Yoda at the Opera

I went to the opera.

No one cried.

But while waiting for the balcony to open I sat next to an older lady who highly recommened the production of Der Rosenkavalier.

"I'll try to go," I said.

"Try!" She shrieked. "You don't try! You do it!"

And now I am a operatic Jedi master.

Bones

I saw a grown man weep at a musical.

Last night I sauntered off to Queen's Theatre, sat in the "stalls", and waited for Les Miserables to begin. I had been waiting since I was 14. Behind me sat bickering, giggling teen sisters, their mother and their grandmother, whose running commentary erased my loneliness. "One of the actors is from S Club 7!", one shrieked, divulging valuable information I would otherwise have never learned because I hadn't bought a program (and I thought of you, Yolande & Lise!). Soon a mumbling man sat next to me and proceeded to spend the next 15 minutes talking to himself while he texted someone at the speed of smoke signals (I can say this because my texting abilities are even slower -- I might as well tie a message to a tortoise!). As the curtain rose, he began to hum. This went on throughout. the. entire. play. A little bar of music here, a little there.

I wanted to smack him.

"I haven't seen this before!", I held back from hissing.

Several songs later it dawned on me. He wasn't humming because he wanted to piss off the young, Canadian, unpaid museum studies intern who had emptied her pockets to be here. No! He was humming because he simply couldn't contain himself. When a stark white light shone on Jean Valjean to indicate that he had given up the ghost I heard a sniff and turned to see the raccoon of his eyes silver and iridescent, like the inside of a sea shell. He was weeping.

To see a stranger so moved makes them hardly a stranger. Like stealing a look at another’s x-ray.

It’s been a week of seeing the bones of things. On Friday, mum and pops arrived, their new gortex jackets crinkling. After a hell-raising train ride to York (hell-raising simply because my family is too used to traveling in chaotic places that we don't know how to behave in industrialized places; picture my mother and I running, RUNNING, down the platform to the last car where we were forced to leave our luggage, frantically trying all the doors we could find -- well I was trying different doors, mom was stuck unknowingly trying to get into the engine -- and then picture suitcases being thrown from the train and us wiping our brows, so proud we had gotten our bags before the train continued on to Scotland. Picture the locals laughing. And the train staying on the platform for an additional, relaxed 5 minutes, our panicked hurry completely irrational and unnecessary) we arrived in our refurbished stable of a cottage and stared at the James Herriot landscape. And sighed.

The following morning we trekked down a cliff to a beach for fossil hunting, my parents’ blossoming passion. It’s like a game of Where’s Waldo, only Waldo is a few million years old. We sat on a rock and ate our sandwiches and I drank my dandelion and burdock soda. And after sitting still long enough, the fossils started to appear. I’d never found an honest-to-goodness fossil before and then I stumbled upon one the size of a fist. I held in my palms the marrow of time. I can’t even conceive of how long ago my fossilized ammonite had been fleshy, alive and breathing - I have a hard enough time imagining life before the internet.

Skin tight from salt air and sun, we drove to Whitby, a veritable anthill of tourists, to seek out the ruins of a hilltop abbey we had seen from a distance. Neither discouraged by the staircased hike, nor the admission price, nor the “salty sea dogs” event that was encouraging children to scream and whack each other to smithereens with foam swords, we stood there, in the remaining ribs of the abbey. Staring through vaulted windows stain glassed with blue skies. And it felt like we were amidst the bones of a prayer.

War and Heavy Boots; Put the Kettle On

I have spent the last few days thinking about death and war. And it gives me heavy boots, as Oskar from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close would say.

The National War Museum in Ottawa is the worst museum I’ve ever been to (ooh, don’t hold back, Sonjel!). When, back in blustering March we trekked out to Ottawa to check out their museum scene I thought that maybe I didn’t like it because it was cold. And I was tired. And I hadn’t eaten all day. This weekend I visited the Imperial War Museum and I spent more time there than in any of the other museums I have visited to date. And I didn’t see even get to the special exhibit about James Bond! With what’s-his-face’s “bloodied” shirt from the last 007 movie!

