What happens in London II

I was surprised that being stuck on the tube made me feel as sick as it did, though since then I have had a couple experiences of too much exposure to the cold English air making me feel flu-ish. One day, coming home from King's Cross (maybe I ought to avoid that station?) I decided it would be much easier to take a bus, and there was one nearby that would take me right to the end of the street I live on. I found the nearest bus stop, but it happened to be closed that weekend, and for some reason, the bus would not stop even when I hailed it from the temporary stop further down the street. I decided to keep walking, thinking the next stop couldn't be too far, but I must have taken a wrong turn--oh, if I had an iPhone!--because I saw no more stops for the correct bus number. Before I knew it, I had walked nearly all the way from King's Cross to the Thames. I eventually gave up and got on a bus--any bus--that would take me nearer to home. But tired, in heels, in the cold, that excusion made me sick for a day. I used to wonder, reading a Brontë or an Austen novel, why such fuss was made about not being outside too much in case the heroine became ill. Now I wonder if there is something in the English air!

The weather isn't all bad here. No one believes that I don't mind the rain and cold, but I was used to rain living in Houston, and the cold is nothing compared to Ohio. It almost never snows in London, it's so mild--but, as it happens, I was lucky enough to experience one of the rare snows a couple weeks ago. Various reports claimed that it was the most snow London had seen for 20 years, or even for 40. It was a once a generation event, certainly. The first night we had a covering, all the twenty-something people in the neighborhood were out in the streets, making snowmen and throwing snowballs. The day following, Monday, saw a city that almost could not operate at all. Since snow is so rare, the city doesn't own many plows or salting equipment. None of the buses ran, few of the trains, and most of the workers couldn't make it in. I didn't even try.

The Dickensian view from my window:

I'll end with a couple fun things I've done recently. A few weeks ago, a friend of mine had a 'fancy dress' birthday party. All we did was go to a bar for drinks, but to liven it up, she asked that we all dress like characters in a film noir movie. It seems like this 'fancy dress party' thing is popular here--although I've heard that it is considered an American thing, I think that must be because Halloween is so much bigger in the States. I seem to have tried harder than anyone else to fit the part--I had new long black gloves that were my grandmother's that I'd been looking for an excuse to wear, and enough spare time that afternoon to wonder whether YouTube had tutorials for 1940s hairstyles (it did).



More recently, Ollie invited me to come to a night of theatrical performances at a bar in Camden (yes, everything here seems to happen in a bar). It was mostly Cambridge graduates now in London and included one act plays, musicians, a dance piece, and, what I particularly wanted to see, the puppet play "Trouble" that Ollie wrote, directed, and acted in. Everything (or mostly everything--but I'm trying not to be critical) was enjoyable, but Ollie's play was the highlight. I was impressed by the amount of talent, but more by the evidence of so many artists putting much, much time into preparation. The little room above the bar was absolutely packed, far above the expected turn-out of about ten. This is the type of thing I love about London. I'm sure a similar scene could have occured almost anywhere in the world, but this city seems to attract artists and creative thinkers. I feel at home.

What happens in London

I have been saving up things to write about for quite a while and not having time to do it that I thought I would put them all up together and be done with it, but my entry got longer and longer, so I think I will need to break it up. For your reading pleasure, therefore, a montage of experiences of London:

I will start with the place where Londoners seem to spend most of their time: in a pub. I think pubs fill some of the function that a Starbucks might have in the States--but also, where Americans prefer meeting friends for a meal, it seems that Brits are more likely to invite someone just to have a drink (or tea). In any case, the people on my Shakespeare course got the idea that it would be fun to meet at a Shakespeare-themed pub. We did find one, one night, by accident, but since them we've been stumbling across them all over London. There are "Shakespeare's Head"s near Regent Street and Holborn, "The Shakespeare"s in Barbican and Victoria--there are even a few named after characters, like "The Falstaff" and "Othello".

The other most common London experience would probably have to be transport problems. I feel, first, that I ought to preface my horror stories by saying that I am always impressed by how well the public transport here works. Millions of Londoners don't even need cars because the tube, bus, taxi, and trains are so good.

But, with the amount of people who use the tube, problems are bound to happen. One day last term, I was trying to get from where I live, near Elephant and Castle in south London, to King's Cross in north London. I was on my way to a graduate conference at the British Library and had meant to be early so that I could stop by the university to run a few errands. I got on the train as planned, and was happily reading a copy of the London Review of Books when, at the next station, and for an unknown reason, there were so many people wanting to board the train that I thought there was no possibility they would all fit. Fit they did, and though I felt very much like a sardine, I supposed that many of the other passengers would change trains at the next station, Bank, which is one of the busier stations. But just before the train arrived at Bank, it was forced to stop in the middle of the tunnel. The lights flickered as the conductor turned the engine on and off. Everyone tried not to look at one another, not to talk. The heat was immense, and no one could take off their winter coats in the cramped conditions. We were left to sweat for twenty minutes before the conductor finally explained that someone had torn down some of the large paper ads that lined the tracks, and the paper needed to be cleared before the train could move. We were promised a quick arrival.

By this time the heat was so much that people were having trouble breathing. A girl standing behind me suddenly decided that she needed to get to the vent for some air and somehow managed to push and climb to the end of the car. A man in the middle chose to vent his feelings by cursing and yelling, and a boy near me, who must have been claustrophobic, began really to be sick. His poor father was trying hard to help him to breathe normally, but it was lucky a woman near them was able to pull out a plastic bag.

After a while the train was turned on, it lurched forward, and stopped. It rolled back. This was repeated for several minutes. On top of everything, the train was broken. As I remember, we were stuck for nearly forty minutes before we could be pulled into Bank, and I think everyone who had been on it must have felt as queasy as I did for the rest of the day.

That's my only gothic tale of transport problems--I promise. I think that day was probably the start of when I began to try to take the bus everywhere. And I'll leave off there, with the promise of pairing my tube story with a bus story soon.