High Art

La Traviata, the opera I saw last night at The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, was the epitome of “high art.” Not high in the Amsterdam sense, nor high in the sense of “Oh man my nose is going to bleed from being in this seat on the 5^th level.” High as in classy, sophisticated even a bit pretentious. And I loved every second of it.

Just being in the Opera House (pictured throughout this post) was incredible. But the show was equally as mesmerizing. I recommend – whether you are seeing some cheesy musical or the finest ballet or opera – try to listen to the music first. Doing so makes the experience so much better because not only does it make the show easier to follow along, but you can sing along in your head as well. Don’t sing out loud, though. People will literally shush you.

La Traviata is about a man who falls in love with a prostitute. Then the man’s father tells the prostitute to leave his son because he doesn’t want her ruining his son’s good name. Yadda Yadda Yadda, she gets sick and dies. The end. I only mention the plot because I wanted to mention the sickness. The third and final act takes place entirely on her deathbed, which requires her to cough and be sickly. Well, in some sort of strange osmosis, the coughing in the audience really picked up in the third act. One lady had the hacks so bad that she had to leave her seat and go into the hallway. I guess art really can influence life.

That’s all for now. I am going to Germany this weekend with a few flat mates to visit Pat (You remember my friend who freaked the girl out because he looks 27). Next post will not be till Sunday night or Monday. Have a good weekend and go Giants!

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

Routine

I have settled into a bit of a routine. To bore you for a bit: I wake up at 9:45, eat a small breakfast before going to the gym. On the way I pass by the Natural History Museum and the Science Museum. Consequently, I see school groups every day. All the kids are hyped up and screaming -- just excited to be out of the classroom. They look at me a little funny because my hair is usually messed up considering I haven’t showered yet. I could say the same about them. After the workout I come home make a big lunch and read the paper before heading to class at 1:15. After class (5:15) I begin dinner and either settle down to do some reading for school or I decide on going out to a pub for a while.

But the point of this post is not to bore you with the cycle of my day. We all have one, and I am sure you don’t particularly care about my routine. But it is simply having this routine that puts me into a contemplative mindset.

Before I got here, I did not really envision having such a rhythmic life. It was supposed to be all new and all exciting. Making decisions on a whim and not caring about having the same necessities I had in the States. So part of me feels like having this routine is wrong. It feels like I am going about this whole London thing in the wrong way. I am almost Americanizing my experience.

But wasn’t that the purpose of coming here in the first place? By having a routine, I am living in this foreign city. When I came back to London from Amsterdam, in some way I was returning home. I had to go get groceries. So maybe I don’t have to be a tourist in London. In fact, I shouldn’t be tourist in London. At least not all the time. And the fact is many Londoners have routines just like mine that don’t always involve wild and invigorating Wednesdays. So maybe routine is OK. I just don’t want to get too comfortable.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

We in the Red Light District

Answer me this about Amsterdam: If coffee shops sell weed and cafes sell alcohol and bars actually serve food, where can you get a decent latte? I half expected the answer to be something like at a “pot brewery” or something.

In case you couldn’t figure it out, this post will be about my jaunt this weekend to Amsterdam. Was that intro good enough to make you want to keep reading? Damn, where did I lose you? Too confusing? Hmm, I see your point. Regardless, get yourself interested. This post will be a bit longer than usual because it covers a good amount of time, but it will be worth it. Maybe.

Amsterdam reminded me slightly of Provincetown, Mass. In both places you walk around on brick and cobblestone narrow streets, have to look out for bikes instead of cars, go window shopping and feel like you are amongst 80 percent tourists. You walk around these quaint little villages and feel like they are the most innocent places on earth and then bam: SEX! It’s unavoidable. In each place, sexuality hits you like an angry pimp’s fist. But instead of men “touching each other’s fannies” (inside joke) like in Provincetown, in Amsterdam it is hookers banging on their windows trying to get you to come inside. Some of them were quite attractive. I debated whether it would be appropriate to take pictures of them but ultimately decided it was not worth the risk so you will have to do with this stupid picture of “red lights.” Sadly I cannot regale you with any sexcapades involving myself or anyone within my travel group. None of us indulged.

Quite the opposite actually.

