London is Calling

Transatlanticism:

The flight was mostly uneventful, with the exception of mid-twenties American girl who had the shy look of someone who had never traveled out of the country and a mouth that politely deceived you into thinking that it was worth listening to, but after about 2 hours of talk about being an aid in Washington, and how she was responsible for such and such bill and how no one knew how to do anything at the office while she was on vacation and how worried she was about all the work she left behind, I realized that it wasn't worth trying to make conversation, and that even though she was nice enough, she never listened to me beyond figuring out when she could talk again. I guess that is typical of most people. Within the quagmire of her words, she did mention to me some places I should visit in London, which I was thankful for. The next four hours passed in a contained state of anticipation, a desire for sleep, and the uncomfortable feeling of a crick in your neck from staring at a screen that had nothing worth watching. But before I knew it, the seats were in their upright position and the tray tables were back and our stomachs had dropped several thousand feet. And then we were in England.

Day One:

I don’t think for any traveler there are any feelings better than taking that first step at the first stop on your journey and the last step on the last stop of your journey. It’s a pervasive feeling that speaks of a thousand more steps, a hundred new faces, a new language, and an endless amount of adventure. Within it’s sacristy it is bold. Beneath your sole, it is new. About 500 steps later, however, I was greeted with all the graciousness that big brother could muster and with a dozen questions of interrogation. “Why are you in England? Who are you traveling with? Are you aware that minors are not allowed to travel alone? Do your parents know that you are here? Who is this Mr. Lavender? How old is he? Where are you staying? How are you getting there? Etc. etc”. I confidently answered his questions, pulling out papers, smiling nicely, giving him phone numbers-- which he then used to go wake up my parents at 1:30 in the morning with heavy breathing and a British accent that asked, “Hello, I am sorry to disturb you, but are you aware that your son is in England with a stack of tickets about a centimeter thick?”. I was relegated to a row of uncomfortable chairs by myself as the custom’s area slowly emptied, except for a Japanese couple who looked in love and had things to laugh about even when they were waiting. I smiled inwardly to suppress a slightly squeamish feeling that was trying to break loose. I pulled out my book and with an air of determination, I pretended to read and act clam, act casual—as if this happened to me everyday, and that a few phone calls, a few stamps would take care of it all. Naturally, I was right. But if all else had failed I figured I could probably have bust past the customs man, made a dash for the underground, and used my bags as protection from the whizzing bullets. Walking threw the gate seemed so boring after I had thought of that. But I was lost within a few minutes so I had a bit of an adventure to keep my spirits up.

On the train, I looked out the window, hoping that stereotypes would be broken and that the sky would be a perfect blend of aqua blue, foamy milk, and a splotch of lemonade yellow that warms your insides—for you see, I felt that it would only be natural that the rest of the world would reflect my inner satisfaction and exuberance. Sadly at that time of the morning, the sky was still melancholy and grey, and the sun had barely had the energy to make the dew on the train tracks rise from the dead.
I was surprised at how industrial the landscape was. The buildings were a mesh of red bricks, industrial steel, smoke stacks, and an occasional broken window. It seemed odd that there were still so many signs of the industrial age, but I guess every culture keeps its relics to its most prosperous age.

Our Bedroom:

A taxi cab later, and I had finally arrived at the world famous Claridges Hotel. There were bellmen to greet me and hold the door open, there were sweeping entrances with exalted chandeliers, and there enough snobs to fill the Titanic. I guess I was guilty by association. The room was a suite with two doors to the outside, its own hallway, a living room with a Victorian couch and desk and another exalted chandelier, a fireplace that was in both the bedroom and living room. There was crown molding all along the walls and climbed up to the top of the 14 foot ceilings. The armoire was a delicate mixture of beige and gold, with mirrors on the front. The sheets were soft and fine. The bathroom was state of the art and the shower felt like a message.

And I entered like a conqueror even though it was barely 9 o’clock, but then I was alone. Then comes the paralysis. Immobilization. Quicksand. Suddenly, a shower and a day in bed reading seemed like perfection. Suddenly, I realized that I didn’t know where to go-- where I was-- who I was going to rely on. Justifications for why it would be ok to wait around for Jeff who didn’t arrive till 4 were flooding my mind like the water beneath Noah’s ark. I was tired. I had had a long flight and a tough ordeal at customs. The bed was so soft. And all I could think of was curling up in the fetal position. I was scared.

Luckily, that only lasted about 20 minutes, before I had that moment; you know what I am talking about. That moment in the movies, when the hero is tempted to stop, to remain, to give up, to go back, but then knots his fist and smiles a belligerent smile that everyone in the audience reciprocates. I remembered that I was on a trip around the world. That I, alone of my friends, was on this journey. That this was a trip of a life time and it didn’t matter how high class the hotels were or if I was tired or scared, but I was not going to squander it. And I was on my way.

