Building Bridges

The London Bridge area of London has a dark side — and they’ll do all they can to let everyone know. Just walking up the stairwell of the Underground station to reach the outdoors, the first sight visible is a billboard for the London Bridge Experience. That billboard leads one to notice an eight-foot-tall, unsavory, horned creature cloaked in black.

Crossing Tooley Street to get a better look, I found myself watching a beheading via guillotine. Distracted by the spectacle, I never noticed the man creep up next to me. WHOOSH! A breath of air whips at the side of my face, making me jump about a foot in the air and two to the right.

The scariest moment I experienced all day degenerated into a sales pitch for the London Bridge Experience by the man in a white dress shirt and black vest … only with a white painted face and fake blood dripping from his right eye and left temple. Advertised as bloody scary, the attraction details 2,000 years of the bridge’s history, since its creation in Roman times.

I contemplated embarking on the tour. However, being as stubborn as I am and not appreciative of the guy’s sales technique, I decided to follow through with my original plan of exploring the London Dudgeon. Located next door to the tube station, the attraction boasts segments featuring the Great Fire of London, Jack the Ripper and Sweeney Todd and brings the spectators in on the action.

Mostly artificial scares, with stomping, screaming and surprise, and cheap thrills from the two fast-moving rides and special effects, the attraction was entertaining but not meant for the real thrill-seeker. If one wants scary, the £21.95 price tag and hour-long line should be sufficient. It was an enjoyable experience; it just was not worth the cost.

Stepping away from the macabre, the area also offers a calm atmosphere, with a variety of shopping, eating and sightseeing options. The section of the city was originally called the Pool of London and stretches from London Bridge to a bit past the Tower Bridge on both sides of the river. The south side of the area, by the London Bridge Underground station, is less bustling and more peaceful than its northern counterpart by the Monument station.

The district, while historical, is also a burgeoning area with buildings styled with modern architecture — glass, stone and steel. Between the London and Tower bridges is the Queen’s Walk, which offers a scenic view of the Thames. Walking east on the walkway, I follow the crowd of lovers, friends, families and random passersby, clad in comfortable clothing and speaking English and French, among other languages. 

Prominently featured is the HMS Belfast, a ship once part of the British Navy. It now is a museum ship and is maintained by the Imperial War Museum. Tourists snap photos of the ship and surrounding dock areas, while others enter the ship itself for a more close-up tour.

In the shadow of the ship is a fountain surrounded by cylindrical seats of smooth and polished tan granite. Children run through the spouting water, while their parents — some disgruntled by their children’s presently soaked condition — look on. A grandmother-granddaughter pair poses for a picture with arms outstretched, so that the water trickles over their fingers. Visitors sit on the seats, hoping the flecks of water spraying in their direction will cool them off. Overheated passersby buy frozen treats from the nearby ice cream truck to distract them from the pounding afternoon sun.

Eventually, I reach Potters Fields Parks, an open, grassy area on the riverside. Two men, sporting close-fitting black uniforms, ride unicycles, raising them at least six feet above their natural heights. They juggle white and neon orange pins and exchange banter with each other.

A few yards over, a stage is set up. A Greek road show, called The World of Athens, attempts to attract tourism to Greece by appealing to the senses — See Athens. Hear Athens. Smell Athens. Touch Athens. A horde of people occupies the surrounding lawns; some take over the lawn chairs, others sit on the walkway ledges and the rest lounge on the grass. A young couple stands to dance, jokingly rocking back and forth.

The juxtaposed themes of the area — the vivacity of the daylight and the sinister underground — make for a relaxed or chilling experience, depending on one’s tastes. It only takes a bit of exploring — literally just walking down Tooley Street — to see all that there is to offer. Descending into the station, I thought I ought to return and explore further; with its modern and historic offerings, just one visit is not enough.

Tricktionary

Ashley, Rachel, Jess and I went to Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens today. It was a really nice day and a good chance to trade the hustle and bustle of the city for a nice park setting. We saw the Princess Di Memorial and the Peter Pan statue, but what I thought was coolest were the skaters. 

There were a group of people with really long two-wheeled skates and poles. It was like cross country skiing but on pavement and with wheels. I'll have to do some more research into what this sport is actually called ... no luck as of yet. Check out one of Ashley's photos above. 

Even better than these guys were the skaters. There were a bunch of them who brought these tiny cones, placing them in a line on the side of the walkway. They would proceed to weave in and out of the cones. It was really awesome! Here is another of Ashley's photos below.