I’m somewhat shamefaced to admit this, but my first night in Amsterdam was actually the most sleep I have gotten since coming to London. Maybe it was the aroma seeping from all the “coffee shops.” Maybe it was the travel that came after a night of little sleep. Maybe it was all the walking we did that day (you can walk around the entire city of Amsterdam easily in an hour). I don’t know, but I do know I was amped for Saturday.
I was well rested, fueled with a hostel-supplied breakfast. We did a lot on Saturday. Saw the Van Gogh gallery, took a canal tour, walked through some sweet markets, saw the outside of the house that Anne Frank hid in, but none of us -- when it came time to do it -- actually had the strength to take advantage of the red light district. No strip club, no live show, no prostitutes no nothing. Se la vie. Always next time. Although I don’t really think Amsterdam is worth going back to. It’s kind of a novelty that doesn’t have much “replay value.”

When Dan (my roommate pictured here in Amsterdam's central station) and I got back our hostel on Saturday night, we found men sleeping in our beds. We were staying in a big room with 20 bunk beds. Very communal including the bathroom. It was actually quite nice. But strangers in our sheets were not what we wanted to see coming back just looking to crash. “Hey buddy, you are in my bed.” “No speaka ingles.” Seriously? I just woke you up. What do think it is that I want? Anyway, my Spanish is not the best and we couldn’t quite communicate. He simply rolled over and went back to sleep. Dan and I went down to the reception desk to make sure our reservation was still good. It was. The woman came up with us, kicked the guys out of our beds and gave us new sheets. They didn’t even attempt an apology, which I found strange.

I wish I could you offer you a better story but all in all it was a fairly tame trip to Amsterdam. Just one more little tale before you go though. The morning that we left for Amsterdam Dan realized he had forgotten his toiletries back at our flat. He luckily realized this right before we entered the South Kensington Tube station. So he sprinted back to get them while I waited outside the station. Two Brits came up to me and asked me if I knew the area well. I was hesitant. “Sorta.” “You know where the big Tesco is?” Tesco is a supermarket. And I did. I knew where it was! “Walk up Queen’s gate, take a left on Harrington road and right when you hit Gloucester. You will see it on your right.” “Would it be faster to take the Tube?” “You could take the Tube to Gloucester road and pop up right there if you like. Take the Circle or Piccadilly line.” “Cheers mate.” I was proud of myself. I knew the area well enough to give directions. But then I realized that was the wrong Tesco. They wanted the Warehouse Tesco, which is in the complete opposite direction. I completely screwed these guys. I wonder what happened to them. They probably cursed me pretty bad when they realized I pointed them about 20 minutes out of their way. But I like this story because it shows where I am as far as comfort with knowing things here. I’m slowly getting it, but there is still much to this city I am yet to master. I know it is there, but I am yet to completely familiarize myself with it.

Oh and an espresso shop. That’s where you can get a good latte in Amsterdam.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

The Serious Things

So for all of you who may think my only point in being here is to gallivant, I figured I would set the record straight. Despite what you may think (Dad), I am actually taking classes. My classes will last until Feb. 22. At that time I will have a week break (which I plan to use to go to Rome and the French Rivera) and will come back to start an internship on March 3. In case you are curious, I have been given my internship placement. Barring a glaringly unsuccessful interview, I will be working with the sports section of The Observer. The Observer is the Sunday sister paper to the Guardian. The Guardian has affiliations with The New York Times and The Washington Post. Those who know me know that I love sports. I actually came to BU wanting to be a sports journalist. However, after some time there I decided that news interested me professionally. Still, it will be nice to cover sports. Apparently my duties will include going to weekly English Premier League football matches and then joining in the press conferences. This could be a whole lot of fun. I am hoping that they will also give me writing opportunities. Will keep you posted on that.

Now a word on my professors:

English –

Mark Allen. Looks quite like a chubby Jesus with glasses. His personality is just as colorful. He speaks with such literary conviction all the time. So he will say something like “The sun: That fury of a star that breathes life into vastness of our universe and casts shadows upon trees which wilt from oppressiveness of it all.” But then he will roll his eyes as if to say “I really am an arse.”