Armed with a map (which I promptly lost), my bag, my Ipod, my sunglasses and my ever-faithful camera and I began what was probably one of my fondest days of sightseeing. I took no buses, no taxis and spent hardly more than 5 bucks, but I saw an excellent balance of the everyday streets and the grand landmarks that are renowned around the globe.

Green Garden:

The Statue at Buckingham Palace; The Royal Gaurds

At first, I was just planning on taking a nice stroll for 30 minutes or so, just to get a feel for the streets and figure out my way around a little better and my feet secure beneath my legs. So I wandered into Green Garden, which I mistook for just one of those random parks that they have around downtown Westminster. This was a direct result of me losing my map. But after walking around the park, taking pictures of people sitting on benches, listening to my Ipod while I stared at the sky, and finally reaching the other side of the park, I was quite surprised to be greeted by Buckingham Palace and the Royal guards in their crimson coats and dead animal hats. The building itself wasn’t that impressive, and it held my attention very little, but as I
continued to walk around the government buildings, it put Washington D.C. in perspective and in many ways it dwarfed the monuments and the buildings of D.C into a smaller size. There is a much greater sense of reverence, grandeur and pompousness in England than American will probably ever achieve. The buildings and monuments reek of age and the rising and falling of an
empire. There are glimpses of gold from the most prosperous age, and there are marble pillars that are larger than many men combined. I imagine that America’s founders would be quite pleased to know that our heads of State haven’t wasted so much of the public’s wealth on petty monuments, but from the aesthete’s perspective, one can not deny there is beauty in majesty.

St. James Park with Buckingham Palace in the Background:

From Buckingham palace, I continued to walk in a knowingly lost sort of way. I walked past St. James Park. And within the half of kilometer of walking I probably heard a half a dozen different languages being spoken. I walked under a large arch with a Latin inscription, which if I
had had my map I would probably know the name of, but I never found out. The arch, it turned out, happened to lead straight to Trafalgar Square, which has a statue on top of column that reaches one hundred and fifty feet into the sky and four lions sitting at its feet.

Nelson's Column and St. Matin in the Fields Church:

From there I walked up to St. Martin in the Fields church, which in many ways was like a thousand other cathedrals in Europe, but even in its monotony it had a certain atmosphere and mood which has moved men through the ages.

The National Gallary:

I crossed the street, only to discover (and it should be noted, I didn't really discover it, because it was only after someone had asked me to take their picture that I realized where I was) that I was at the National Gallery, which was undoubtedly one of the highlights of the trip. For one, it was free, and there were just enough people to be able to wander around unnoticed, and yet never feel crowded. They had pictures by Monet (whose colors were even more amazing in person), Van Gogh (whose visionary power never ceases to amaze me), Salvatore Rosa (who has power in his every stroke), Degas (who I have a new found appreciation for) and my personal favorite: J.M.W. Turner (who is the painter of light). I wandered around there for a couple hours, and was very thankful for the seats they provided and just barely skived off falling asleep in the glow of Turner paintings and leather seats. And I listened to the Art Teacher.

Ben and I:

House Of Parliment's Tower:

All the day, I had seen Big Ben towering over the city, and I knew that it was inevitable that I would be captured in its gaze. And so finally, I decided that I would brave the unknown and find out how to finally reach the House of Parliaments. Which after about 20 minutes of walking and several detours, I finally reached. And I was most impressed with its gothic armor and I think it is probably the most impressive government building that I can imagine, as it stretches upwards on both ends. Its golden hue, shimmers in reflection of the Thames River like a lion’s mane and its ominous, almost threatening look is the ideal mixture of power, eloquence and mystery.

From there I walked past Westminster Abby with hardly a second look, for its emptiness could be felt from the stones that made up its walls. And it was also something like 11 pounds to get in.

But I continued on, and somehow managed to find Westminster Cathedral, which was a jewel hidden behind modern buildings, McDonalds, and clothes shops. At that moment my camera decided to die, so I don't have any photographs of it, but I remember it was covered in beautiful red brick and marble and it had a Byzantine feel to it. Inside it was comforting; it was overwhelming without appearing over the top or gaudy. Tasteful red and white marble covered the floors which were covered with seemingly ageless oak pews. There were stained glass windows with murals of Jesus’ life in kaleidoscope colors. There was rose mosaics enlaced into the marble floor and there were dead saints with scriptures above their encased bodies. I lighted a candle, said a prayer and then walked away.

From there I walked back to the hotel, always guessing the general direction and following my gut. The day was magnificent, and in many ways it was the beginning of not only an amazing journey, but a spiritual and mental journey that we must all take. It was about being alone, and being confident. It was about adventure, and not giving up. It was about life, and empires. It was about being, and on that day I felt like I embraced it.

After I got back to the hotel, I took a well deserved nap. I talked and greeted Jeff. And then we went to an amazing Italian restaurant where we revealed a bit of our soul. I would share what we said, but this is non-fiction, and I will have to save it for one day when I write a story and I need an amazing conversation about life, religion and friendship.