paralyzedbynotcaring

More famous things

I spent some time at the Churchill War Rooms, which are near Westminster. They are all underground, and a Churchill museum is in the center. As you wind your way through the narrow, airless hallways, you see not only what it was like to have to exist in a constant state of anxiety, but also what it must have been like working with Churchill himself, who put up signs like this:

There will BE no WHISTLING. I SAY.

And keep the typing noise down!

That’s right, a noiseless typewriter.

All the clocks are at two to five (16:58), which is two minutes before the daily meeting.

The offices and work rooms and bedrooms looked a bit like jail cells with doilies.

It was hard to stay in one area without getting claustrophobic. Once in the museum part, though, it opened up a lot and I discovered that Churchill was an honorary American.

and the recipient of many, many medals and awards

including this old thing, just the Nobel Prize for literature. NBD.

Churchill was a prolific writer, beginning with war reports to newspapers and ending with nonfiction novels describing everything from WWII to the joy of painting. He was always busy with something.

Here’s his pistola.

Here’s part of his underground map room.

That’s about all I could digest from this guy.

I can’t decide if his expression is bemused or really, really angry.

Time for tea!

Today, after taking care of this tea train, I went to the British Museum. This place is massive and holds far too much art. That’s right. Too much. I think they should consider toning it down. It’s not a competition.

Here are some highlights.

Venus, my ruling goddess and general badass.

The most famous chess set in the WORLD (Lewis Chessmen)

A docent was giving a talk about them but I couldn’t hear anything she said because other people were talking and laughing and carrying on. Story of my academic life. Anyway, Harry Potter fans should recognize them.

I recognized this cat from an exhibit I saw many years ago at the Legion of Honor in SF. I don’t think it’s the same cat, but maybe related?

I have rarely seen a feline this pissed off, and I have seen some angry friggin cats in my life.

Here are some delightful weapons should you ever come across a cat with such ferocity.

and some VIKING weaponry

And some pretty violent looking what I can only assume are hair pins.

Here is a famous thing you might have heard of

Yep, it’s the Rosetta Stone. What, you can’t read the hieroglyphics?

Here ya go then

It’s been awhile since I have been able to find the Weirdest Jesus in a museum, but the British Museum does not disappoint. Look here.

This is a 4th-century mosaic of Mr. Christ, one of the first known images of Him. But to me he looks pretty modern, like someone I’d meet at an SF party who says Haiiiiiiii Girrrrrrrllll.

Guarding this masterpiece is the sphinx gate from the Neverending Story

Atreyu would’t quit now.

Three more pictures of the inexplicable.

A demon on a horse hanging from the ceiling looking like you owe him five quid.

A fight that cost an arm and a leg

and a head

And finally finding the best thing at a museum–a free bench!

I am reading All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr and The Night Manager by le Carré.

The Abbey

So Westminster Abbey is still around. It is FULL of dead people AND alive people–honestly it’s a bit much. One or the other.

Here is a view from the outside.

And some from out and around the huge building.

And a prayer for all you sinners–

Down the outdoor hallway so common in this big old churches you can find Britain’s oldest door.

I’m not sure if the door still works, but the lock does. Along this same breezeway were yet more dead and alive people, one of whom I recognized:

Fairly beautiful I think. Newton was also inside. He had his own statue and almost his own alcove, which is a lot of property within the Abbey, where dead people seem to be situated every which way, with the exception of some royals.

Poet’s corner was of course overwhelming, withe tombstones or tributes to the likes of Chaucer and Shakespeare and Dryden and Longfellow and all the Bronte women. I got a bit suspicious though when I saw Jane Austen’s name as I know from my recent field trip to her house that she was buried not in Westminster but in Winchester Cathedral. Upon closer inspection I discovered that Shakespeare’s mortal remains aren’t at the Abbey, either, but up at Stratford-upon-Avon, which I guess is fair. It made me wonder who else signed the attendance card but didn’t stay for the party. It doesn’t really matter–seeing the lineup on the floor polished by tourists’ flipflops is already strange and striking enough. On the way out, next to the exit, is a bust of FDR. Keep heading out the door and you’ll find his buddy, Churchill.