The skaters made me think of how much I love watching the X Games and the Dew Tour back home. I can't wait for them to come on TV later this summer: X Games 15 takes place from July 30 through Aug. 2 in Los Angeles. The tricks are just so cool (or sick ... ). 

What was different today was the precision: The guys today were turning on a dime. I'm sure the professionals can do the same, but it was awesome to get the chance to see such an emphasis on technical work right in front of my eyes! It also makes me wonder why there's not more inline skating in these extreme sports competitions. They've got skateboarding, BMX (bicycle motocross), FMX (freestyle motocross) and others, but you don't see much inline skating. 

A sense of space

I am certainly not a city girl. I’ve never really even been to New York City. The only city I have any familiarity with is Philadelphia, although I usually only go there to visit my family and attend sporting events.

If I didn’t have to worry about finding employment or a steady paycheck, I would happily live out in the boondocks of the Pocono Mountains, where the only traffic comes from NASCAR fans on race weekends and the construction on Rt. 80.

When it came to the thought of living in a big city like London, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know if I could sufficiently find my way around (not yet) or if I would be able to keep up with the pace of city life.

I like my space. I detest large crowds, where I’m jostled around, stepped on and shoved with bags — and my first taste of London in Heathrow gave me a bit of that experience. In my high school, with about 3,500 students and four minutes between classes, I learned how to maneuver through crowds, although that also gave me a distaste for them. 

It’s not claustrophobia; however, like any sense, in which one uses a particular function to perceive and react to stimuli, it has physiological effects. The perception of being closely surrounded makes me tense.

Since I arrived in London, I’ve felt somewhat cooped up. I suppose it is a bit of culture shock. Most areas seem cozy — the London Center … the store aisles … the street widths … the toilet paper rolls. Bristol Cars on Holland Road doesn’t even have an outdoor lot. Everything just seems squished together and closed in.

This is not suburbia, where size matters and bigger is always better.

Our trip to St. Paul’s Cathedral provided the absolute juxtaposition for that feeling. Meandering the alleyways up to the cathedral, I noticed the darkness from the height of the buildings and the narrowness of the walkway.

BUT, when you enter St. Paul’s, it opens up! It’s huge. The domed ceiling stretches up until I can no longer make out the details of the paintings. The Quire extends for yards, with its mosaics of Biblical scenes inspiring awe. There’s space. There’s nothing like a church to make you realize there is more to the world than your own little corner of it.

From the Stone Gallery, you can see the expanse of London. London then doesn’t seem small … it’s vast and sprawling. Above the city, you can breathe.

Climbing down those 376 steps to the cathedral floor and out into the street, I was disappointed I couldn’t spend more time inside. However, you must keep up with the pace of a schedule and the city.  While I don’t think I’ll give up my love of open space, St. Paul’s made me realize: Perhaps if there is such wonder in the open space, that wonder can also be found in the small spaces. Now, I’m intent on seeing it — finding my miniature St. Paul’s. 

Man on, man on, man on

This past day (Wednesday), Seth and I went a block or two over from the dorms to watch a soccer (or "football") game at the local pitch. I played soccer for 10 years growing up, so I love the sport. I can't even remember how long it has been since I saw a game live, so it was wonderful to get to see it played in a country where the people care so much about it. 

We might be going to see a professional game next week, which would be so amazing! I think it's Ireland versus Nigeria. I have my hopes set on this, so I really want it to work out.

By the way, Jeremy (if you're reading this), I'm working on the England jersey. We talked to a soccer (well, football ... ) player with an England jersey on, and he suggested a sports shop that might have the new jerseys. So, I'll probably check that place out to see if they have it. 

Wise words from my brother

On our second day in London (Tuesday), when we went to the London Center for class and, thus, had access to at least marginally functioning technology for the first time, I sent an e-mail to my brother and parents, explaining my technological woes.

After telling him that the power blew out in our room and that my laptop charger is now fried, my brother replied, "Haha you blew out the power ." After complaining that London technology hates me, he replied, "I am sure London does not hate you, it probably just dislikes you. "

Thank you, Steven. At least that made me laugh.

So, we now have the Internet, as slow as it is. My charger is still fried (thankfully, Jess is lending me her charger at the moment), meaning that I must find an Apple Store to go to, so that I can get a new one. Not cool. However, I am otherwise enjoying this trip very, very much and refuse to let my computer problems ruin my good time.

Buckingham and Beatles

            The soldiers stand in formation. Their guns rest on their shoulders, and they stare ahead stoically. They’ve been waiting — as has the audience — for quite some time. Their predecessors have guarded royal palaces and the sovereign since 1660, according to the official Web site of the British Monarchy. These current guards are just taking their turn. However, it’s time for them to rest for a few hours.

