Monday, March 31, 2003

 

"Eight a.m. to Bath, blimey!" I find the ticket agent's comment colorful, but baffling. Didn't I put myself all out, hardly sleeping at all last night, and waking up at 4:30 a.m. to be nearly an hour early for my bus?

But as I go to the gate, it dawns on me, the vague and sickening realization that last night may have been the night the clocks got moved forward in Great Britain, ending daylight savings time. Sure enough, I miss my train by a mere five minutes.

The beautiful thing is that this miscalculation costs me only £1.50 and an hour and a half, since there's room on the 9:30 bus.

* * *

On the Tube this morning, a nice looking young man with a friendly face boards the train a few stops after me. We look at each other and smile, because, like me, he's got his big pack in tow.

His name's Adam, and he's on his way to Kenya. He's already been traveling for a year, away from his home in Melbourne and his job as a park ranger.

I tell him where I'm headed, and he nods and smiles again. "You'll love Bath," he says, knowingly.

I describe the general plan for the rest of my trip, and he is enthusiastic about Croatia. "The people there are just great," he says. "They haven't had tourism there very long, and so the people aren';t just interested in you for your money--they're genuinely curious about you."

"Where did you stay in Croatia?" I ask.

"In Dubrovnik, you have to go to the Tourist Board, and they have the names of families who have rooms to let out, and they call someone for you. The neighborhoods are terraced, and if you can get a room in a house near the top, you get this incredible view."

I give him my card, and hope he will send me some email--I'm interested to hear how he's getting along in Kenya.

* * *

I'm glad to be on the move, even though it was so nice to have sanctuary at Diana's. She was generous, providing me not only with room and board, but access to laundry facilities, internet and TV, as well as advice, encouragement and friendship.

I hope when she travels to California this month (she's planning six weeks between L.A. and San Francisco) that she will be able to meet some of my friends (you can send me an email if you would like to get in touch with her).

I'm just wrapping up my second day in Bath, this gorgeous streak of unheard of sunny weather following me like a blessing. I will write more about beautiful Bath soon. Cheerio for now!

posted by Liz 12:14 PM
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Thursday, March 27, 2003

 

Today begins with my first interaction with native British fauna, in the shape of a bumble bee roughly the size of a removal (moving) van. This is precipitated by a shriek emanating from my gracious and generally unflappable hostess, Diana. Streaking from the bathroom clad in a green and tan towel, she informs me of the presence of the uninvited guest, which I bravely volunteer to transport outside, with the aid of a pot lid and colander.

Full of stiff-upperlipedness, I march into battle. In a dramatic struggle reminiscent of St. George and the Dragon, I capture the huge beast, and release it to the far reaches of the back garden, a performance Diana deems nothing short of heroic.

A breakfast of tea with milk, and toast with jam follows, then it's off to the Underground station, and into London proper. Exiting quite a bit from where I wanted to be due to line closures, I walk a fair distance in my pursuit of St. Paul's Cathedral.

I'm struck by the way that modern and ancient live side by side here, with sleek glass and steel fronted buildings sandwiched between centuries-old brick edifices. This makes for some interesting compositions, such as an umbrella store established in 1830 reflecting in the window glass of a shop selling Apple Computers across the street.

Turning a corner, I find myself facing the grand exterior of the Old Courthouse, with the inscription above the door in large stone capitals, "DEFEND THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR & PUNISH THE WRONGDOERS." I wonder, was there really ever a time when justice was so straightforward?

Round another corner the steps of St. Paul's come into view, clogged with tourists and backpackers all sitting, resting and eating picnic lunches. Weaving my way between them, I enter and pay my £6 admission charge, which seems a bit hefty for a house of worship. It's clear they need the money, though, since so much of the building is undergoing renovation.

First thing, I move to the very back of the church and look down the centre aisle. I remember this black and white chequered marble floor as the one Princess Diana's wedding train dragged across. I remember that morning in 1981, I was up at 4 a.m., watching the Royal Wedding on TV. 14 years old, and seriously caught up with the fantasy of it all, I never imagined then I would someday stand in the same spot.

Looking around the perimeter of the sanctuary, I learn that St. Paul's is the veteran of many battles. Rising in 1675 from the ashes of the original St. Paul's (laid low in the devastating fire of 1666), the Christopher Wren-designed building was bombed in the 1940s by the Nazis.

