London, Day Six
May. 6th, 2006 02:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleFriday, May 5th
Quote for the day?
“What the hell am I doing living in America?”
I think today was the day I finally got back into the swing of London fully. I slept like the dead until noon, alas, but got myself out the door to Blackfriars by two or three. It was my first time walking around down there, in the shadow of St. Paul’s. Which is, brace yourselves, coveredin scaffolding. I was told, when last I was here, that “At any given time, half of London is under scaffolding.” It’s true. This time, though, they’ve been incredibly clever about it. The scaffolding is concealed behind enormous wooden fences, several stories high, and covered with a scale engraving of the cathedral. As I was standing on the Millennium Bridge, then, I could almost see the landmark in all its glory, even though it was concealed up to the famous dome.
The Bridge itself is fairly amazing. A smooth, delicate silver arc across the churning brown of the River Thames, it’s accented with sharp angles of steel beams, and anchored on the Southwark (“Suth-uk”) side by a glass-sided ramp down to the bankside itself. Today, either end of the bridge was arched with an enormous gate of baby-blue balloons under which stood folks with huge plastic buckets, collecting for teenage cancer victims. Cancer is cancer—I gave both going and coming, thinking of Mon.
Shakespeare’s Globe and Museum is about half a shimmy from the base of the bridge. Not hard to find at all. What was a fun distraction, however, was a busker under the bridge who was doing the best beat-box/rapping I’ve ever heard. White guy, no less. I almost wish I’d bought his CD, but hey, £5 is dinner, at this point. Or another book.
To my immense frustration, I discovered that as the season opened tonight, no tours of The Globe itself were on offer—there was a final dress rehearsal going on. Dammit. Not as if they have to do a final focus or anything, I remarked to the young man behind the counter. Oh, well. Tour of The Rose were still available, so I did that.
We started with a demonstration of how the actors were dressed for the stage—and, by extension, how Elizabethans and Jacobeans were dressed. Could they have known I was coming? It was fascinating. Your trivia for today? Cuffs on non-washable items such as doublets and gowns were guarded by washable, lace-trimmed, linen inner cuffs, which were held on by straight pins. These pins were often topped with quite ornate heads, and could be quite the status symbol: if you had money for such a little detail to be top-of-the-line, well, you had money. And what was the money for such little details called? Pin money.
I asked about the corsets, and nearly missed the rest of the tour group leaving for The Rose. I had to trot to catch up, but it’s okay, I need the exercise. Our lovely guide (I imagined her saying, “We’re walking, we’re Wenching, can you keep up please? Lovely, thank you; we’re walking….”) took us on a brief, winding jaunt, showing us the last remaining wherryman’s seat, now encased in the side of a restaurant. It didn’t look very comfortable. (Wherrymen ferried people “Westward, Ho!” and “Eastward, Ho!” across the Thames in little boats called wherries. And yes, that’s where the title comes from.) We then went down a few alleys, until we came to an office block. I remember the furor when I was here: The Rose had just been discovered in 1987, in the course of a routine archaeological survey when one building was torn down to make way for another. The owners of the land wanted to build their planned offices, but the outcry from the public once it came out what was under there was overwhelming. Citizens, actors, you name it—people screamed their heads off. And it worked. Mostly. The building was built—with no ground floor.
Our guide led us around to a very unassuming black metal door, like a vault, in a grey granite wall. The blue historical plaque on the wall seems utterly incongruous when you first see it. A 1587 theatre? Where? And then we went inside.
The first thing is the smell: dirt and water. And it’s cold, and dark. Our guide turnedon a light in the corner, but explained that as the Trust has very little money, they haven’t been able to do much with the site yet. And she wasn’t joking. There are informational panels on the wall, and some photos and artifacts, but in the main room, it’s almost like looking into a rubbish tip, or a zoological exhibition where the alligators have all died. It’s dark, and damp, and all you can really see is a large open area with red rope lights running around. But having said that….
It’s incredibly atmospheric. The red lights outline the Rose’s first and second stages, and there are pipes protecting the fragmentary remains of the timbers that held up the canopy over 400 years ago. It all glows silently in the dark, and you can almost feel the surprisingly small, ancient building waiting to come back to life. It made me want to throw gobs of money at them and say, “Give me a shovel!” Which is, I suppose, their point. And I don’t blame them.
Back out in the sun—after I almost got locked in after trying to take “just one last photo,” we wandered back towards the museum, stopping along the way at the actual site of the original Globe. I remember it’d just been discovered when I was there, but what I hadn’t known was that most of it, alas, seems to be under a set of historically listed Georgian houses. We all groaned. Unable to do anything, the builders of the new neighbouring flats cobbled over the site, laying their stones in a curved pattern that followed the line of the Globe’s foundation. Where the outline of the outer steps had been, and where some walls still remained, they laid down different bricks to mark the spots. And a huge, engraved black slab that says, “The Globe” now lies over another section of the wall. A gate and fence feature educational panels about the site, as well.
