true at the time, I recently saw a production of All’s Well That Ends Well with my writing class at Shakespeare’s Globe Theater. If there was any way to see his vision fully realized on the stage, this was it. While I felt the acting was wonderful, I still have a problem with the source material. I admit that the dialogue can be off-putting at first, but that’s not what keeps me away from Shakespeare.

          I think my main problem with Shakespeare’s works is that I’ve never been able to become absorbed in the stories or characters. Like the cast of “Jersey Shore”, the characters in Shakespeare’s plays always seem to be complaining, hooking up, or backstabbing each other. Usually when I connect to the pathos of a work, it’s subtler. I enjoy it when character motives are ambiguous and leave room for interpretation. In Shakespeare, everyone is always explicitly telling the audience how they feel through soliloquies, much like the interviews in “Jersey Shore.” Additionally, the stakes in the plays are usually over-the-top and melodramatic. I’ve never found the storylines or the characters’ actions and emotions to be relatable.

        Whether you enjoy the “Jersey Shore” philosophy of GTL (Gym, Tan, Laundry) or Shakespeare’s GTL (Greed, Tragedy, Lust), I won’t judge you. I admit, sometimes it’s fun to watch wealthy white people backstab and lust after one another. But, in the end, neither Shakespeare nor “Jersey Shore” is for me. I like my entertainment a bit subtler and less greasy.

A Tale of Two Curries

       The Gulshan Tandoori restaurant is located on Exmouth Market, nestled among many restaurants and cafes, directly across the street from another Indian restaurant called Cinnamon Tree. One night, my flatmates and I found ourselves craving Indian food and decided to try Gulshan, since we had already eaten at Cinnamon Tree the previous week. I had walked by Gulshan many times before, and it’s never been that busy, even when other restaurants on Exmouth were filled to capacity.

       Standing outside of the restaurant, we were greeted by a kind looking Indian man with white hair, a beard, a crisp white shirt, and a small black cap. I would later learn that this man was Ahman, the owner of the restaurant. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties or early sixties and was of average height and build. He leaned over our shoulders as we read the menu. Then, he looked both ways and leaned in closer. He put his hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, “Half price for you, anything you want.” He seemed to think we were getting away with a crime by eating so cheaply. He might as well have said, “Please, eat anything you want. Just don’t hurt me.” I was happy to get such a good deal, but I also realized how hard it must be for Ahman to attract customers when there is a nearly identical restaurant across the street.

       We sat down and he unfolded our menus and gave his recommendations. As he smiled at us, the wrinkles around his kind, dark eyes became more clearly defined. He was eager to please us, and I felt welcomed and appreciated as a customer. Our food arrived shortly after we ordered. I had vegetable samosas as an appetizer. They were filled with lots of herbs and spices, and the vegetables were very flavorful. For my main course, I ordered a chicken dish in a spicy curry sauce. The spice was intense, but was subdued by the yogurt sauce that was served on the side. Even though I don’t eat Indian food often, the chicken at Gulshan is the best Indian dish I’ve had so far. Ahman brought us two orders of rice, even though we only ordered one. He explained that the extra rice would be free of charge. He wanted to make sure we tried both the fried mushroom rice and the rice pilaf; the latter is plainer but just as delicious. Throughout our meal, Ahman kept checking in on us to make sure we had everything we needed. By the time our plates were cleared, we hadn’t left a single bite of food on the table.

         When Ahman returned with our check, he asked us where we were from. We explained that we are Fordham students from New York, and he asked about our impressions of London. After telling him how much we loved it, he replied that he had opened the restaurant thirty years ago after moving to London from India. At that time, Indian restaurants were mostly contained to Baker Street, so it was a risky move to open up shop where he did. Ahman noted how Indian restaurants are now all over the place. He pointed across the street and told us that the owner of Cinnamon Tree had worked for him for fifteen years. The man left Gulshan to open his own restaurant, but failed to tell Ahman that he would be right across the street. To add insult to injury, Cinnamon Tree has almost the same menu as Gulshan. The man had learned how to cook from Ahman, and now he is his main competition. I was shocked at how casually this story had unfolded. The story was filled with betrayal and irony, curry and naan. Ahman didn’t seem too upset about it, but he did mention how hard it was to be in the restaurant business. I felt badly that someone he had once trusted had taken advantage of him, and now both restaurants suffer the consequences of being located so closely to each other.