The tour guide said that there is a myth circulating that pigeons don’t dare sit up on that round head. I couldn’t prove it wrong, and I’m not sure I want to.

Down the street is a monument in the middle of the road for the glorious dead.

For as patriotic America seems to be, we have, at least in California, comparatively few such monuments.

The weekend plan is to make my way up to Stratford-upon-Avon. We’ll see how it goes.

I’m reading A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman and The Night Manager, which keeps getting longer the more I read.

I am at the airport

looking at pictures I took today of Dublin Castle. A bit of a misleading name as the castle burned down a million years ago. Earlier today I took a tour through the complex and learned how the vikings took care of business in Dublin for a really long time. Here is the (now underground) outer wall of a viking fortification.

Back on the surface, we looked at the chapel and the tower, which is the oldest above-ground part of the re-built castle.

You may notice above the smallest window there towards the right a stone head looks out over the courtyard. Here’s a closer view.

That’s the door to the chapel, and right above it is St. Peter holding the keys to heaven. So who could POSSIBLY be above St. Peter?

That would be Ireland’s darling, Jonathan Swift. That’s right, he’s ranking above St. Peter himself. That must have been an interesting conversation at heaven’s gate.

The chapel is no longer used for church services, but several episodes of the crowd-pleaser show The Tudors were filmed inside.

After we spent a reasonable amount of time contemplating the Duke of Suffolk, we walked to the state rooms where the British viscounts used to live until a hundred years ago. Now the building is used for official state business and tourists.

Here is the hallway.

Here is the dining room.

Here is a crazy chandelier in the throne room comprised of a bronze braid of thistle, rose, and shamrocks symbolizing the unity of Scotland, England, and Ireland.

From here though it just looks like feathers, am I right?

Another hour or so until I have to worry about boarding the plane. Until then I will be lamenting the lack of monkey news now that the Ricky Gervais Show is long over.

Whiskey and writing

Today I walked over the river Liffey to visit the Old Jameson Distillery.

That’s me there blocking the view of the river. The main whiskey production happens in Cork now, but the Jameson site in Dublin still sells the good stuff. I picked up some samples.

While walking around the northern part of Dublin, I found a mail box. It’s the closest thing to a leprechaun that I’ve seen so far.

The Dublin Writer’s Museum was only a walk away, and if you can believe it, not terribly crowded!

No pictures were allowed inside, but I was able to view many first editions, personal letters (written in old-timey cursive that I honestly cannot decipher), and a few artifacts like playbills and typewriters. The bust of Shaw was my favorite because he was such a hairy bastard.

The expected writers were extolled: Swift, Shaw, Beckett, Stoker, Joyce, Wilde, and Heaney, but I also took down notes on some books for my To Read list. These included Knocknagow by Charles Kickham, Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Robert Maturin, Some Experience of an Irish RM by Somerville, and At Swim Two Birds by Flann O’Brien.

While walking about I came across two more literary points (pints?) of interest.

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This is a small inlay on the sidewalk on Grafton Street.

This is a life sized sculpture of the larger-than-life Oscar Wilde.

It looks like his head turned towards me in that second picture. Could he be any cooler.

Yesterday I went to the Guinness factory and then on the literary pub crawl so basically today was a repeat of booze then books because this is Ireland and that’s how it goes.

Tomorrow night I fly back to London.

Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but this is not as easy as it looks, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t distract me

That’s right Princess Bride fans, though I suffered a night of nearly no sleep, today I visited the Cliffs of Moher, aka Cliffs of Insanity. And they were indeed insane, though a nearby cow could not be bothered.

Moooove along the path for this crazy view.

Look out across the ocean while you’re at it. If you travel out to sea, the next stop is Boston.

Before this sight greeted me, though, I had quite a bus ride from Dublin.