Journalism –

Alexander MacLeod (Sounds like McCloud). MacLeod used to work for the Sunday Times and now produces some shows for BBC. He is lively when he speaks but often looks at the floor while doing so. Not intimidating in the least and is incredibly passionate about his field. He is worried that all British newspapers are becoming “Tabloidized.” This is the main theme of the class.

So there you have it. A bit of a boring post compared to the one below it, but I just wanted to prove I am actually doing some serious things in London. I am going to Amsterdam this weekend and will add pictures of that trip to this post or another post sometime later.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

First Encounter

So I finally did it! I met Brits. Lots of em.’ And Belgians too! I found out last night that the weekend bar scene here is much different than the mid-week pub crawling. Though I prefer pubs, bars and clubs are actually venues for meeting Brits.

In east London, we met a group of guys studying at Queen Mary’s College who were from different small cities across the country. One was from Luton another from a town starting with “H” somewhat west of here. (I didn’t want to ask him to repeat it). Like me, they were adjusting to life in London. It was a bit strange to hear people speaking with British accents yet talking about not being comfortable within their own country. The same thing would happen to me if I moved to, say, Seattle, but the close-nit feel of this Island made me think most UK residents were familiar with their capital.

In a club in Camden, me and the three guys I was with (Including my high-school friend Pat who was visiting London from his study-abroad home in Germany) approached four British girls. Like the three guys in the other bar, these girls were also struggling with life in London. They were 20 as well and were on their way to a friend’s birthday party. One of the girls was creeped out by Pat because she didn’t believe he was only 20. “You’re 27!” He pulled out his ID and proved her wrong. She was shocked to learn that I was older than him. (Here’s Pat, for those of you who don’t know him). In the course of the conversation I asked them how they were able to identify us as Americans based on only looks. They couldn’t answer that question. I will get back to you when I have it answered (which may be never).

The night continued as such. Pat and I chatted with these guys from Belgium for a while. We talked politics, sports, life. It was fun. It seemed real.

Part of me wishes I could end my story there but, against my better judgment, I am going to continue it. Pat and I, yes Pat and I, found ourselves on a Saturday night in North-central London in a gay bar. Don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t mean we found our selves – as in we discovered something about our true feelings – I just mean ended up sitting in one. But, to be honest, it was an incredibly lively scene. The men were definitely interested in us, probably more than either of us really wanted, and we got into some lively conversations -- probably the best conversation of the night. We sat talking to these two gentlemen and somehow started talking about the elephant in the room. What amazed Dolan and I was that the two men did not believe in a “gay gene.” Dolan and I, the two straight guys, argued adamantly with these two guys, but they maintained that their life choice to be gay was exactly that: a choice. Puzzling.

I’ll try to stay away from posts about nighttime follies in the future. But I thought it important for you to know of some of my first encounters.

Comments welcome,

Andrew

Mind the Gap

In the first few days, I have noticed there are definitely some gaps between Brits and Americans. Part of me thinks that the Brits bring them on themselves. For some reason, I don’t think they are particularly fond of us. Maybe it’s just all the looks I have been getting when I open my mouth to say something. Or maybe I feel this way because of the anecdotes I am about to share.

Anecdote 1: The other night I was at a pub and there was a soccer game on TV. (EUFA Cup, Liverpool vs. Luton for those who may care. Liverpool dominated. Also, London Pride is the best beer I have had here so far – that should make you proud Paul). Anyway, this guy was watching a futbol-highlight show pretty intently. It was after the game so I figured I wouldn’t bother him too much by talking to him. “Who’s your side?” I questioned. “Tottenham,” he responded. Over the summer, I became interested in soccer, and Tottenham is actually the club I support. This is why:

http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/060719.

Anyway, he was very short with me. I asked him if he thought it was a good move to fire the team’s manager (Tottenham is having an abysmal season) All he said was “Don’t know.” Now, if a British person were in the states and asked me if I thought it was a good idea to bench Chad Pennington (Jets Quarterback) in favor of Kellen Clemens (new Jets quarterback) I would go on a huge rant and probably have a long conversation with the guy. I would be so impressed that he knew so much about the love of my life. Maybe this guy was just tired or upset at Tottenham’s bad season. But hey, the Jets went 4-12 this year.