Under the guise of being overwhelming, traumatic, and confusing, like war, Ottawa’s museum bombards you with text, images, artefacts and interactives. In their defense everything they said in one official language, they had to repeat in the other BUT I think that in their urgency to their visitor everything all at once, they left me wanting to read/watch/listen to nothing. And to just get out. And never, ever come back.

The Imperial War Museum is also overwhelming and traumatic but the interpretation is simple, slim and digestible. And I (who am probably the world’s worst museum visitor because I hate reading text panels) read. A lot. Through the use of lighting and colour, massive blown up photographs, age restricted exhibits, and few words, they say little and in doing so, say a lot. Perhaps most striking were the black rooms describing the Holocaust and the sudden appearance of a bight room and a large model of Auschwitz that was completely, blazzingly white. My heart was wrenched.

My theory is that maybe if war had occurred on Canadian soil, then perhaps our war museum would be more effective. Every year when Remembrance Day rolls around there are countless editorials and news stories about why we need to remember, and how we are going to remember, the Canadians who have died. Our artefacts of the first and second world wars are an absence, a loss, a hole. To paraphrase Michael Ondaatje’s words, Canada has been “wounded without the pleasure of a scar”. And so the wars, especially the Great War, are distant, the material of history textbooks, and barely relevant to our lives and we spend out time sidestepping the subject in order to be politically correct and inoffensive.

Britain has a scar. Mrs Andrews, my landlady, distinguishes her anecdotes with what was before the war, during the war, and after the war. And maybe it’s because I just watched Atonement and I can’t get it out of my head that I think war has affected this country more, and is therefore in greater need of telling that story effectively. Am I being ignorant and arrogant?

All the really well-done exhibits I’ve seen recently are about dying. At the British Museum is a fabulous patchwork exhibit called “Living and Dying”. In one big room they display themes such as “sustaining each other”, “coping with death”, and “diving the future” by placing artefacts from all over the world in juxtaposition of each other. At the Wellcome Collection (which was the most bizarre museum I have ever been to, take a look http://www.wellcomecollection.org/) I saw an exhibit of large black and white photographs of terminally ill patients. Side by side are a photograph taken shortly before the moment of death and taken shortly afterwards. No one said a word. We all had heavy boots.

“I’ll put the kettle on”, the Brits would say, as their cure for every malady. Mrs. Andrews checks on me constantly, “are you alright? are you lonely?”, she asks. I keep busy, I tell her. And I drink a lot of tea.

Weekend at Oxford

I have been seduced, I have seen the Disneyland of higher thought: Oxford.

No where else have I seen a “new” college that was “only” 600 years old, grandiose buildings around every corner, lawns that are precisely manicured into checker-boards for sheer aesthetics (tut-tut if you think about walking on them), and lush green spaces as wide as a smile. Oh, and people having sex in a public park. That was not expected.

Sex in broad daylight in the middle of a park aside, it was a weekend of refinement. Lita and Geoff took me out for tea. Not tea like a bobbing bag in a paper cup but for real loose-leaf tea at tea time. There were scones, light and warm. And jam. And clotted cream. A ceremony I would repeat every day of my life if I could. They were delicious, not just the scones, but Lita and Geoff.

I’d never met Geoff before and I hadn’t seen Lita since the wedding, “seen” being a massive misnomer because I didn’t really get to see much through the chaos. And yet once I met Geoff, it felt as if I had known him because he is such a perfect compliment to Lita. Like jam and clotted cream.

A visit to Oxford was exactly what I needed. Because my work is very self-directed and because I’ve been spending a good portion of my time at my desk, amidst drawers of taxidermied mice and amber-coloured jars of “pickled” specimens, reading until my eyes roll back into my head, there has been ample opportunity for quarter life crises. Am I doing the right thing being here? Am I doing the right thing pursing my masters degree in museum studies? Will I be sufficiently qualified to work at the Baha’i World Center? What am I going to eat for lunch? Oh look, a pickled bat!

Yes, a pickled bat. My boss is a dual citizen; she lectures in the biology department of UCL (University College of London) and is also the deputy director of the campus’ museums and collections (they have three public museums and about 14 departmental collections). Her office is in the biology department. And so is mine. And I won’t lie, I love it.

