London, Day 7
May. 7th, 2006 01:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleSaturday, May 6th.
Can’t I just stay a few minutes more?
Today was another magical theatre day. I stalled, unfortunately, dithering in my hotel room, because I couldn’t figure out how, exactly, to conduct the afternoon. I came up with and chucked half a dozen plans, until I finally said, okay, enough, play it by ear. And that, your Honour, is how I wound up chasing the Sultan’s elephant through the streets of central London.
I’ve tried to think of a way to describe The Elephant, and I can’t. I know there’s a website somewhere, but as I’m composing this offline, I can only assume it’s http://www.thesultanselephant.com. I’d read about it earlier in the week in Time Out, and I thought, “That’s either going to be really cool, or really weird.” And it was. Both. I’ll have my photos up on Flickr, but there’s no way, really, to describe the way I felt when I stumbled through the crowd in streets devoid of cars, asking everyone, “Have you seen The Elephant?” and finally, finally tracking it down to Trafalgar, where I found it asleep in front of The National. It was so bizarre, so unlike anything I’d ever seen, and so beautiful, I was awestruck. Its eyes were shut, and its trunk gracefully draped across its extended forelegs. Its enormous ears were studded with huge brass tacks, and its body covered in exotic trappings and a howdah of Gothic proportions. And all over it, between its articulations, were wires and cables and mysterious gears and levers.
In front of it, also asleep, lay the enormous doll of a little girl in a green dress, with roughly pixie-cut black hair, and long, dark lashes. There was a crescent moon of black scaffolding above her head, and even sitting, she must have been three stories high.
By this time, the drizzle I thought would pass had progressed to a truly annoying rain, with everyone’s umbrellas making it nearly impossible to see anything for any decent length of time. The square was packed, and people were getting restive as The Elephant slept on through machinery and serious-looking men moving all around it. And then, a little after the nearest clock struck four, it began to breathe.
There was a collective gasp from the crowd, but before long, people grew restive again as it continued to snuffle in its sleep, doing nothing else. Various umbrellas dumped very cold showers on me, and my dress, which was ankle-length to begin with, got so heavy with water I had to tie it up to keep it from dragging on the flagstones. I was determined not to leave.
Sure enough, just a short while later, there was music. Drums, guitar, bass, and bagpipe, playing a rhythmic, dreamy, vibrant improv. Out of nowhere—or so it seemed to someone 5’-zip in a crowd of Big People—a line of fantastically dressed people emerged: The Sultan, The Sultana, Princesses, exotic guards, dancing girls, and a strange explorer with a handlebar moustache and deerstalker cap. They waved to the now-cheering crowd, and climbed ladders to the balcony of the howdah. Already around The Elephant were its keepers, headsetted men and women in red velvet frock coats, climbing into seats suspended at each leg, on an attached car before and behind The Elephant, and one in a tiny, fragile-looking seat coming up out of its head.
The Girl seemed to wake up. As the music played, her enormous eyes opened, huge and dark. She looked at The Elephant, and stood—with the help of a huge crane. Her mouth opened, and as a team of redcoats worked her gigantic arms and legs, she beckoned to it.
And The Elephant woke.
It opened its eyes, fluttered its ears, and raised its trunk to trumpet. I nearly started to cry—I can’t explain how beautiful it was. And with The Girl walking around it, it rose—five stories from the ground to the top of the Howdah, where The Sultan now stood, waving to the crowd. The girl stepped out in front, and turned to look back at The Elephant, and then, somehow, she floated over to it, turned, and with the help of the Redcoats, was attached to the front of its head, to ride there on its trunk. And The Elephant, with The Sultan and Sultana waving, and the band playing, walked out of Trafalgar.
I didn’t care that I was soaked, I didn’t care that I was cold—I was so entranced I had to follow it. Almost everyone seemed to feel that way—I didn’t have to look where I was going, I just kept in step with the surge. It walked all the way up Haymarket to Picadilly, while I followed after with my eyes wide and my heart thumping. At some point, we passed a man in the middle of the street, shaking his head and saying, “What is it? Is it advertising something?” I told him, “No, it’s performance!” and gave him the website, but he just shook his head, and I could almost hear him thinking, “What a waste of money.”
I hope he has a good hobby he enjoys somewhere.
By that time, unfortunately, I had to make it back here. I bought a good-sized bag for the overflow of things I’ve bought, and it’s almost not big enough. I raced back, throwing fast food down my throat and changing into something warmer and drier while the concierge, bless him, tried to help me find out if the open-air Globe was open tonight.
The conversation amused me. “I’m going to a show at The Globe tonight—“
“Which one?”
Duh. There are more theatres than people here, idiot. “Sorry. Shakespeare’s Globe.”
“Ah, right!”
I barely made it. By the time I got to the Millennium Bridge, I could hear the bells ringing people in at last call. I was so tired, and my legs hurt so much, I must’ve looked like a crippled sheep trotting down to the bankside. But I made it.
It’s late, and I have an early wake-up call, so I’ll write more tomorrow. Suffice to say this was theatre very much like what I know PARF wants to be. I was probably the only Rennie in the house, and it was very, very odd. But I think it was an experience no one who loves theatre should miss. It was wonderful, and strange, and so help me, next time, I’m renting a cushion, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, and I’m sorry I briefly hoped it had indeed been cancelled so I could come back here and sleep. But next year, it’d better not rain.
I’m packed. I’m morose. Must be time to come home.
Can’t I just stay a few minutes more?
Today was another magical theatre day. I stalled, unfortunately, dithering in my hotel room, because I couldn’t figure out how, exactly, to conduct the afternoon. I came up with and chucked half a dozen plans, until I finally said, okay, enough, play it by ear. And that, your Honour, is how I wound up chasing the Sultan’s elephant through the streets of central London.
