Day 58: Dreams of Oxford

Halloween Liz's parents are here, as are a set of brand-new elders. I hope this London November rain won't convince them that a mission is a bad idea. I sat and read Preach My Gospel during sacrament and felt all the more determined to finish that darn Old Testament before going in myself. Brother Eden shaved his soul patch, much to Jani's dismay. There was so much SOUL in that patch. Everyone was so antsy in Primary, and this is like the third week in a row. Some kids are really doing their best to poison the rest, I think. What to do? You can't call these boys sissies, let alone strangle them. I have to teach 8-11 next week, and I'm a little concerned for my sanity. Too Expensive After scarfing some fantastic roast beef and sweet potatoes (couldn't help it, we all were starving), I surfed awkwardfamilyphotos until the fireside started. My favorite is actually not a picture, but a letter with Thanksgiving dinner instructions to her family--sooooo awkward reading it, you're laughing, and then you think of that sad, sorry sap the hag is married to. I guess everything funny is founded in something sad. The fireside was led by head of college at Oxford, a Methodist minister, named Professer Walder. His lovely tenor voice ensured that we found his topics of interest more fascinating than usual; Rachel confessed that she knew all along that homework was a bad idea from the start and she was just ahead of the curve. At Oxford, you have one class, one professor, one booklist, one essay a week, and some really fantastic discussions are the result of reading and studying and thinking and writing. That's MY kind of study. I think that's why I want to be an Honors graduate--we get to go and experience academia through study and discussion and culture, and I love soaking in that atmosphere. All our homework is stifling creative thought, I think. If I had oodles of cash, I would love to go abroad at Oxford. But maybe I just need a really smart book club to fulfill that need in the future.

Day 57: Lost (Again) and the Raddest Costume Party Ever

Great Portland Street I tell you, you're absent for five seconds to get to the loo, and everyone except you knows about the Halloween party and has been thinking about costumes all week. All this was unbeknownst to me; this Saturday, I went to find Leicester Square by way of Picadilly Circus, hoping to see Chinatown as well. Of course I went without a map. My perfect navigation skills had never failed me before. As every other person would have predicted, I marched purposefully off in some direction. I ended up walking the length of Great Portland Street, far from Picadilly, Regent's, and Leicester Square. I bought an adapter for my alarm clock, hoping it would work, and then I sat for a few hours in a Starbucks, reading my book, safe from the sudden torrential rain. It was a delightful afternoon, full of walking and chocolate frappacino and a Korean baby looking over his mother's shoulder at me. The solitude and perfect agency of being on one's own is full entertainment for a full Saturday. American Halloween Home before the evening, and I decided to do a bit of homework. Girls came in and out of the classroom, asking what I was going to be for Halloween. After the third time of this, I asked why in the name of all that is holy I would dress up in a country where only Satan-worshippers celebrate All-Hallow's Eve and no one has heard of trick-or-treating. That's when I heard about the party. Naturally, I didn't think it was a big deal. I didn't have any means for a costume, and I assumed that most of the girls would be in the same boat. That evening, the party started at 7pm. I claimed to be a pedestrian, a Canadian, a Jehovah's Witness, a plainclothes officer, changing the answer every time someone asked. The Halloween party turned into some sort of fashion show down the stairwell; Napoleon Dynamite (Rachel) looked less-than-thrilled, despite having a liger (Amanda) at his command. Michael Jackson (Morgan) had a white glove and fedora; a paper bag princess (Annie) appeared next to the three fairies from Sleeping Beauty; Sarah Palin (Claire) could never be confused with Mary Poppins (Jani), and even the two guys appeared as Big Ben (two guesses who) and Santa Claus. My favorite was an angsty Bella Swan (Lauren), who wore horrible flannel and a white t-shirt, stuffed pregnant, labeled "Cullen in the Oven". The costume that won overall was Mount Rushmore--the four girls powdered their hair like german composers and wore a heroic white sheet that could not have been comfortable. So many pictures that evening--I turned out to be the only person who did not dress up. I took pictures instead. The servery was packed and hot--I slapped frosting and candy corn on a cookie and left. I tried to do some work, or at least to just sit somewhere--but Penny kicked me out in two different places. Happily I found Katy, Julie and Emily not participating in the festivities; I spent the rest of the evening chatting and laughing with them, overhearing the victory tunnels for the profs ("Saint Tate! Saint Tate!") and the cheers for Dr. Seely's victory at eating donuts on a string. I've discovered it is impossible to spend the day solitary and spend the evening in a party with more than forty people. But it was a rad party nonetheless.