The trip to Oxford was an affirmation. Believe it or not fellow M.MSt-ers, even the masters students at Oxford sometimes complain bitterly about their programs. After walking along the commons (which makes the Halifax commons something to ridicule and spit on) barefoot with Lita, things began to feel much better. And she and Geoff fed me such good food! And they took me punting! I thought punting was kicking a football -- not exactly what I’d like to spend a morning doing -- but it’s not. Think of the gondolas of Venice. That’s punting. And I’m not very good at it; the boat would have moved faster if it was being towed by a minnow. Lita, however, is a master punter. She can outmaneuver river-hogging boats, dodge branches and parallel park.

I calmed down too when we watched Geoff’s team row, zipping down the river like a water bug. The highlight of the weekend was definitely watching an ignorant punter idle in the middle of the river and do nothing about the oncoming water-slicing boat. It was just like America’s Funniest Home Videos. The rowers “braked”, time moved like molasses, the two collided, and the shirtless punter was sent into the murky, green river. He was fine. At least for the time being. Maybe in a month’s time he’ll discover a third nipple. And on the topic of third nipples, I say goodnight!

Blimey!

When I arrived at the University College of London, greeted my boss and answered her question, "are you all settled in?", her reply was a loud, succinct "BLIMEY!"

Despite a two month's deposit, my sublet arrangement (which was puuurfect - cheap, close by, furnished) canceled suddenly and left me crying to my mum over Skype. Not a pretty sight.

After a couple of panicked phone calls and a sleepless night I found myself at 20 Hoop Lane, Golders Green and greeted by a lovely, hard-of-hearing lady. I was late, flushed and sweaty and she sat me down to tea and shortbread.

The place is very much an old lady's house. Asking about a wireless connection was interesting -- "Do you think I need to have it? What is it?" she asked -- I sat there convinced I couldn't spend a night in the place without the heebee-jeebies, but then we started chatting. She was a seamstress during the war. She ran her own shop. Hard to get your hands on any material. But people would snatch up whatever you made.

The room is big and sunny. There's an internet cafe around the corner, snug between wafting restaurants and little shops. I'll manage just fine. I move in on Tuesday. Next blog: the new job! In the mean time, take a look at this, you'll never believe it: http://golondon.about.com/od/londonforfree/p/jeremybetham.htm

My Favorite Busker By the River Thames

Soul Grub

I. Love. This. Place!

I've discovered two foods that if I could, I would buy crates of them to fill my suitcases when it's time to head home:

1) Rhubarb and vanilla yogurt. Why aren't more things made with rhubarb? It's divine! And sounds ridiculous.

2) Sparkling guava juice. I am rendered speechless by my love for guavas. The only word that comes close to describing how I feel about this fruit is orgasmic. And I'm a prude! (I looked for a synonym but dictionary.com didn't have any...)

But as delectable as those were, I was also in need of spiritual food and because today was actually going to be sunny I decided I would make the trek to Arnos Grove and see the resting place of Shoghi Effendi (for more information on Shoghi Effendi please see http://info.bahai.org/guardian-of-the-bahai-faith.html). It was a bit silly of me to want to go today because once I get settled in my own place, it will only be a few tube stops away but I today was going to be sunny and I wanted to go before I started work. I wanted a moment to pray and meditate and sincerely prepare myself for my internship and my summer in this city. My current roomate Nasrin gave me the "shortcut" directions, which involved a bit of trust because it led to an unmarked path through the woods. But once I emerged into the tangled cemetery there it was.

I left after a sweet conversation with Mr. Alaee, the custodian, and walked back to the tube with a Baha'i student from Georgia. I was sufficiently refreshed. Or so I thought. After a hour ride to Canary Wharf, and witnessing a woman loose it on the tube because of a luggage-lugging tourist, I resurfaced to ground level and remembered the DLR train to my place wasn't running this weekend. Groan. Rather than find a bus and harass the driver about whether it would take me to the right place, I decided to walk. My tour book that my parents gave me preaches walking as the best way to know London. And I agree. I stumbled upon the quaintest library - it just looked so darn cute... although I couldn't figure out the barded wire fence at the back. Must be for those who don't pay their library fines, eh Brian? But that wasn't all. Then I came across Mudchute park and farm, which isn't your typical Canadian green sapce - it's an honest-to-goodness wilderness! With pigs, chickens, and cows (the goats seemed to be on vacation) and a community garden with topless, bellied men, hardworking women and the lushest mud I've seen in a while.