The church's current foe is time. Half swathed in scaffolds and drapes, brave attempts at restoration are being made, attacking peeling paint and stonework stained by centuries of candle smoke.

Like an old warhorse, St. Paul's proudly bears the scars of its past. Through plaques and memorials the church remembers soldiers and sailors from bygone eras, and the names of historic conflicts, among them, Trafalgar, Waterloo and "The Great War" (WWI), are invoked.

With all the heroic stone portraits and long lists of dead men's names (and they are all men, excepting the mention in passing of an honoured wife here or there, and Florence Nightingale), the place is more depressing than I'd expected. Captains, generals, admirals, all "Falling Gloriously, all "Brave and Gallant," all long gone.

Hoping to elevate my mood, I begin the 530-step ascent to the top of the dome. The stairs start out deceptively broad and shallow, becoming higher and narrower as the journey progresses. At the end it's just a series of tight wrought iron spirals, terminating in a constrictive tunnel with a ceiling so low it forces me to bend over.

Reaching the top, the outside ring around the dome is also narrow. The assembled foreign tourists (a literal tower of Babel, so many languages are being spoken) bunches up so tightly there is no room to move or manoeuvre. Despite obvious signs saying "Absolutely No Smoking," I watch as a young man sits down and unselfconsciously lights a cigarette. Another group of young men cheers as they launch a St. Paul's brochure, folded into a paper airplane, into the breeze.

I meet and converse briefly with Amanda and Kristi, a couple of polite young women from Michigan on a two-week English holiday. But overall, the impression is edginess brought on by close quarters. I snap some shots of the panoramic city views, and carefully make my way back to ground level, and then into the basement crypt.

By this time I'm keenly hungry, and a visit to the crypt's cafeteria is in order. I'm soon sustained by a hot bowl of tomato basil soup, an egg salad and watercress sandwich on sundried tomato bread, and a glass a of "fresh lemon and lime squash" (that is, lemonade with the addition of some lime juice, very refreshing).

I finish off with something they call a brownie, which sadly is not up to my standards, being pale, dry, and sporting hazelnuts where walnuts would have been preferred. I'm finding that, although the English can create sweets with the best of them, they don't appear to quite grasp the concept of brownies.

Then it's off to visit the loo, which I mention only because I am amused to see a certificate honouring the facilities as "Loo of the Year" for 1995. This being the case, I feel it deserves a photo, which I'm sure the other person in there thinks to herself, "She's taking a picture of the facilities, now I've seen everything. It would have gotten my vote for "Loo of the Year" simply because I didn't have to pay to use it.

I take a turn around the rest of the crypt (the largest in England), which includes more memorials and grave markers--among the notables: sculptor Henry Moore, painter John Constable and composer Sir Arthur Sullivan (of "Gilbert and" fame). There's also a little museum of religious paraphernalia: plates, cups, hats, robes, crosses, etc., as if to prove that, even though we're the Protestants, we can do pomp and ceremony equal to the Catholics.

Up and outside, into the fresh air at last, I notice a City of London Tourist Information Centre across the street, where I pick up numerous brochures, and see a sign that solves a mystery for me. The notice explains that the reason there doesn't seem to be any public trashcans is because they have nearly all been recently removed, as an anti-terrorist measure--an unwelcome reminder of troubled times.

Down the street, next to the Millennium Bridge, the City of London school is releasing dozens of boys and young men, all clad in dark suits with the ornate school crest on the jacket, white button down long sleeve shirts and striped ties. They appear to have lots of energy, but I am feeling tired, especially my feet.

On the bridge, pedestrian traffic flows in a "keep to the left" fashion, which still feels so unnatural to me, burdened by a lifetime of conditioning which doesn't follow the rules of this place. Ahead I see a round, half-timbered and thatched-roofed structure that can only be the recreated Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. But that will have to wait for another time; my destination is the huge, brick-faced factory that is now the Tate Modern.