Back at the museum, I took my time wandering through the exhibits, trying not to see the whole thing through the lens of my camera. I have to admit, however, that I almost don’t feel like I’ve done something unless I’ve recorded it somehow. Which is why, I suppose, I took over 200 photos today, and Word tells me I’m now at 1123 words and counting. Anyway. I wandered the exhibit for hours, having a marvelous time. Upstairs, in an enclosed mezzanine around the large room where the dressing demonstration was, was information on the Globe, special effects, music, actors, and Sam Wanamaker, the American actor who first had the vision for rebuilding Shakepeare’s Globe. Predictably, his idea was, early on, met with many a cry of, “Who’s this American telling us what to do? Who does he think he is?” His response was that he, as a speaker of English, had as much right as anyone to honour one of the greatest writers of the language ever. Go, Sam, go.
Downstairs, much of the space was given over to costume, to my delight. There were two utterly, amazingly glorious examples upstairs, but below were more everyday things, including—oh, how I drooled—a recreation of an Elizabethan costume shop. I took uncountable pictures right there, in hopes that I can use much of the info as research when I set up my booth. And also cos I just loved it. There was a huge vat in the corner for dyeing, and I couldn’t help but compare it to the industrial soup cooker we used to use at Carnegie Mellon. Things really haven’t changed.
I hit the shop after that, and didn’t spend too much. Really. Bought some more gifts, and a DVD which will actually run at home. And then it was just about to move on to the second part of my day—more theatre.
I wandered back over towards the bridge, and as I joined the crowd, all I found myself saying was, “What the hell am I doing in America?” I could practically see my Dad’s very disapproving face, but honestly…I feel so at home here. I haven’t feel national angst and depression for a week now, and I’m in a place that values theatre, culture, manners, learning, internationalism, and decent food. Not necessarily in that order. Maybe it’s just that the English don’t feel they have anything to prove any more. I don’t know. I do know that I’m not as comfortable here as I was before, because I don’t have a purpose, and I don’t have a home. I don’t get to think about what I’m doing next week, and I don’t get to set down any roots. I don’t have a job, or school. And I don’t have anyone to hang out with. That all makes a big difference. Still, as I stood in the middle of the bridge and looked all around me, it was hard not to dread Sunday.
Back into the Tube, then, over to Embankment, change to Bakerloo, and there I was back in Picadilly. Which was more crowded than Ben & Jerry’s on Free Cone Day. I was starving, but it was already nearly 7. So I dodged into a McDonald’s—and dodged a young man making moon eyes at me by the ketchup station—and wolfed down a quarter pounder meal. And then, off to The Queen’s Theatre, for Les Miserables.
Now, Lars barely contained his scoffing when I told him I was going to see this, and I will admit, I keep remembering that with a wry, “Yeah, I know.” But I missed being able to see it last time, when it was still new, and I’ve regretted that. Especially since it’s on its final tour in the States. And now I’m very, very glad I went. And I will even admit that yes, I cried. I had an interesting view, nearly straight up the actors’ noses, as I was last seat on my right in the third row. And some of the singing didn’t move me much. But the show as a whole was fast and clean and well-done, and I had a marvelous time. Did I mention I cried?
Theatre for me is a weird thing. It occurred to me that I watch a show with x-ray eyes: I see the story, but I’m constantly watching for the structure under the set, for the actor behind the character, the corset under the gown. I had someone say to me once that working in theatre ruins the magic, but I don’t think I agree. I still see magic, but for me, the magic’s in the technique.
Afterwards, all the shows seemed to have let out together, and Shaftesbury Avenue was literally wall-to-wall. `Years ago, I walked down Regent Street nearish to Christmas and was reminded of that original Star Trek episode where Kirk and Spock visited a planet that was so overcrowded everyone had to walk in step. That’s what it was like again tonight. This little salmon finally swam upstream to Picadilly again, where I finally went into my beloved Boots for makeup wipes, something I stupidly didn’t bring. I was stuck, as I tried to make it to the till, behind some of the slowest moving humans in this hemisphere. I did my Move Yer Ass interpretive dance, which amused the cashier no end. “If they’d been moving any slower,” I told him, “They’d’ve been going backwards.”
I stood outside in the neon glare for a while, staring at the eye-gouging displays that take up half the building. They used to just be running lights and flashing neon; now, of course, they’re animated LEDs and super high-tech. They throw their light down on thousands of people: a whole river of them, swirling, yelling, gawking, hawking, running, kissing, fighting, wanting. I just watched them all for a bit, drinking it in like a cold Ribena, plotting already for my return.