And now I'm home. Appetite satisfied.

The Spaces in Between - An Ode to Jalal

If you look closely when you're driving the 427 en route to the Pearson Airport you'll see a small cemetery swaddled with speeding highways. Blink, and you'll miss it.

I've been thinking about the spaces in between. The places you only see when you have the time. The places between point A and point B we don't really consider because we're in transit. I spent six hours in Heathrow. My hosts weren't home yet and I didn't want to venture out into a brand new city bedraggled and dragging luggage (well, the luggage that didn't end up in Salt Lake City at least) so I sat in the arrivals area, where they had food and bathrooms big enough for me and my tank of a suitcase. And watched. And thought. Not much, but I thought a little.

You know that question about being stranded on a deserted island and only being allowed one object? There are two answers that drive me crazy: 1) a boat and 2) my wife. A boat is cheating and a wife/husband/partner is not an object. But when I found myself crying in that weird mind-boggling space that is US customs pre-clearance at Pearson (am I on American or Canadian soil?), I thought my answer to that question would be glue. When I said goodbye to you, I fell apart at the seams. The seams of my mind and my body, my heart and my soul. And I thought if I was ever stuck on a deserted island without you, I'd wish for a very big bottle of glue.

But this isn't a deserted island -- it's London! Two movies, a giant mug of tea, and an attempt to "freshen" up in the bathroom later, I boarded the tube and set off on a 2 hour journey across the city to the Isle of Dogs. I was introduced to London backwards, via people's backyards and the city's underbelly; via picnic sets and gardens, trash heaps and the tiled walls of tube station after tube station after tube station. After three trains and three hellish stairwells (Thank you Delta Airline for losing my other bag because if I'd had to carry both, I might have dropped them down the stairs and killed someone) I finally arrived and was warmly greeted by two friends of a friend who fed me and put me to bed.

I woke up, showered and ate -- all of which was so refreshing I wanted to break out into loud praises for the Lord, much like the bathers my brother and I would see at the pools in Benin who would shout out their "Hallelujah"s and their "Dieu est Grand"s whenever they emerged from the water still breathing, still alive -- and took off exploring. This place is so steeped in history, it's embarrassing; being from a country whose material landscape is so recent, I gawked at everything. The baroque ceiling of the Old Royal Naval College blew my socks off!

I hiked up the hill of Greenwich park to the Royal Conservatory. The place was crawling with school groups and tourists, and I got the impression that wasn't unsual from the one way path winding through the museum. Before entering the museum, I watched the looong line of tourists waiting to take their photo in front of the Greenwich Meridian sculpture and had to laugh at our human fascination with 0 degrees longitude and then I laughed even more when I read about the "Longitude Prize" contest of 1714 which would award 20,000 pounds for whomever invented a "practical and useful" method for enabling ships to determine longitude at sea. Apparently there were lots of submission, some from the "lunatic fringe", but "among the stranger proposals were a string of firework signal barges moored around the world, magical potions and a clock sealed in a vacuum jar". I wish the firework signal barge had won. In a smaller room of the museum I found the meridian, a telltale metal bar scared the floor. And I took a picture of my feet. I couldn't resist. (for more pictures please go to my flickr account or http://flickr.com/photos/90614791@N00/) When I came across an "interactive" where visitors were encouraged to fill out a card titled "Time stopped for me when..." I wrote down "when I first kissed the man who would become my husband" and dropped in it the slot to be perused by some unpaid intern like myself.

My favorite thing of the day though was when I took the foot tunnel under the Thames to Greenwich, a tunnel which was built in 1902. I liked it for the same childish reason that I like revolving doors, escalators and moving sidewalks. And because, standing in the middle of the tunnel neither on the Isle of Dogs nor in Greenwich, I thought of how I'm not completely in one place either. The rest of me is with you (and Salt Lake City!).