Time is short, with the gallery closing in an hour, so I don't try to do too much, just wander from room to room, only taking a closer look at things that particularly catch my eye. There are famous names, as well as many I've never heard of before, and the layout is spacious and well presented. In some rooms, the view from the museum's windows facing the Thames competes with the artwork for my attention

Photography is not allowed, but when by chance I find myself completely alone in a room with a Jackson Pollack, I can't resist one quick shot, no flash.

The museum closing, I leave with at least half the collection unseen--something to return for someday. I catch the sun setting orange across the Thames as I cross back over the bridge, find a Tube station, and settle back for the ride to the suburbs.

It's evening commute time, and I'm lucky to snag a seat next to a silver-haired woman. She's holding a shopping bag and the handle of a new mop in one hand, the Evening Standard in the other. The front page is splashed with huge war-related headlines, as usual. As a rule, people here don't talk to each other on the tube, but I take full advantage of being an outsider to start up conversations to pass the time.

This woman has been through both world wars, and says to me, "England would be a very different place if those young men hadn't done what they did [in the world wars]."

She asks me what I think of the war, and I answer, "Well, all politics aside, I just hate to see innocent people die, on both sides."

"Innocent people are always dying," she responds. "But this time, it's different. This time they didn't threaten us. I think if the Iraqis have a problem with their leader, they should take care of it themselves. Our boys shouldn't be dying over there--they never threatened to invade us."

The woman's words stay with me long after she exits the train, and I can still taste the resigned bitterness of them, between bites of succulent salmon and new potatoes that Diana has thoughtfully prepared for our evening meal.

posted by Liz 4:17 PM
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Wednesday, March 26, 2003

 

Impressions from London? National Gallery:

--First of all, admission is free, as should be the case for all museums in a civilized world. If I could track down the government minister responsible for this, I would immediately grasp him by both shoulders and kiss him full on the lips.

--The museum's audio guide is also available free of charge (smooch!) but I felt it more than worth the ?’2 donation I left.

--Handing over my driver license as collateral for the headset and player, the attendant said, "Oh, California! Everyone is from California!" I'm not sure what conclusion to draw from this.

--They allowed me to take my day pack into the galleries, so I could keep all my implements of image recording with me.

--Abovementioned implements rendered useless by a small and inconspicuous note in the brochure stating that photography is not allowed.

--That being the case, I rely solely on memory to describe what caught my special attention on the tour, to wit:

Van Eyck, Arnolfini Marriage. You've seen this painting, it's the one with the rather stiff couple holding hands and the woman looks pregnant. There's a little round mirror on the wall behind them, which reflects them and two other figures. Utterly amazing, I could have studied the marvellous details for hours.

Botticelli, Venus and Mars. Ah, how lovely to see my old friend from Italy again, and looking so well! The faces of his women are hypnotic, the flowing outlines of his figures elegant perfection. The story goes that in later life (seized by a newfound religious conviction), he destroyed much of his earlier work. So when I saw this Venus, I thought, "Thank god, you survived the inquisition!"

Leonardo da Vinci, Virgin and Child. They have both the large painting, and a full size charcoal sketch (cartoon), and for me the sketch is actually the more moving work. Kept by itself in a very dimly lit little room, it emerges magically from the darkness as my eyes adjust, full of the expression and immediacy that the medium allows. Da Vinci is not so much drawing the figures as he is sculpting them out of light and dark.

A whole room of Rembrandts. Intoxicating, in such a large dose. The self portrait is so powerful it creates the eerie sense that he is staring right back at me, his keen eye fixed on mine, rather than the other way around. Was it intentional, the hanging of the portrait of his wife, as a carefully posed and very pregnant goddess of spring, positioned so she stares across the gallery at his mistress, who lounges, naked beneath a loosely gathered fur robe? Insult to injury, next to this, another painting of the mistress, unselfconsciously exposing herself in a bathing scene.

Hoogstraten, A Peepshow with Views of the Interior of a Dutch House. A Dutch magic trick, this tour de force of perspective must be seen to be believed.

Venazquez, Rokeby Venus. A different take on the lounging nude woman theme, this time you see her only from the back, with her face dimly reflected in a mirror held by a cupid. The expanse of her back, long and luscious, is beauty defined. This is a painting I could live with and never tire of.