Anecdote 2: Tonight I went to see a play in the Waterloo area. I saw a version of Cinderella filled with burlesque comedy. They literally did the whole pie-to-the-face routine. It was a colorful show that was entertaining but not memorable. Anyway, on the way there, I got a little lost coming out of the Waterloo Tube station. I pulled out my pocket map but, just to make sure, I asked a policeman who was standing near by how to get to the Old Vic Theatre. “Go through this underpass and turn left,” he said. “Left? Ok.” So I did. I went as far left as I could until I got to the bank of the Thames. “Well this obviously isn’t right,” I thought. I knew left was wrong based on my map but had decided to trust the cop rather than the piece of paper. Stupid decision. I walked back past where the cop had been and saw a man coming down the street. I asked him directions. I obviously needed to make a right. Did the cop purposely point me in the wrong direction? Seems likely.

Despite the sound of this post, I am still adamant about meeting Brits. I just haven’t figured out how to do so yet.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

Interesting Men

View from my top bunk

(Scattered throughout this post are a few pictures of my room)

While traveling to my final destination of 12 Manson Place, Kensington, London I met two particularly interesting men.

The first: A Nigerian oil man who was in the states “on holiday” with his wife. We met while waiting for a Virgin employee to come and check us in. (They like long lunch breaks I guess). He had a very thick accent and was difficult to understand, but he had an awful lot to say. The conversation evolved from griping about the Virgin staff (that sounds funny if you don’t know I am talking about an airline) into an almost political quibble. He believes America has religion correct. We have freedom of religion in this country. He was against Islamic states that coerce people into having certain beliefs. “At airports, they check for bibles when they should be looking for bombs.” I agreed with him there. But he went on to say that he believes religion should have some part in the governing system. “Your founding fathers had Christianity in mind when they created this country.” Maybe, but that doesn’t mean certain Right-wing leaders should be able to impose personal Religious beliefs and create laws supporting them. Anyway, it was a spirited talk and helped pass the time.

The second: A cabbie. Before leaving for London, my sister gave me a couple of Bill Bryson books about his travels in Europe. There is a great moment in “Notes From a Small Island” where he talks about his experience with London cab drivers. “The other distinctive thing about them, and the reason I like to go to Hazlitt’s (hotel), is that they cannot bear to admit that they don’t know the location of something they feel they ought to know,” (31). Bryson must have driven with the same cabbie I did. “Where you going?” he asked us. We told him 12 Manson place. “Oh, 12 Mansion Place! I know it well! I have been there before!” Seconds later he is rolling down the window and handing us an almanac saying “Point it out to me in this book.” I jokingly said he should get a GPS system. He chuckled and pointed to his noggin. He claimed the street doesn’t really exist. Or at least, it has changed names. We arrived nonetheless at 12 Manson Place.

Orientation stuff this week. Will post if something interesting happens. May do picture post.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

London Eve

My one Bag

On the eve of this grand adventure I am feeling a whole mess of things. The almost obligatory excitement is there. And believe me, it is much more sincere than that sounds. At the same time, some nerves are being struck. It’s akin to the night before leaving for college. What awaits? Who will I meet? Will I succeed?
I do feel pressure. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Is it possible to waste? What if I don’t see all there is to see. “That’s silly,” you say. “You can’t possibly see it all!” But part of me feels like I want to. Like I have to. Like I can. So I will try, all the while knowing I am just going to come up empty.
Most of all, I feel as though I am about to disappear. London is an English-speaking city, just a six hour plane trip away and somewhat similar looking to Boston. But being there will be like being on the opposite side of the world. This computer is where I will do my most extensive home communicating from. My cell phone won’t have a (518) area code for the first time in my life.
I am going to be living in a foreign city. Not just visiting or touring. Living. I will shop in a grocery store I have never seen. Sleep in a bed I can’t even picture. But I guess the same thing would happen to me no matter where I was moving. Still, something about this feels different.
It’s strange because at many points in my life I have thought “Man, this is such a small world.” We all have. Well, right now, this globe has never felt more overwhelming. Tomorrow this petite man finds out just how gigantic earth really is.

Comments welcome,

Andrew