It’s way past 11:30 a.m., when the Changing the Guard ceremony at Buckingham Palace is supposed to occur. Some of the audience grows finicky, awaiting the action. Queen Elizabeth II, wearing a pink suit and matching hat, leaves the palace in a black car. Apparently, she doesn’t want to wait, either. Or perhaps, rather, they’ve been waiting for her to depart.

A note from a trumpet pierces the air. It wobbles a bit, as the producer rides down the throughway on his black horse with his fellow riders, all dressed in black uniforms with white, gold and red adornments. White hats — with long red tassels that reach the nape of their necks — rest atop their heads. They enter the gates, and, once again, the audience members wait.

However, they can begin to hear thumping from far off. These drumbeats signal the first indication that the delay is nearly through. Soon, they see the marchers. Led by a horseman in a neon-green coat, they are your typical British guards. They wear red coats and tall bearskin caps.

Many of them have chevrons as part of their uniform decoration. These inverted v’s line the entire uniform sleeves of some. Others only have a few, and still others have none. From afar and with the swinging of the soldiers’ arms, the sleeves could be 3-feet-long candy canes flying forward and back with every beat.

The first group carries band instruments. Air blown through their reeds and mouthpieces travels through the open air to listeners’ ears — a soundtrack to the ceremonial pomp. They enter the gate, followed by fellow soldiers, who have golden bugles attached to their garb, and we wait once again.

Eventually the old guards and replacements march back and forth in some ceremonial practice. They face off as if to duel, but, instead, one member of each group meets the other in the center of the gap. After further marching, they shake hands, as do others of the group.

Some instrument-bearing soldiers step forward. They set up in their semi-circle formation and begin playing. The band plays a rendition of the Beatles’ “Michelle.” The trumpets supply the melody, the trombones offer a base line, and the drummers carry the beat.

There are other horsemen riding across the throughway, but all I can hear is the tune, as it seized my attention. In my head, I’m singing, “Michelle, ma belle / Sont des mots qui vont trés bien ensemble / trés bien ensemble.” Just think, I’ve been in London for fewer than three days, and I’m standing outside of Buckingham Palace, while these protectors of the country play the song with which I share my name.

Look left, look right ... but most of all, look for WHITE

My first concrete observation after exiting the plane at Heathrow was that people in London walk very quickly, as if they’re always in a hurry. Our group was passed numerous times on the way out of the airport, and it wasn’t merely because we were all exhausted and lugging our bags. A woman tried to nudge me out of her way, and a little blond girl with a purple and green pastel Tinkerbell suitcase outpaced Seth on the moving sidewalk.

Everyone seems to walk up behind us, impatiently slow down for a few paces and then rush by, as if we’re traveling at a snail’s pace. It’s like they’re all training for a power-walking competition.

After traveling around London for two days — and doing quite a bit of walking — I’ve realized why.

I’ve seen a number of cars nearly strike pedestrians. At the London Center, Bill, Sarah and Ryan told us stories of students and faculty getting hit. I’ve also experienced the fear firsthand, as we’ve sprinted across busy streets with cars speeding at us.

Thus, it seems to me, at least, that London pedestrians are at a disadvantage when it comes to transportation. Perhaps this opinion is a result of my suburban lifestyle and lack of experience in cities, but, frankly, I don’t want to fear for my life every time I want to cross the street.

The one thing working in pedestrians’ favor, however, is the fact that the streets are lined with words and symbols that direct us. While they confuse me in their differences from the American system — why cross the street in the middle of the road? — those striking white lines are what have kept me alive for the last 37 or so hours. Without the large white block letters staring up at me from the ground, telling me I’d better look in a particular direction before stepping into traffic, I’d be in trouble.

“LOOK RIGHT.” “LOOK LEFT.”  Kids learn early on that they must look both ways before crossing the street. However, sometimes — in London, in my case — we all need a little help.

With all of the foot traffic, those white stripes and lines take a beating. All day long, they bear the clomping of shoes, the click-clack of heels — and the stomping of five American college students running from bombarding buses and cars.

Those poor white lines. At one time, they were newly painted, contrasting sharply with the black street beneath. The thick, pasty paint looked like vanilla icing on the surface of a pan of brownies. They help us with every step, and we tread on them until their crisp white turns to gray with wear.

We take advantage of them, using them for their assistance, until they wither away. Then, we paint over them without much thought, but only when they're missing do we come to realize how much we need them. The white lines of London may be most famous for bearing the steps of George, Paul, Ringo and John, but I, for one, have come to appreciate the white lines for an entirely other reason.