      Meeting Ahman taught me the importance of learning who I am supporting when I dine out. For thirty years, Ahman has not given up despite hard times and tough competition. I’m glad I was able to support his restaurant because I know he is passionate about what he does. It’s rare to stumble upon a restaurant with a friendly owner who is more than happy to have you there and willing to talk to you instead of staying cooped up in the back room. I wonder how many other restaurants are like Gulshan, and if their owners have struggled as much as Ahman. Even if there are, I doubt I’ll find one with such an amazing chicken curry.

55 Hours in Paris

WARNING: This post contains extreme sappiness. Read at your own risk.

          

         Coming to Paris, I wanted to have the ultimate laid-back attitude. My plan was that I had no plan. I had done absolutely no research on Paris and had no idea what I wanted to see. All I wanted to do was wander the streets of Paris while feasting on the holy trinity of wine, bread, and cheese. I would go wherever the city took me.

          Within an hour of arriving in Paris, I found my laid-back attitude spiraling out of control. Forget the cab, let’s walk to the hostel, it’s only 2 miles and then we can see the city! Sure, all ten of us would love to share a room! Oh, Gina sings in her sleep? Great! I requested a song. What had Paris done to me? Usually, I would be making the opposite of these decisions, but Parisian Chris just went with the flow and made adventurous decisions (I took the top bunk!).

         After a leisurely boat tour of the Seine, we headed over to the Louvre. My inner hipster was telling me to avoid the Mona Lisa, but I couldn’t keep away. Something had changed; I wanted a list of sights to see. The one thing I had tried to avoid was now the thing I wanted most. I loved Paris and I knew if I spent my time wandering alone, I would become lost and waste my time trying to ask disgruntled locals for directions. The problem was that I had no idea what to see, where to go, or how to get there. Maybe research would’ve been a good idea. I only had 55 hours in Paris, and I needed to make the most of it. I was determined to speed read some guidebooks and scoop up as many pamphlets as my hands could carry. I wanted to be a full-on tourist. All I needed was a fanny pack and an obnoxiously large map and I’d be good to go.

   

         Over the next two days, I butchered the French language as I made my way through the city. I saw a lot and I loved every minute of it, but I didn’t have a chance to catch my breath. By the time we climbed the steps of Sacre Coeur on our last day in Paris and looked out on the beautiful vista, I felt fulfilled. I finally let out a sigh of relief. I had done Paris and had seen what I wanted to see.

       My train back to London left about an hour earlier than everyone else’s and I found myself feeling uncharacteristically reflective as I sat alone on the train. It was the first time I realized what a great experience coming to Europe has been and how much I would miss everyone once it was all over. When I think back on my time in Paris, my mind won’t immediately go to my memories of seeing the Mona Lisa or looking up at the Eiffel Tower. Instead, my favorite memories involve the people that I’ve spent time with over the past few weeks. These memories include Kim screaming in fright at a car while crossing the street to the Arc de Triomphe, Jackie planking outside of Notre Dame, getting drunk in Luxembourg gardens, Gina dancing at the nightclub, and trying our best to master the accent of our guide on the boat tour. These are the things that I’ll remember most about Paris because they're what has made this whole trip worthwhile. But enough of this mushy gushy stuff, I have to go revise a paper about how I don't like Shakespeare.

       

To a Crisp

         London has a long history of fires. The city has been burned more times than a middle school girl with detachable headgear. For me, this is particularly troubling because I’ve always said that when I go, it’ll be a fire that does me in. Sending me to London is like letting a gazelle walk through a field of lions. I didn’t stand a chance, especially with my pasty skin and visual impairment. I knew it was only a matter of time before the flames of London devoured me, leaving only a crispy pair of glasses behind. So far my morbid theory has been put to the test a few more times than I’m comfortable with, starting with my visit to the Tate Modern.

     I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in the Tate Modern, but I almost was. The building itself is as ugly as it is tall. The Tate is a brown, windowless industrial building and it looks as though it would be better suited as an orphan-run Indonesian shoe factory rather than an acclaimed modern art museum. However, I had some time to kill, and the Tate looked like it was familiar with killing.

      As I found myself wandering through the different exhibits, I was happy I had stopped in. The art wasn’t anything to write home about, but I particularly liked the Diane Arbus photography room and planned on stopping in the gift shop to pick up a book with her photographs. Mainly, I was happy because I knew a few hours at the Tate were all I needed. The completeist in me was satisfied. Finally, I could visit a place and leave without thinking about how I would have to get back there at some point to soak in all the things I had missed the first time around. The Tate Modern would officially be crossed off my to do list.

