Day 7: Climbing 530 Stairs

Field Trip

Kitchen crew got to dish up Amish oatmeal before everyone else. I sat with Jessica and mmmmed over the bowl of crumble, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries and cream by the tablespoon. Andrea told me that people kept her up late, just talking in the bedroom--I remembered hearing someone chatting above me, and assumed they were out in the hall. But her remarks were reciprocated and I promised that if it occurred again, I'd pull out some facilitating nonsense and threaten them with some uninvented punishment. After the dishes were all put away and our Oyster cards loaded with a months' worth of Tubing, we shoved off to a lovely stop on Central Line called St. Paul's.

We emerged and walked to the square for fifteen minutes before going in. Queen Anne's statue with her golden trident, the stairs, streetlamps, and below the clock tower (Andrea eventually just lay down on the bricks to catch the height of this building) were perfect places to take pictures. In time our group was ushered into the main vestibule. I kept trying to hush everyone; so much chatter would chase away whatever reverence remained in the worship services.

Supertour

We were all given white labels with this title. I felt rather special until I saw several other groups with the same on their coats. Our little tourguide was the female version of David Thewlis in a tweed suit; she was hard to hear and hard to follow amongst the crowds of eager Anglicans staring up at the ceiling. Past the giant marble font, the 30 pence candles, the choir pews, the communion alters, we did our best to keep up. The cathedral is undeniably beautiful; there are Renaissance elements (an inner and outer dome), Classical gilding, and even mosaics similar to Byzantine ceilings--these last, though the architect designed them, caused so much controversy that only half the church is decorated with them. Sitting in the choir section and looking at the creation story and Anunciation made of glinting ceramics was utterly stunning. I asked Rachel if she'd ever played Zelda; "The Temple of Time? Oh yeah."

My favorite part actually is called the American Chapel. It was circular, right underneath a giant stained-glass Jesus and gold paneling; carved into the black and white marble floor were the words "IN MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS LOST IN WWII FROM THE BRITISH PEOPLE" (it's the best I could remember). There were big stars in the floor and eagles in the wood. It was really lovely, and certainly less ornate than the rest of the building. I guess I can understand the want to be ornate and give the best to God, but the gaudy, fashionable, awe-inspiring but not necessarily edifying decorations I will never understand. The chapel was a moving act of compassion and helped me view the rest of the cathedral in a better light.

The famous people buried in St. Paul's include Arthur Duke of Wellington and Horatio Nelson--the two heroes every bum on British streets knows stories of. Their statues are out of control; Wellington on his faithful steed Copenhagen, commanding a Greek army to defeat some demon, and Nelson standing with the god and goddesses of war. Considering the entirely religious setting, I was confused as to the Renaissance effects within the actually architecture.

Other people like John Donne and Florence Nightingale are memorialized in the crypt and on the ground floor. As weird as it was, the tourguide was nonchalant about our dozens of feet standing on the tomb of such-and-such famous organist or cleric. She led us into the stairwell where parts of Harry Potter 3 and Sherlock Holmes was filmed and laughed at how enthusiastic our picture-taking was. At the end of the crypt was a cafe, where we were all supposed to meet after hitting the Galleries.

A View to Die For

Naturally we looked for a lift; the guide pointed us toward it, but said we couldn't use it. So we, grumbling, walked our strapping selves over to bottom of the stairs and started to climb. The staircase was spiral all the way up; the bay-colored stairs were broad and shallow, and slightly frustrating due to the incapability to take two at a time. There were maybe two landings up the first Gallery, both with benches in case anyone needed to pause after some 200 steps. Feeling proud, we emerged on a ring just below the dome, where sepia paintings adorned the ceiling (color was definitely too Catholic). The Whispering Gallery means that someone on the opposite side of the chasm (looking down at the tile just about made my heart turn over) can hear what you whisper when you face the wall; we spent some frantic minutes trying to make it work. Too many people, though.

Onto the next, the Stone Gallery. The stairs grew more and more uneven from years of use, in some places, barely two feet long (which meant the walls were barely two feet apart). We clung to the slick grey walls where millions of shoulders had already rubbed; I worried about the big guy in our group getting through, and I could hear some girls up front freaking out about the small cramped space. We climbed, still puffing, to keep the current going. And then we emerged--the glorious air was shockingly cold. Squinting through stone pegs at least four feet around, we saw the most amazing view of London. Most students became bored from craning and looking for favorite landmarks; we headed up the next 152 stairs to see the ultimate view from the top.

These next stairs forced us all into single file; they were iron-wrought framed and held together with iron ivy tendrils--needless to say, many of us were doubtful these stairs would hold up. Up we went, stopping only to peer through a small window on one of the landings; through it was the tiled Mariner's Compass on the ground floor of the cathedral--now it looked like nothing more than an ornate shirt button. I clambered back up the stairs, trying not to think how high we were.

The blessed top consisted of a small door and a veranda about three feet wide all the way around the dome. Surely the sun gave it the name of "Golden" Gallery; the mist was beginning to dissipate and we could see for miles and miles...I saw the Globe theatre, every bridge on the Thames, and even out to sheep fields in the countryside. It took a long time to remember our cameras.

But we couldn't linger long; our group was expected back for our London Museum tour, and we were already late. All thoughts of running down the stairs, however, vanished; the squat spiral stairs were like black slices of swiss cheese, letting light from below into our eyes and boasting a spectacular view of the ground easily visited through one wrong step. I clung to the rail and stepped slowly, trying not to entertain thoughts of the accident quota at St. Paul's. After an age, we emerged on the shallow stairs, utterly dizzy and prepared for 300-some more stairs. Nicole was paper-white and my knees were knocking together like I'd just sung in front of a stadium. According to the others, we suffered the effects of height and stairs for the remainder of the day.

One quick stop for lunch (a well-oiled sandwich shop that we Americans threw into a madhouse) before hitting the London Museum. Although many students jumped on the Tube, a group of us went through to admire a giant Facebook/Twitter wall, the Beatles, the 20th century Pleasure Gardens, medieval prison cells, disease from the Black Plague, the Great Fire, and even ceramics from the Celts who'd inhabited London before Britons. Although it was barely 2pm, we were quite finished and headed home for kitchen crew duties.