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It was already scheduled to be a 3.5 hour drive (one way), made longer by the dogged efforts of a young man to secure a promise of drinks from me (doomed to fail). Made longer still by the fact that the bus left four of the passengers at the midway pit stop (Barack Obama Plaza of all places) and the guide didn’t realize it until 40 minutes later. We had to double back. This extra time was used by my seat mate to innumerate his qualities and re-articulate his case, press against me, and deliver the “I can tell you have a beautiful heart” line that must be on page one of the International Book of What to Say to American Women When the Situation Goes a Bit South brochure for all the times I’ve heard it on this trip. He watched me start to eat a sandwich and it was uncomfortable even for the tomato. I had to stash the food away and starve. He said he could read my palm and I had to lie and say that stuff isn’t real because I knew if he took my hand I would have to stab myself in the nostrils. He said he had no money but money isn’t everything. I am not sure how he intended on buying drinks but did not point out this logistical flaw because clearly he couldn’t understand simple no thankses, no matter how many times or how many differing inflections they were delivered. If they hadn’t already been dubbed the Cliffs of Insanity, they would have been after that bus to crazy town.

No means no, people.

There is a tower overlooking one of the cliff edges. I didn’t go in but a lot of kids were running around like it was a big deal. I did consider hiding in there but didn’t want to be trapped yet again by this force-dater.

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Another tourist and I got to talking and she said that about eight people per year slip over the edge because they took a misstep while posing for a selfie.

This picture could have been a KILLER. Crazy town danger zone, today was. My determined seat mate continued his monologue on the return ride until I put in ear buds, pulled up my hood, and crossed my arms over my chest. He promptly fell asleep with his arms and legs all akimbo in my space. Convenient. Let’s just say my disembarkation from this bus was swift and spirited.

Tomorrow: hiding from the world.

Walking around looking around: Dubin

Last night the parties and pubs were lively until late, but in the morning, Dublin was blissfully quiet and I had a long rest in. When I was up and about, I discovered that pushing the shower knob to the “off” position did not render the expected result. I had to call the front desk for assistance. Everything after that was pretty smooth sailing.

I walked to the tourism office, which has a statue of Molly Malone outside.

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I remember singing an Irish ballad about Patrick O’Leary and Molly Malone, but I don’t know if it’s related to this stacked and stunning statue. At the tourism office I purchased a ticket for a day trip to the Cliffs of Moher (tomorrow–tune in then for the excruciating details). After that I was at liberty and walked around Trinity College. Here is Burke standing guard at the gate.

He can probably kill us with his brain.

The campus is beautiful as expected, with perfect green grass and grey stone work. Inside a courtyard is this stunner. No particular reason that I could see. Just because, you know, Europe.

The main draw for me was the section of the college’s library that houses the Book of Kells, which is a somewhat ancient Christian text (9th century). Of course no photos were allowed, but picture a beautifully illustrated Latin calligraphy of the New Testament. The book was oversized, with wide margins and relatively large type. I don’t know any Latin (my school cancelled the Latin classes the year before I enrolled; such is my luck), so I could get only an aesthetic sense of it, and that was enough.

Also in the library is the long room, which is a two-story masterpiece of accumulated literature.

Each alcove had its own bust and staircase, one of which was spiral.

I mean really now Ireland is just showing off.

Let’s look at some of the heads.

Shakespeare, of course.

Bill and Ted’s main man, So-crates.

And Cicero, who, if my memory serves, got so mad that Cleopatra didn’t follow through on a promised book loan that he slandered her for years until he died.

This man was serious about books.

The St. Patrick’s Cathedral, like many places of interest in Dublin, was close at hand.

It’s even more impressive on the inside, with the expected stained glass, but also many memorials, such as this one from the Great War.

There is also a bust of Jonathan Swift, of Gulliver’s Travels and “A Modest Proposal” fame. Swift was active in this church and gave many sermons. The bust was donated by a Mr. Faulkner (relation to William unknown).

I sort of imagined him as a long, lanky man with eyes a bit too large and fingers a bit too long, but maybe that’s Ichabod Crane I’m thinking of.

Just down the road is Christchurch Cathedral, which was closed for the day but had its courtyard open.

The view from the other side reveals some food stands.

Honestly I think they have the right idea. I’d be at church more if there were crepes.

On the other side of the cathedral is a beautiful memorial for those who died in the Armenian genocide.

Around the corner I found my demon.