      After I had seen some riveting “art” such as the giant pile of sunflower seeds and an assortment of scatological structures, I found myself in the “States of Flux” room on the fifth floor. This was the last room I had wanted to see before making my way down to the second floor café to grab some lunch and then topping off my visit by checking out the museum gift shop. I was standing next to some large structure spewing out pieces of paper filled with CIA intelligence written in different languages when I heard a loud sound. It was some type of alarm. At first I though the alarm was part of the exhibit, after all, I was in the “States of Flux” room. I figured this was just some crazy artist’s idea of groundbreaking artwork. I was more annoyed than impressed. Obviously, this artist hadn’t seen the giant pile of sunflower seeds. Now there’s some great “art.”

      The alarm got louder and I noticed the lights started flashing. Once a museum worker came in and told us to evacuate, I knew I was done for. There was no reason to take this lightly, especially with London’s highly flammable history. I knew I had to get out of the museum as quickly as possible. I ignored the museum workers who ushered me to the fire stairs. Instead, I made my way for the regular staircase.

       The alarm provided an all too fitting soundtrack as I barreled down the stairs. Four more floors to go, I knew my chances of survival were slim. Is this how it ends? In an ugly building that looks like an orphan run shoe factory?

        As I shoved elderly people and children out of my way on the cramped staircase, I envisioned my crisp body lying on the front of the museum’s lawn as police struggle to identify my body.

    “The only thing we were able to recover off of this one was the glasses.”

     Then my body would be thrown in a dumpster in order for the police to avoid the burden of another unsolved case. My classmates would ask questions about my whereabouts for a few minutes before becoming distracted by the ice cream cart adjacent to the museum. My dad got a boat this summer, and I’m convinced he hasn’t noticed that I’m even gone. He probably thinks I’ve been up in my room or at a friend’s house for the past three weeks.

      But as I reached the third floor, I realized the worst part of this whole thing. I hadn’t seen the café or the gift shop. The OCD part of me had to do both of these things before I inevitably became engulfed in flames. I had heard good things about the café, and I couldn’t pass it up. What type of food did they have? I would never know, I had to at least go by and glance at a menu, even it meant mild smoke inhalation. And how could I possibly cross the Tate off my to do list without buying a souvenir at the overpriced gift shop? Perhaps I could hop over the flames in order to see if the shop carried any Diane Arbus books.

       My flame retardant plan disintegrated on the second floor when I was halted by a museum worker. I was told, rather sternly, that I needed to use the fire stairs. Maybe the fire stairs would have a café menu posted on the wall. At least then I could see what I was missing out on. No such luck. I had decided to visit the Tate the same day that it would burn to the ground.

     As I made my way safely outside of the museum, it didn’t seem as though there was any real danger. Really? I had to leave before seeing the gift shop and there wasn’t even a real fire? All of this was for nothing? I would’ve felt a lot better if the whole museum burned to a crisp, except for the café and gift shop, because I still haven’t seen them yet.

        About a week later I was leaving to go out to dinner when the fire alarm in the apartment building went off. I was on the first floor landing and I saw the control paneling listing all the flats. Flat 15 had a red light next to it, and above that the word “FIRE” was lit up in red. This was it; this is how it would end. The Tate Modern was just a fluke, but now the apartment building would burn for sure. As I climbed the stairs back up to my apartment I could smell something burning. It was go time. I rushed into my room and stuffed my laptop and passport into my backpack. I considered what items needed to be saved. As I was leaving the apartment, I was told that someone’s phone charger had caught on fire. I still left the building, since the alarm was deafening.

       There was a small group outside, and as we gathered around, the gentleman who had started the fire began laughing with his “bros.”

       “Dude, I like started a fire,” he laughed.

       Oh, thanks for apologizing for the massive inconvenience. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself you inconsiderate tool.

      I can’t say that I was surprised. The universe is teasing me with these false alarms, but eventually the real flames will catch up to me. So far, I’ve been careful to avoid anything that could possibly cause a fire. I’ve used my chargers as minimally as possible, I’ve avoided carrying containers of gasoline, and I’ve suppressed the temptation to use a waffle maker. But there’s no denying that by the end of this trip, there will be nothing left of me except for my crispy glasses. I wonder if I should just go ahead and cancel my return flight home. The eternal flames of London loom over me and make me sweat in fear. Good thing I brought extra deodorant.