Who’s with me?
Quote for the day?
“What the hell am I doing living in America?”
I think today was the day I finally got back into the swing of London fully. I slept like the dead until noon, alas, but got myself out the door to Blackfriars by two or three. It was my first time walking around down there, in the shadow of St. Paul’s. Which is, brace yourselves, coveredin scaffolding. I was told, when last I was here, that “At any given time, half of London is under scaffolding.” It’s true. This time, though, they’ve been incredibly clever about it. The scaffolding is concealed behind enormous wooden fences, several stories high, and covered with a scale engraving of the cathedral. As I was standing on the Millennium Bridge, then, I could almost see the landmark in all its glory, even though it was concealed up to the famous dome.
The Bridge itself is fairly amazing. A smooth, delicate silver arc across the churning brown of the River Thames, it’s accented with sharp angles of steel beams, and anchored on the Southwark (“Suth-uk”) side by a glass-sided ramp down to the bankside itself. Today, either end of the bridge was arched with an enormous gate of baby-blue balloons under which stood folks with huge plastic buckets, collecting for teenage cancer victims. Cancer is cancer—I gave both going and coming, thinking of Mon.
Shakespeare’s Globe and Museum is about half a shimmy from the base of the bridge. Not hard to find at all. What was a fun distraction, however, was a busker under the bridge who was doing the best beat-box/rapping I’ve ever heard. White guy, no less. I almost wish I’d bought his CD, but hey, £5 is dinner, at this point. Or another book.
To my immense frustration, I discovered that as the season opened tonight, no tours of The Globe itself were on offer—there was a final dress rehearsal going on. Dammit. Not as if they have to do a final focus or anything, I remarked to the young man behind the counter. Oh, well. Tour of The Rose were still available, so I did that.
We started with a demonstration of how the actors were dressed for the stage—and, by extension, how Elizabethans and Jacobeans were dressed. Could they have known I was coming? It was fascinating. Your trivia for today? Cuffs on non-washable items such as doublets and gowns were guarded by washable, lace-trimmed, linen inner cuffs, which were held on by straight pins. These pins were often topped with quite ornate heads, and could be quite the status symbol: if you had money for such a little detail to be top-of-the-line, well, you had money. And what was the money for such little details called? Pin money.
I asked about the corsets, and nearly missed the rest of the tour group leaving for The Rose. I had to trot to catch up, but it’s okay, I need the exercise. Our lovely guide (I imagined her saying, “We’re walking, we’re Wenching, can you keep up please? Lovely, thank you; we’re walking….”) took us on a brief, winding jaunt, showing us the last remaining wherryman’s seat, now encased in the side of a restaurant. It didn’t look very comfortable. (Wherrymen ferried people “Westward, Ho!” and “Eastward, Ho!” across the Thames in little boats called wherries. And yes, that’s where the title comes from.) We then went down a few alleys, until we came to an office block. I remember the furor when I was here: The Rose had just been discovered in 1987, in the course of a routine archaeological survey when one building was torn down to make way for another. The owners of the land wanted to build their planned offices, but the outcry from the public once it came out what was under there was overwhelming. Citizens, actors, you name it—people screamed their heads off. And it worked. Mostly. The building was built—with no ground floor.
Our guide led us around to a very unassuming black metal door, like a vault, in a grey granite wall. The blue historical plaque on the wall seems utterly incongruous when you first see it. A 1587 theatre? Where? And then we went inside.
The first thing is the smell: dirt and water. And it’s cold, and dark. Our guide turnedon a light in the corner, but explained that as the Trust has very little money, they haven’t been able to do much with the site yet. And she wasn’t joking. There are informational panels on the wall, and some photos and artifacts, but in the main room, it’s almost like looking into a rubbish tip, or a zoological exhibition where the alligators have all died. It’s dark, and damp, and all you can really see is a large open area with red rope lights running around. But having said that….
It’s incredibly atmospheric. The red lights outline the Rose’s first and second stages, and there are pipes protecting the fragmentary remains of the timbers that held up the canopy over 400 years ago. It all glows silently in the dark, and you can almost feel the surprisingly small, ancient building waiting to come back to life. It made me want to throw gobs of money at them and say, “Give me a shovel!” Which is, I suppose, their point. And I don’t blame them.
Back out in the sun—after I almost got locked in after trying to take “just one last photo,” we wandered back towards the museum, stopping along the way at the actual site of the original Globe. I remember it’d just been discovered when I was there, but what I hadn’t known was that most of it, alas, seems to be under a set of historically listed Georgian houses. We all groaned. Unable to do anything, the builders of the new neighbouring flats cobbled over the site, laying their stones in a curved pattern that followed the line of the Globe’s foundation. Where the outline of the outer steps had been, and where some walls still remained, they laid down different bricks to mark the spots. And a huge, engraved black slab that says, “The Globe” now lies over another section of the wall. A gate and fence feature educational panels about the site, as well.