George Stubbs, Whistlejacket. Wonderfully huge, life size painting of a horse, richly detailed (apparently the artist spent a great deal of time researching his subject, including studying horses by dissecting them). Quite striking for its lack of a background setting, it rears up on its haunches, unrestrained, eyes flashing and nostrils flaring, across a flat field of gold.

Joseph Wright of Derby, An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump. Most unusual subject, as the family cockatoo is placed inside a vacuum pump, to demonstrate the removal of air from the glass jar. Will the bird be sacrificed to science? Those assembled have various reactions, running the gamut from indifference to horror.

Degas, Miss La La at the Cirque Fernando. An acrobat hangs suspended by a rope held in her teeth, near the roof of a vivid orange circus tent. It is painted from the point of view of the spectators far below, with an impact I didn't fully appreciate until I viewed it a second time from across the room.

While there is of course no substitute for being in the room with the real thing, all the paintings I've written about (as well as hundreds of others) can be viewed online here, at the National Gallery site. (I do so love the internet!)

posted by Liz 4:46 PM
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Friday, March 21, 2003

 

I really must tell you what happened on Thursday, but I don't want to be up 'til all hours like I was last night, so I will attempt to do it more concisely this time!

Up for my first day of London sightseeing, I soloed on the Underground from Cockfosters to Leicester Square, piece of cake. Exited into theatre district: crowds, tall buildings, general hub bub.

After a false start in wrong direction, made it to Trafalgar Square, stepped inside St. Martins in the Fields Church, took a look around the solemn but elegant space. A board was available for posting prayer requests, two from today:

"For everyone involved with the war, that they may be safe with no loss of life"
"For my son who's a wonderful enlisted soldier, and all of those brave men fighting for our Society and World Peace"

Downstairs, a cafeteria-style restaurant in the church crypt (new concept: dining on the dead). Had to try it, not half bad...Courgette and mushroom pasta, with sides of little roast potatoes, steamed cauliflower, and good old English peas, £5.95

Also downstairs, interesting gift shop offering opportunity to do brass rubbing on copies of medieval brass engravings, complete with all necessary tools, looks a bit strenuous, but fun as well. I walk through and check out people of all ages working on their creations.

Back upstairs for a second look at the church, the peace of the sanctuary is disrupted by chants of war protesters on street outside. Must go look, many young people, signs, banners, flags. I cross the street to get better angle for pictures. In my excitement I somehow manage to climb up the base of Lord Nelson's column, and then realize it's no easy thing getting back down. Finally I just go for it, and land intact, but lesson learned: I'll think twice before trying something like that again.

In the square, signs in five languages signal the end of "feed the birds, tuppence a bag" (for those of you who recall your Mary Poppins). If they are smart, those pigeons will wing it off to Venice or Milan, where they're still welcomed, or at least tolerated.

Down the street past the National Museum (too beautiful a day to spend inside, even when there's great art involved), loving the big red double-decker buses, tall black cabs, and zebra crossings marked helpfully with "Look Left" or "Look Right" to aid us tourists from being clobbered by said vehicles.

Completely unexpectedly stumble across two Royal Guards, appearing on closer inspection to be barely into puberty, in thick grey coats, tall furry hats, and great black almost clown-sized shoes. White cotton gloves grasped bayoneted machine guns. Couldn't resist taking pictures of this icon of London, and next thing I knew a helpful tourist was taking a picture of me beside one of them--how embarrassing, completely caught in the act of being a tourist.

Down the road a bit more, let out into St. James Park, a vision of neat green grass and orderly profusions of sunny daffodils. What's that in the distance? So familiar looking, could it be...? Yes, Buckingham Palace, complete with a gilded script "E" by the keyhole on the gate. Yep, I'm in London, all right.

Turning to the right, I see the sidewalk filled as far as I can see, by a thick stream of business suited people with security tags around their necks, all walking briskly down the street in the same direction. "Excuse me, but what's going on?" I ask one as she passes. "Fire alert, they're evacuating the building." she replies, not stopping, or even slowing down.

"Fire alert? Bomb scare, more likely," I think, and decide to change my course and give this building a wide berth. We're at war, but I still can't wrap mind around it, it's still too big. Down this street, I'm passing vans filled with police, then come across even more police suiting up in riot gear.

I stop to take a picture, and this guy coming toward me turns to see what I'm photographing. "Don't see that everyday," he says to me, and whips out his own camera for a snap.