He even LOOKS like he’s singing the Police’s “Every Breath You Take.”

Time for some shepherd’s pie, my friends. It is definitely time for shepherd’s pie.

I did see one more relic from the past–

That’s right, Tower Records, in the flesh. If Dublin wasn’t so torn up with preparation for the light rail, I would have crossed the street to peek inside this blast from the past. But as it is I’m not quite up to crossing against lights and jumping fences. Tower and I are two records spinning in different directions.

This evening’s entertainment included the stage play Once, based on the 2007 Oscar winning movie. If you haven’t seen the movie, consider watching it or just giving up on cinema all together.

Before the play and during intermission, the stage turned into a bar and audience members went on up to cure what ails them. They had no vodka (an upsetting trend in Dublin), but don’t worry. I made it work.

According to the sign, this is the only stage bar in Dublin.

The show itself worked really well on stage. It moved a little faster than the movie, but the songs were just as powerful and the main characters just as compelling.

Tomorrow I am taking a bus to the cliffs.

I am reading The Night Manager by le Carré and Winter by Marissa Meyer.

It is a truth universally acknowledged

that any blog post in possession of amateur photography must be in want of a patron.

Viv and I drove from London to Chawton to visit the house where Jane Austen spent the last years of her (too short) life. The brick house has been converted into a museum. From the road, it looks like this.

The rooms are compartmentalized (I guess the open floor plan wasn’t yet a trend), but the house is somewhat spacious.

Here is the plaque on the front of the house.

There was at least one other male visitor here, so Viv wasn’t completely surrounded by gushing females.

Much of the interior was in the “re-imagined” realm. Most of Jane’s possessions didn’t make it very far, which makes sense because she was never rich. In fact, according to her will, she had just over 800 pounds to her name when she died, all from book sales. She left most of it to her sister, Cassandra.

So in the spirit or re-imagination, here is the room where Jane and her mother, sister, and sister-in-law took their meals.

See that TINY desk in the upper right corner? THAT my friend is where Jane shook her money maker (pen)!

How in Darcy’s name did she manage with such a small space?! That table wouldn’t hold my drink order! The sign indicated that this was her actual desk. My excuses for not writing are now totally invalid. Can you imagine the piles of papers, the discarded drafts, the ink and pen wiper, all on this table? Let alone some tea. Incredible.

Upstairs is the bedroom Jane shared with Cassandra. How two people slept in a bed this size is yet another pre-Victorian mystery.

Here is a view from her bedroom window.

Many items that may have belonged to the Austen family were displayed, but evidence that they were directly related to Jane was scant. Two of her brothers were Navy men, so there were many paintings of ships and other naval things.

One of the few things that was for sure Jane’s is this shawl, which Jane made herself.

Because our girl had TALENT coming out of her fingers for sure. In the background there is a part of a quilt that Jane, Cassandra, and their mom worked on.

Outside the garden was stylized not as it would have been in Jane’s time (it would have been more functional with vegetables and herbs and such) but in sort of a meandering English garden on the borders, grass in the main space.

Here is the view of the house from the back garden.

Overall it was fun to consider the perspective from Jane’s bedroom, see her work space, and think about her daily life. The museum itself doesn’t have a standard or metric ton of things of Jane’s, but ultimately it didn’t matter. The day was beautiful and the pub across the way was open. Good day all around.

Today I traveled from Heathrow to Ireland and have just checked into my hotel. The taxi driver gave me a map he had stolen from the tour bus company and told me not to bother finding a tour bus (!!) because all the places worth going (he circled them in black pen) are easily walkable from my hotel. I didn’t argue and in fact appreciated his petty theft, but I was looking forward to sitting on a bus and looking passively at things. Now it seems like my conscience will require a more active touring plan. I have several things (some taxi-recommendations, some Pinterest lists) I want to do and see, but, nap first.

Trafalmagettinouttahere

Today on my way to get on a bus tour I accidentally found Keats’* old house:

Here is what the front door looks like.

London is riddled with these blue circular placards. You just have to keep your eyes open.

Once I was successfully on the bus, I viewed many of the stunning sights you’d expect here.