I’ve tried to think of a way to describe The Elephant, and I can’t. I know there’s a website somewhere, but as I’m composing this offline, I can only assume it’s http://www.thesultanselephant.com. I’d read about it earlier in the week in Time Out, and I thought, “That’s either going to be really cool, or really weird.” And it was. Both. I’ll have my photos up on Flickr, but there’s no way, really, to describe the way I felt when I stumbled through the crowd in streets devoid of cars, asking everyone, “Have you seen The Elephant?” and finally, finally tracking it down to Trafalgar, where I found it asleep in front of The National. It was so bizarre, so unlike anything I’d ever seen, and so beautiful, I was awestruck. Its eyes were shut, and its trunk gracefully draped across its extended forelegs. Its enormous ears were studded with huge brass tacks, and its body covered in exotic trappings and a howdah of Gothic proportions. And all over it, between its articulations, were wires and cables and mysterious gears and levers.
In front of it, also asleep, lay the enormous doll of a little girl in a green dress, with roughly pixie-cut black hair, and long, dark lashes. There was a crescent moon of black scaffolding above her head, and even sitting, she must have been three stories high.
By this time, the drizzle I thought would pass had progressed to a truly annoying rain, with everyone’s umbrellas making it nearly impossible to see anything for any decent length of time. The square was packed, and people were getting restive as The Elephant slept on through machinery and serious-looking men moving all around it. And then, a little after the nearest clock struck four, it began to breathe.
There was a collective gasp from the crowd, but before long, people grew restive again as it continued to snuffle in its sleep, doing nothing else. Various umbrellas dumped very cold showers on me, and my dress, which was ankle-length to begin with, got so heavy with water I had to tie it up to keep it from dragging on the flagstones. I was determined not to leave.
Sure enough, just a short while later, there was music. Drums, guitar, bass, and bagpipe, playing a rhythmic, dreamy, vibrant improv. Out of nowhere—or so it seemed to someone 5’-zip in a crowd of Big People—a line of fantastically dressed people emerged: The Sultan, The Sultana, Princesses, exotic guards, dancing girls, and a strange explorer with a handlebar moustache and deerstalker cap. They waved to the now-cheering crowd, and climbed ladders to the balcony of the howdah. Already around The Elephant were its keepers, headsetted men and women in red velvet frock coats, climbing into seats suspended at each leg, on an attached car before and behind The Elephant, and one in a tiny, fragile-looking seat coming up out of its head.
The Girl seemed to wake up. As the music played, her enormous eyes opened, huge and dark. She looked at The Elephant, and stood—with the help of a huge crane. Her mouth opened, and as a team of redcoats worked her gigantic arms and legs, she beckoned to it.
And The Elephant woke.
It opened its eyes, fluttered its ears, and raised its trunk to trumpet. I nearly started to cry—I can’t explain how beautiful it was. And with The Girl walking around it, it rose—five stories from the ground to the top of the Howdah, where The Sultan now stood, waving to the crowd. The girl stepped out in front, and turned to look back at The Elephant, and then, somehow, she floated over to it, turned, and with the help of the Redcoats, was attached to the front of its head, to ride there on its trunk. And The Elephant, with The Sultan and Sultana waving, and the band playing, walked out of Trafalgar.
I didn’t care that I was soaked, I didn’t care that I was cold—I was so entranced I had to follow it. Almost everyone seemed to feel that way—I didn’t have to look where I was going, I just kept in step with the surge. It walked all the way up Haymarket to Picadilly, while I followed after with my eyes wide and my heart thumping. At some point, we passed a man in the middle of the street, shaking his head and saying, “What is it? Is it advertising something?” I told him, “No, it’s performance!” and gave him the website, but he just shook his head, and I could almost hear him thinking, “What a waste of money.”
I hope he has a good hobby he enjoys somewhere.
By that time, unfortunately, I had to make it back here. I bought a good-sized bag for the overflow of things I’ve bought, and it’s almost not big enough. I raced back, throwing fast food down my throat and changing into something warmer and drier while the concierge, bless him, tried to help me find out if the open-air Globe was open tonight.
The conversation amused me. “I’m going to a show at The Globe tonight—“
“Which one?”
Duh. There are more theatres than people here, idiot. “Sorry. Shakespeare’s Globe.”
“Ah, right!”
I barely made it. By the time I got to the Millennium Bridge, I could hear the bells ringing people in at last call. I was so tired, and my legs hurt so much, I must’ve looked like a crippled sheep trotting down to the bankside. But I made it.
It’s late, and I have an early wake-up call, so I’ll write more tomorrow. Suffice to say this was theatre very much like what I know PARF wants to be. I was probably the only Rennie in the house, and it was very, very odd. But I think it was an experience no one who loves theatre should miss. It was wonderful, and strange, and so help me, next time, I’m renting a cushion, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, and I’m sorry I briefly hoped it had indeed been cancelled so I could come back here and sleep. But next year, it’d better not rain.
I’m packed. I’m morose. Must be time to come home.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-07 01:20 am (UTC)Let me know when your flight lands and what terminal. I'll be there to get ya.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-07 01:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-07 04:48 am (UTC)*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2006-05-07 11:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-07 06:03 pm (UTC)Wow...
Date: 2006-05-07 11:14 am (UTC)Most of the site is non-functional but here's (http://www.thesultanselephant.com/gallery/large_image_pages/W2H0352.php) a small pic of the elephant.
Re: Wow...
Date: 2006-05-09 03:19 pm (UTC)