Back at the museum, I took my time wandering through the exhibits, trying not to see the whole thing through the lens of my camera. I have to admit, however, that I almost don’t feel like I’ve done something unless I’ve recorded it somehow. Which is why, I suppose, I took over 200 photos today, and Word tells me I’m now at 1123 words and counting. Anyway. I wandered the exhibit for hours, having a marvelous time. Upstairs, in an enclosed mezzanine around the large room where the dressing demonstration was, was information on the Globe, special effects, music, actors, and Sam Wanamaker, the American actor who first had the vision for rebuilding Shakepeare’s Globe. Predictably, his idea was, early on, met with many a cry of, “Who’s this American telling us what to do? Who does he think he is?” His response was that he, as a speaker of English, had as much right as anyone to honour one of the greatest writers of the language ever. Go, Sam, go.
Downstairs, much of the space was given over to costume, to my delight. There were two utterly, amazingly glorious examples upstairs, but below were more everyday things, including—oh, how I drooled—a recreation of an Elizabethan costume shop. I took uncountable pictures right there, in hopes that I can use much of the info as research when I set up my booth. And also cos I just loved it. There was a huge vat in the corner for dyeing, and I couldn’t help but compare it to the industrial soup cooker we used to use at Carnegie Mellon. Things really haven’t changed.
I hit the shop after that, and didn’t spend too much. Really. Bought some more gifts, and a DVD which will actually run at home. And then it was just about to move on to the second part of my day—more theatre.
I wandered back over towards the bridge, and as I joined the crowd, all I found myself saying was, “What the hell am I doing in America?” I could practically see my Dad’s very disapproving face, but honestly…I feel so at home here. I haven’t feel national angst and depression for a week now, and I’m in a place that values theatre, culture, manners, learning, internationalism, and decent food. Not necessarily in that order. Maybe it’s just that the English don’t feel they have anything to prove any more. I don’t know. I do know that I’m not as comfortable here as I was before, because I don’t have a purpose, and I don’t have a home. I don’t get to think about what I’m doing next week, and I don’t get to set down any roots. I don’t have a job, or school. And I don’t have anyone to hang out with. That all makes a big difference. Still, as I stood in the middle of the bridge and looked all around me, it was hard not to dread Sunday.
Back into the Tube, then, over to Embankment, change to Bakerloo, and there I was back in Picadilly. Which was more crowded than Ben & Jerry’s on Free Cone Day. I was starving, but it was already nearly 7. So I dodged into a McDonald’s—and dodged a young man making moon eyes at me by the ketchup station—and wolfed down a quarter pounder meal. And then, off to The Queen’s Theatre, for Les Miserables.
Now, Lars barely contained his scoffing when I told him I was going to see this, and I will admit, I keep remembering that with a wry, “Yeah, I know.” But I missed being able to see it last time, when it was still new, and I’ve regretted that. Especially since it’s on its final tour in the States. And now I’m very, very glad I went. And I will even admit that yes, I cried. I had an interesting view, nearly straight up the actors’ noses, as I was last seat on my right in the third row. And some of the singing didn’t move me much. But the show as a whole was fast and clean and well-done, and I had a marvelous time. Did I mention I cried?
Theatre for me is a weird thing. It occurred to me that I watch a show with x-ray eyes: I see the story, but I’m constantly watching for the structure under the set, for the actor behind the character, the corset under the gown. I had someone say to me once that working in theatre ruins the magic, but I don’t think I agree. I still see magic, but for me, the magic’s in the technique.
Afterwards, all the shows seemed to have let out together, and Shaftesbury Avenue was literally wall-to-wall. `Years ago, I walked down Regent Street nearish to Christmas and was reminded of that original Star Trek episode where Kirk and Spock visited a planet that was so overcrowded everyone had to walk in step. That’s what it was like again tonight. This little salmon finally swam upstream to Picadilly again, where I finally went into my beloved Boots for makeup wipes, something I stupidly didn’t bring. I was stuck, as I tried to make it to the till, behind some of the slowest moving humans in this hemisphere. I did my Move Yer Ass interpretive dance, which amused the cashier no end. “If they’d been moving any slower,” I told him, “They’d’ve been going backwards.”
I stood outside in the neon glare for a while, staring at the eye-gouging displays that take up half the building. They used to just be running lights and flashing neon; now, of course, they’re animated LEDs and super high-tech. They throw their light down on thousands of people: a whole river of them, swirling, yelling, gawking, hawking, running, kissing, fighting, wanting. I just watched them all for a bit, drinking it in like a cold Ribena, plotting already for my return.
Who’s with me?