The atmosphere grows more intense the further down the street I go. I pass a pub advertising ales named Spitfire, Landlord, and Zebedee, but even that fails to amuse much, when the headlines of the Evening Standard blare out "War Special -- Full Attack Starts" on every corner.

Westminster Abbey is gorgeous and grand bathed in afternoon sun, but it's too late to go inside. The protesters have congregated in Parliament Square nearby. Again I resist the urge to join them, and walk past the church, and around the corner and smack dab into the House of Commons. I notice the street outside is strangely empty, and realize the police have blockaded it at both ends, and I have somehow ended up inside the blockade.

I circle back around the church, and end up back in the thick of the protest, swelling by the minute. No one's marching anywhere, they're just milling around and soon I see why...the police have blocked off every exit, there's nowhere to go. The air is filled with the blares of whistles, it seems like every third protester has one, and they just keep blowing them over and over.

A freelance videographer, who introduces himself as Ricardo, says to me, "I've seen this before, it's getting tense. There could be riots. You'd be better off getting out while you can." I think about those people who died recently in the crush of the crowd at that nightclub in Chicago, and decide that, yes, there are some things that are bigger than me, some situations I cannot control, and this may well be one of them.

I turn away from the police line, and try to find another way out. I pass a group of big adolescent boys in school uniforms: they are stripping the cardboard signs off the sticks, and swinging them in the air like clubs. One boy smashes his stick repeatedly against a metal railing, until the wood splinters and gives way, leaving a lethal looking pointed spike. I'm definitely out of here.

I see an Underground entrance, but there's a line of police in riot gear standing in front of it, and another line of police on horseback behind them. I don't want to approach the police, but I don't know what else to do--I'm not going back through the crowd again.

Looking as meek as I'm able, I approach the nearest officer, and indicate that I want to go down into the station...he nods, moves aside and allows my escape. Heart pounding, I jump on the first train, not knowing or caring where it's going, as long as it's out of there. The train's full of commuters with newspapers, bold with war headlines.

Soon I'm back in quiet suburban Cockfosters, chowing down on a feast of Indian take-away with Diana, watching bombs falling on Baghdad from the safety of the telly.

posted by Liz 6:52 PM
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Warning, long story, but I hope you will enjoy it...please note, if things look a little funny, it's because I'm using a British spell checker...just think of it as additional local colour.

For my first full day in the UK, Diana (with whom I am getting on most marvellously) arranged a lovely day in the countryside. Ably escorted by her dear friend, Giles, we motored along, me with eyes as big manhole covers, taking it all in. I am thoroughly enjoying the English penchant for colourful place names; departing from Cockfosters, we drove past exits for the towns of Freezy Water and Ugley (now that I think about it, I'm rather glad we didn't take those exits).

It was curious, to say the least, my first ride in a car where the driver sits on the right, and drives on the left. It's disorienting, like waking up in a parallel universe, where everything is familiar, but somehow different. Being so new to it all, I am acutely aware of the subtleties: how the pylons are conical and orange, like ours, but taller, narrower, and a redder shade of orange. Also notable are the relative scarcity of cars adorned with bumper stickers, and the comparatively tiny number of SUVs on the road. Could this be an indication that the sensible English prefer to keep some of their views to themselves, and wish to keep their petrol bills down?

Giles, every bit the silver haired English gentleman, punctuated the drive with interesting bits of historical and cultural information. As we drove through one village, he pointed out the patterns and decorations imprinted in the plaster walls. "It's called pargeting, and it's very typical for this area."

As we drove past the most gorgeous green expanse, he explained that these were once royal hunting grounds, usually indicated by the word "chase" in the place name.

He also explained why those classy black English cabs are so tall, "To conform to regulations requiring that they be able to accommodate a man wearing a top hat."

The drivers are highly trained. "They study for three years, it's like studying for an advanced degree. In order to pass the exam for their license they must know 6,000 destinations."

"There are about 25,000 cabs, and about 35,000 drivers, but there are so few problems that all the offences charged to cab drivers in a year would only occupy one courtroom for one day." Highlighting their honesty, he added, "You're very likely to recover your lost property, should you leave something behind in a cab."