A Journey Through Time

      

     Those looking to travel back in time need not secure plutonium for Doc Brown’s DeLorean or seek out H.G. Wells’ time machine. A much more convenient way to be transported is to visit the Museum of London, which traces the city’s history from prehistory to present day. A day at the Museum of London feels more like a journey through time than a display of historical items.

     From the outside, the museum is an uninviting black cylinder. I would have never been able to guess that this building holds such immense treasures. Once you find your way inside, it’s time to start walking through the history of London. The museum smartly lays out the rooms chronologically, so a visit through every room feels cohesive and has a narrative structure. The history of London clearly unfolds and progresses before your own eyes as prehistory turns into Roman times, Roman times into medieval times. The farther I journeyed into the museum, the more interested I became. The pre-historical section was interesting, but there are only so many flint replicas I can look at before becoming bored. The Roman section, however, does a better job at pulling the museumgoer into the time period. The scale models of the city centre provide insight into the way the city was originally laid out. I could see where the original London inhabitants lived, where they shopped, and where they went to gather and speak. By the time you reach the Great Fire of 1666, it is hard not to be swept up by the compelling story of London and its ability to rebuild itself after various types of devastation.

       Downstairs, the haunting Leisure Gardens feature creepy, dark mannequins dressed in authentic late 18^th-century clothing as a video with period actors plays on a loop. The sounds and feel of this room is surreal, and I found it hard to walk away without sitting on one of the benches for a few minutes to soak it all in. Next, the Victorian walk replicates an 1848 neighborhood street filled with shops, pharmacies, and offices, decorated in exhaustive detail. The banker’s office was perhaps the most detailed. A beat up desk sat in the middle of the room and looked as though the baker had just left for the day. His papers and pens were spread out all over underneath an exquisite lamp. This tucked away section of the museum is a creative success and made me want to go back, just in case I missed any minute details.

    The modern section covers the 20^th century, and though it is more thrown together than the other sections, I enjoyed walking through it. The cases in this part feature hundreds of artifacts including notebooks, advertisements, and even a wax head of a girl who died from syphilis. While this is all very interesting, it felt to me as if the museum curators had decided to throw a bunch of items from the same time period in a case together without a common theme. Another concern I had about the modern section was the lack of attention given to the bombings of World War II. This significant part of London’s history should have been prominently featured, but instead this era lacks the detail and attention given to earlier time periods. The war section is kept hidden in the back behind a wall, while the central displays feature hip outfits from the ‘50s and ‘60s. Perhaps the wounds from the war are still healing, but other devastations that London has faced were given more detail and attention, so the lack of depth about the bombings left me feeling as though this section could be improved.

       Despite the minor hiccup in the modern section, I felt as though the time I spent walking through the entire museum was well worth it. I urge anyone who is the least bit interested to visit the Museum of London. Walking through the thousands of years of history solidifies the notion of London as an impermeable city. Even though London has seen such tragedies as the Black Death, the plague, the Great Fire, and the WWII bombings, the city’s history doesn’t stop. London rebuilds itself and life goes on. The story of London is a story of death and rebirth, but above all it is a story of hope. And there’s no better way to experience the story than walking through it, step by step.

     The admission, like most London museums, is free of charge, although donations are encouraged. The museum is located within walking distance of several tube stops, including St. Paul’s, so it’s easily accessible.

Standing Room Only

     While most tourists at Westminster Abbey were looking up at the arched ceilings and stained glass windows, I was looking down at the graves beneath my feet. In my time at the abbey, I must have walked over at least a dozen gravestones without even reading the dedication. I didn’t do this out of disrespect, but the wave of tourists kept pushing me forward, preventing me from gingerly stepping to the side. Who I had walked over? Was it someone famous? What had that person contributed to the world? I didn’t know any of this; all I knew was that an elderly Italian woman standing on top of where his head might be.
      Westminster Abbey is an overcrowded graveyard that is the final resting place for some of the most influential people to have ever lived including Queen Elizabeth I, Sir Isaac Newton, Charles Dickens, and countless others. Obviously, the monarchs all receive “V.I.P.” treatment and it is impossible to miss their graves. However, most of the people buried in the abbey spend their eternal slumber within a maze of cramped nooks and crannies. Many of them will go unnoticed and stepped on by the abbey’s visitors who use many of the graves as nothing more than a place to walk on in order to see Queen Elizabeth’s golden tomb.