Day 56: WALES TRIP--Water, Blood, and Spirit

Reflecting Eternity Our last weekend trip is at an end. It was really delightful to end on such a high note; we stopped in Herefordshire to see Benbow Farm. A congregation of Methodists met nearby; hundreds of people, who realized that their religion was deficient somehow. They decided to fast and pray for a messenger from God to bring them the full truth. A few days later, Wilford Woodruff arrived to tell them about the restored Gospel. One Brother Benbow offered them the pond on his farm to be used as a baptismal font. Hundreds were baptized in one day. We stood on the banks of this little pond, bundled up against the chilly mist. Some of the girls went up and read the history of Benbow farm; Nikki got up and told her conversion story, which left most of us in tears. Dr. Tate got some great pictures of us, just looking into the suprisingly clear, calm water, imagining the excitement of so many baptisms. I looked in and thought about serving a mission myself, hoping that those I teach would feel the stirrings of something long-forgotten , something like eternity tugging at their hearts and minds, feeling something familiar. Such a cool place. Similarly cool was Gadfield Elm chapel, the very first LDS chapel in existence. The building we visited had been rebuilt and rededicated by the church, had a little visitor's atrium with pictures and video recordings. The chapel has gorgeous walnut pews and a little Protestant organ; Jordan sat and played hymns they would have sung some 160 years ago. Penny led the music and we had a good time singing hymns like A Mighty Fortress is Our God, A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief, and the Spirit of God. So delightful. I wandered outside to take pictures and found Tony lingering there. "You didn't want to come in? It's a bit cold out here." "No. I hope you don't mind." I was about to ask why when several girls came spilling out of the building at once, wiping tears from their cheeks and piling onto the bus. Apparently they all climbed up into the loft, where a little television screen was. Morgan pressed a button and there was President Hinckley, talking about the Gospel going to all the earth, come from England. Everyone started crying. I was sorry to have missed out on such a spiritual experience...I turned around, still wanting to talk to Tony, but he had disappeared. It still bothers me. I guess the trip home was a lot different this time. It was our last overnighter, and we felt peaceful and a bit more patient with ourselves and with each other. Where does homework fall in the grand scheme of things, anyway?

Day 55: WALES TRIP--The Big Pits

An Early Start So sleepy this morning...the studying parties are lasting even longer, especially since the profs are requiring that our work be complete BEFORE a weekend trip. Makes for some crabby folks come morning. Not me, per se...although this morning was the unparalleled worst morning I've had since being here--I heard galumphing up and down the stairs until 2am, and getting up at 5:30 was like something out of The Ring. My mind was so absent it took until the hotel to realize that I hadn't packed pajamas, a towel, or pants for the next day. Fail. But the oddly loud bus ride was enough to put everyone to sleep. More than once, I woke to total silence from all passengers, even the ever-conversational profs in front. I suspected that they were trying to help little Andrew sleep; he had a white patch taped to his eye and he was sitting like a sad resident of a nursing home. That morning, the two boys were having a little too much fun down in the kitchen, whipping each other with wet rags; unfortunately Beno aimed a little too high, hit Andrew in the eye, and got some particle of food or soap stuck in his eye. The bus drove west, under a blanket of misty grey; the hills became more numerous, greyer, and covered in boulders from the Ice Age. Tony told an uplifting story about two tourists hiking out in those Brechen Beacons and died from exposure. The rain was so misty we must have been driving straight through the clouds; no houses or any other buildings to speak of, until we approached the old mining headquarters.

Blackout

Ever since learning about the Welsh language, back in Brit Lit 1, we learned that their famous stories were passed through odes and minstrels on harps, rather than epic poems found in Celtic culture. We were pushed through a line to the "lobby", where jolly Welshmen with silver whiskers and hands like dried hams fitted us with tin mining hats, flashlights (head-torches), shredded belts with heavy batteries and gas masks (we eyed these nervously). But our cute tourguides were more than thrilled to see us. We got a full earful of the Welsh accent (my favorite thus far, after Sister Becky) and snatches of songs. Looking very out-of-place, most took out their cameras to document our equipment--the guides told us to put them all in "this bucket", as well as our watches, phones and iPods, so as to avoid something blowing up in the mines. The guides laughed and we packed nervously into the clanking chain-linked lift.