After about an hour, we reached our first destination, Grantchester, the home of famous English Poet Rupert Brooke. Brooke is something of a kinder, gentler English version of James Dean: a handsome (in a Hugh Grant-ish sort of way), charismatic fellow with great talent who tragically died young (age 27, in 1915), and so exists in that golden state of perpetual youth and beauty.

His most famous poem, The Soldier, was written just a few months before he contracted a fatal case of blood poisoning, on a troop ship headed for Gallipoli.

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some comer of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

In 1909 Brooke was a lodger at the Orchard House in Grantchester (established 1868). Today we sat outside in the shade of the apple trees there, and enjoyed a delicious lunch. My roasted vegetable quiche had a crust composed of thin, crispy layers of filo dough, and slices of flavourful aubergine and courgette (that's eggplant and zucchini to us Yanks), as well as strips red peppers and marinated onions, with just a hint of custardy egg to hold it all together. This was served on a bed of fresh baby lettuces, with cherry tomatoes and roasted baby potatoes. Accompanied by sips of Sauvignon Blanc, it put to lie all stereotypes about English cooking.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Giles ate his quiche, and (being a "When in Rome" kind of gal) I did my best to imitate the English style of cutlery management: knife in right hand, fork (tines pointed down toward the plate) in the left. Using the knife, I observed him deftly arranging the food on the underside of the fork, and effortlessly bringing the load up to his mouth.

I tell you, if you've never attempted this before, it's harder than chopsticks. My food staunchly resisted staying on the convex curve of the tines, and my uncoordinated left hand shook as I attempted to lift it to the height of my chin and steer it into my mouth. At least if Giles or Diana noticed my awkwardness, they were too much the gentleman and lady to say anything.

After this delicious repast, we strolled through the orchard. The apple trees are in bloom, ringed at the base by carpets of bright yellow daffodils, and the path led out into the most idyllic of meadows. Giles noted, "There's not a single telegraph pole to spoil the view." which was true. We walked across the short and brilliantly green grass to the edge of the river Cam, gorgeously reflecting the faultless blue sky above. I can't remember ever seeing a vision so perfectly pastoral.

Turning back at last, we walked back through the meadow, and to the nearby Grantchester church (immortalized in another Brooke poem, "...Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?"

The small and venerable church stood open and empty, and as Diana put it, "It even smells old." The slanting sun poured silently through the stained glass windows on the south side, and our voices were hushed whispers, even though there was no one around to disturb. At the back of the church, a large book lay open, on the left hand page the inscription in bold calligraphy:

They shall not grow old
As we who are left grow old
Age shall not weary them
Nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun
And in the morning
We will remember them

On the right hand page, a list of the names of Grantchester's dead from both wars, Rupert Brooke listed sixth from the top.

Outside the church, I was drawn almost magnetically into the cemetery, where many of the tombstones were so old the details had long ago worn away to soft, illegible indentations. At the rear of the cemetery, a single bench stood planted between two very tall and leafless trees. Facing away from the graves, one contemplated instead the afternoon sun across an almost endless open field of green.

Our mood sombre, but not dour, we returned to the car for a short drive into Cambridge. Now this is a University, with buildings of tremendous grandness, age and pedigree, bordered by immense expanses of lawn as perfectly kept as a putting green (later on I witnessed one of their secrets, when I saw a man with a broom actually sweeping the lawn). The walkway toward Kings College was bordered broadly by energetic yellow daffodil, stately purple crocus, and sprightly blue and white flowers (whose name we didn't know).

At the bridge over the River Cam (Cam Bridge, get it?) we were enthralled by the punters, navigating with tall poles (and widely varying levels of expertise) the long, flat-bottomed wooden boats. This was accompanied by much laughter, squealing, and even singing...in a hearty voice, one piloting female sang out (to the tune of Que Sera, Sera) "When I was just a girl, I asked my mother, where should I go? Should I do Oxford, should I do Cambridge? Here's what she said to me..." But by the time she got to that point in the song, the current and her poling colluded to get her under the bridge and out of earshot, so I suppose I will never know how it ends, although it's probably safe to assume she choose Cambridge.