       Even within Poet’s Corner, there are differences in the way certain writers are memorialized. For example, Shakespeare isn’t even buried there but gets a wall all to himself featuring a carving in his likeness, while Charles Dickens lies in the ground beneath a plain gray slab. All three Bronte sisters are confined to a small stone that looks only slightly bigger than a postcard. I’m surprised that whoever made the stone was able to fit all three names on it. This says a lot about how these writers were thought of at the time of their deaths, especially by those running the abbey. For example, there were very few people at Dickens’ funeral, but when the abbey doors were opened to the public, they flooded in to pay respects to their beloved writer.

      The abbey no longer accepts bodies. All the spots are filled. In 1920, the Unknown Soldier became the last person to be buried at Westminster. While being buried in the abbey was clearly an honor, I don’t think it’s the ideal final resting place. Why would someone want to be buried in a place where unappreciative tourists step on them all day? Wouldn’t it be nicer to be somewhere where only the people who care enough to visit you would pay their respects? Perhaps you might want to be buried next to family members. I hear the country is perfect for that type of thing.

         Apparently though, some people would rather be buried among monarchs, scientists, and literary geniuses. In this sense, Westminster Abbey seems like a morbid real estate commodity that would reflect someone’s social standing. Each inch closer you’re buried to the Queen, the more jealous your living friends would be. But due to space limitations, not everyone can rest comfortably. Ben Johnson went as far as to be buried standing up so that he would take up less room. When I go, I want enough room so I can lie down and stretch out. Eternity is too long to be on your feet. 

Getting Ripped

     

         Getting killed in London by Jack the Ripper in the late 1800’s sounds rather glamorous. His lucky victims get to live immortally as an unsolved mystery. Every day, tourists gather to walk in the footsteps of the poor girls and hear the gruesome details of their deaths. The experience of taking the walking tour was so juicy that it had me wondering what it would be like to have been alive in the time of Jack the Ripper.

         I imagine, with my disposition and build, that if I were alive in 1888 I would be an orphaned chimney sweep battling a case of tuberculosis. The monotony of my daily life would be so bleak and tragic that my ears would perk up when hearing about the murders that were taking place around town. I imagine walking the streets with my chimney sweep brush in hand, passing a newsboy yelling his lungs out in order to draw attention to the morning’s biggest scoop. Being too poor to afford a paper, I linger close to a rich man and try to read over his shoulder. After only 10 minutes, this very busy man disposes of the paper and I scurry to pick it up. The orphanage I’ve grown up in hasn’t provided me with the best education, but I can follow the story by pulling out key words and looking at the pictures. Like the rest of London, I quickly become engrossed by the murders and go to pubs at night to listen and share theories about who was behind it all.

         Most nights, I lie on my flea-infested mat on the damp floor and have trouble falling asleep due to fitful bursts of coughing, but soon I find myself awake thinking about Jack the Ripper. I’m not afraid; in fact, I’m fascinated by it all. I loved hearing about the murders and I hope that there will be more soon. I become oddly reflective on my own life and how little meaning it has. The doctors aren’t hopeful about my chances of recovering from TB. I don’t have long to live, a few months if I’m lucky. When I go, there will be no one to remember me. I won’t even have a proper burial or tombstone. But if Jack the Ripper kills me, I will become a celebrity. My life will have meaning. The only problem is figuring out how to get killed. Jack the Ripper’s victim profile consists entirely of female prostitutes, but maybe Jack is up to the challenge of a male victim. Everyone needs a break from their routine to try something new, even serial killers.

     For the next few weeks, I spend my time lingering in dark alleyways. My method of choice is to sing loudly in order to attract Jack’s attention. I’m not the best singer, so if Jack is around, my intolerable voice might have been enough to irk him into killing me. As he emerges from the shadows I feign terror and surprise. I put up a good fight. I struggle as the knife plunges directly to my stomach, but secretly I am relishing in my new celebrity status. To think, the next day my name will be in every newspaper. People will know my name. They will remember me.

       Death would’ve been the best thing to ever happen to me. For years to come, I would be immortalized through my death. My name would appear in numerous books, flamboyant tour guides would act out my struggle with Jack the Ripper, and maybe I could even be like the girl from “The Lovely Bones,” and feed the police clues from the grave about the killer.

      But unfortunately, I live in the 21^st century, where being killed is considered undesirable. I might die of old age, or maybe tomorrow a piano will fall on me as I’m walking down the street. While these are fine ways to die, they don’t allow for the possibility of having my likeness plastered on a mug in a Jack the Ripper gift shop. I guess I just need to get used to the fact that no matter how I die, it won’t be as juicy as getting ripped by the world’s first serial killer.