This is not one of them.

Why is that girl giving me the meat sweats stink eye? The world will never know. Along the bus path, we saw both Big Ben

and Little Ben (who lives at Victoria Station among the chaos of construction)

We passed by this stately lion protecting the London Eye in the background.

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The live commentary tour guide had loads of information about where famous writers drank (hint: at pubs) and how much it costs to see the state rooms at Buckingham Palace (I forgot). He also explained why the fence around the Queen’s garden has an excessive amount of razor wire: in the not to distance past, a man scaled the wall, broke into the palace, and found the Queen sleeping in her bed. She awakened and chatted with the man, eventually asking if he’d like a cigarette. She called for the footman, who brought security rather than cigarettes back to the Queen’s bedroom. It is said that Prince Charles later visited this intruder in jail to ask where the Queen’s bedroom is.

Stuff like that.

We passed St. Paul’s cathedral, where Mary Poppins sang “Feed the Birds.” Dare you not to have that in your head now.

We drove past loads of pubs, the first Irish pub in London, the smallest pub in London, the pub with the violent name–

I got off the bus at Trafalgar Square, home to more lion sculptures and all the tourists of all time.

That’s Nelson there at the top of the somewhat elongated pedestal. Not to be confused with Wellington, whose statue is at Waterloo. People here at TS ignored every posted rule and generally ran amok. I tried to take in all the fountains and statues and sculptures (though what is the difference between a statue and a sculpture? 5,000 pounds or so?), but the people were just too annoying. Back on the bus to Tower of London, which isn’t a tower so much as a medieval castle complex where indeed Henry VIII sent some wives he was unable to impregnate with male heirs. I had this vision of people having to climb up narrow spiral staircases to the top of a impossibly high and slender spire. But this is what the Tower of London looks like.

This is just a small frame of the whole complex, which, I can’t stress this enough, is gigantic. It’s on my list of things to explore before I go.

I am going to Ireland on Thursday for a long weekend. KB&Co have some things to do this weekend, but I will be back for more Britain.

*Poet. One of my favorites of his is “A Thing of Beauty”

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkn’d ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

I am reading The Night Manager by John le Carré and Cress by Marissa Meyer.

The Scottish play

Today I stood in the standby line outside the Globe to try to get a ticket for Macbeth. I queued up at about 12:15 and got a ticket about 13:25. It was a yard/standing room only ticket.

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So I queued up again to wait to stand. Today was a day of standing.

That’s the queue inside the theater to get inside the theater.

Once inside, I was only two rows back from the stage and two blisters away from enjoying the play as God and Shakespeare intended.

It is an open air stage and even the wyrd sisters were not immune to being interrupted by the occasional aircraft.

Major notes include the wyrd sisters singing all their lines and Mac and Lady Mac having a child (not a speaking role). Duncan and Malcolm were as undynamic as usual, but the final scene

spoiler alert

was Malcolm turning to the throne, crown in hand, to see the tiny Macbeth child climb on to it.

Interesting.

After that was a wine bar and then more wine so that is all for now.

Carry on.

Guess whose bedroom I found myself in today

Hint: It is on Baker Street.

The Sherlock Holmes museum can be found at the expected address. The gift shop was swarmed with people so much so that it was impossible to find the end of the queue to buy anything. Browsing was out of the question, but I wasn’t much interested in knickknacks. The museum is just the house on Baker Street, which in my mind is larger than life but in reality is so tiny this sentence wouldn’t fit there. Also, the ventilation wasn’t stellar, so I was fanning myself the whole time.

Here is SH’s bedroom.

The living area looks like this–total chaos. Every surface was covered.

But the essentials were there.

There was also Watson’s bedroom (slightly more organized) and Mrs. Hudson’s room (immaculate). Also in the house were various stagings of scenes from the stories.

This is apparently Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton & Lady Blackwell. I don’t remember this story but it’s been said that I’ve forgotten more in one day than some people learn in a lifetime.

I never found the WC except for a tiny toilet and sink on the 3rd floor. Where did SH shower?

That’s the real mystery, folks.

Here is photographic evidence of how hot and tiny the stairway is.