Onward to the King's College Chapel, I was unprepared for the amazing interior...the intricate fan vaulted ceiling was a miracle to behold, and no less so when I pulled out my binoculars to get a closer look. It's probably a good thing that they don't allow the taking of photographs in the Chapel, as I could quite possibly have used up the whole of my camera's memory before I was through.

The right arm of the chapel transept is a memorial to Cambridge's war dead (are you sensing a pattern here yet?) with the names of all the teachers, administrators, students, and even servants who had perished as a result of the two conflicts inscribed in the stone wall (Rupert Brooke's name could be found here, too). The consciousness of war, and its harvest of youth, promise and potential is so palpable here, that it's no mystery to me why so many in England are expressing a conviction that we must wear out every other option before resorting to all out war.

posted by Liz 4:27 AM
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Wednesday, March 19, 2003

 

Liz here, reporting from jolly olde England, where I was met at the airport by the lovely Diane, bearing a large handwritten sign exclaiming, "Where Is Liz?" I'm now comfortably situated in the London suburb of Cockfosters, and having benefited greatly by a long hot bath and a very good night's sleep, I've quite recovered from my 14 hour journey from San Francisco.

The flight was actually quite nice, on the long leg from Toronto to London the plane was practically empty, so I had the whole row to myself and could stretch out and sleep right through the inflight movies (The Trouble with Charlie and Annie Hall).

By some miracle, it's actually beautifully sunny here, in the land more known for their umbrellas and Wellingtons. At this point I'm rather overwhelmed by all the touristic possibilities, so I'm letting Diana take the lead and show me around a bit. If you have any suggestions for me about London experiences that are not to be missed, please send me an email.

Last night about 10 p.m. we watched live on the telly as the Parliment voted on the proposal to go to war with Iraq. It was quite strange to think that it was all happening so close to where I was.

It's very difficult to believe the world is on the brink of war, when the sun is shining placidly through the window and the birds are chirping in the garden below. I have this tense place in the pit of me that holds to the hope that by some miracle this conflict can be resolved with out massive bombing and loss of life.

posted by Liz 2:30 AM
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Thursday, March 13, 2003

 

Such an interesting time, my creativity and productivity are at an all-time high, as I complete all the projects I promised to do before I leave. In the midst of all the pressure, I feel strangely at ease. In the eye of the storm, everything is swirling around me, and I'm aware of all the rush, but somehow apart from it, calm. Every now and again, an electric sense of excitement sparks, and I get a thrill, thinking about the journey ahead. But for the most part I'm focused, balanced, almost serene. I know my fate, and I embrace it.

posted by Liz 3:30 PM
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Tuesday, March 11, 2003

 

Wow, only six short days until departure! Had a most amazing going away celebration, with about 40 inspiring, beautiful, incredible people turning up to wish me well. With so many blessings, the trip is sure to be a tremendous success...and I'm feeling about as ready as I possibly could, considering I've never before attempted anything on this scale.

It's so different this time, than it was three years ago when I left for that month in Italy, my first big trip...then I was bereft and brokenhearted, convinced the best days of my life were gone forever. I had no idea then that I could ever be in a place like this, surrounded and supported by such a web of friendship. Life is good, and I am busy, so I'll go for now...

posted by Liz 5:52 PM
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Wednesday, March 05, 2003

 

So happy that Where Is Liz is back, and better than ever... still a few kinks to work out, but basically it's there, with a new letter in the mail bag, six new chapters of the Italy saga, and some new updates to the packing list. I've even brightened up the text colors, since I have received feedback that on some monitors they were hard to read on the black background...I hope you like the new look!

With less than two weeks until departure, things are getting intense. Not only is there still so much left to do, it's looking more and more like the worst possible time for an American to travel (or so implies this USA Today article). Apparently people are being called names and spit upon for the crime of conversing in an American accent. I have to believe that these are actions motivated by extreme frustration, and that it is a very small minority that would resort to such means of expression. If this sort of treatment befalls me, I just hope I can handle it with grace, and not take it personally.

I'm not Catholic, but I'm fasting with the Pope today for peace. Yes, it's only symbolic, but symbols can have great meaning. As John Paul said, "Everyone has to knowingly assume their responsibility and make a common effort to spare humanity another dramatic conflict."

Let peace be with us all.

posted by Liz 8:14 AM
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