The tour was fascinating. I have ancestors that spent generations below ground, shoveling coal onto horse-drawn cars, pale from exhaustion, lack of food and able to see the sun on Sunday only...hence the name, if you can believe it. The Big Pit Coal Mine was the largest mine in Wales, until it closed (like every other mine) in the eighties. Wales has the highest unemployment in Europe because every man and brother and son was working. Before then, it was every Welsh PERSON working below. We passed grey piles of dirt and rocks, smelling sulphur and coal dust, walking on railtracks and ducking under low doorways. He stopped us in the first room and asked us to shut off our torches. In the complete blackness, I couldn't see my hand a milimeter in front of my face. Our guide told us,

"The wee six-year-olds working down below opened and closed the doors to let carts go through. The doors made sure that if one part of the mine caved or blew, the other parts would stay intact. An investment. But the children couldn't hold candles because of the breeze. It might sound daft, but the miners would tie the little'uns to the doors because they would get scared and try to run away. Bit dangerous."

We were all thoroughly unnerved after that. The guide told us about the horrible governors of mining towns like Merthyr Tydfil who paid the workers tokens instead of wages. Like Chuck E Cheese, the tokens, got at an exorbitant price, were redeemable at the most expensive general store in town. A day's tokens got a loaf of bread and half a bottle of milk. Because there was no money and no other jobs, an entire family would go underground just to feed themselves. Incidentally, the missionaries had incredible success in mining towns.

Andrew trailed behind us in a wheelchair, slumped over with his eyes squinted shut. As interesting as the stables were (horses were reported dead in a cave-in, but not people), I was so distracted by Andrew's predicament, all I wanted to do was get out of there and off to Cardiff to find a hospital.

Railway Fame and Alternative Eateries

After the tour, we were encouraged to got through the more museum-y section of HQ. There were pictures of the blackened workers, old tin tubs where they bathed, quotes and political signs when the mine finally closed down; some men sat down and cried, afraid to lose those men they'd made such good friends with. It reminded me of the cameraderie you see with military troops. Only soldiers share the reality of war, and no one at home will ever understand what they went through. So with the mines.

We ran into a cute little girl, probably ten or eleven, and her younger brother. She talked to the Seelys about going to boarding school in Merthyr Tydvil, and was proud to tell us the longest word she knew (and repeated it probably five times before we were satisfied.) According to Wikipedia, Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch is a railway station on the island of Anglesey in Wales, is the longest place name in the Welsh language. 51 letters long in the Welsh alphabet, the name can be translated as "St Mary's church in the hollow of the white hazel near to the rapid whirlpool and the church of St Tysilio of the red cave". However, it was artificially contrived in the 1860s as a publicity stunt, to give the station the longest name of any railway station in the United Kingdom.

Cardiff was the site for our hostel. Students went on a quest to find the Hard Rock Cafe, which was closed down. Nikki, Andrew, Ben and Liz weren't so lucky; they managed to wander in and actually try to order in a gay pub (complete with rainbow flags and signs) before a nice drag bartender told them where they were. The funny part was that me and Katy walked by that same pub and Katy announced to everyone what it was from a mile away. Literally. So much for our oh so streetwise men.

Day 54: Clapton's Favorite Seat

Studying is for Freshmen

Yeah, I definitely hit and missed this time. I guessed as best as I could, but the best part of the morning aside from hot sausage and hash browns was taking a shower before Austen. (For all you fans of Emma out there, Frank Churchill represents France and Mr. Knightley represents England. The first interesting conversation we've had in this class.)

After class and a bit of practicing the organ, Kaitlyn, Nikki, Sarah, Rachel and I headed out for Green Park and the venerable Hard Rock Cafe. Compared to the torrential rain of yesterday, I could not contain my enthusiasm upon seeing the blue sky again, not to mention emerging out of something that resembled peak-time travel. The road looks like Grosvenor Square, with all the embassies and pale white flats. I guess Hard Rock was as American as any U.S. Embassy.

Milkshakes

The guy at the front sounded a bit Scottish, and he was enthused to hear some girls from Utah, California and Washington had come all the way from the States to eat. He said he'd have a table for us in half an hour. Sitting on wickerwork just outside the bar, Nikki groaned with hunger and Rachel beamed with enthusiasm. I fretted about money until I heard about fantastic chocolate milkshakes.

The Cafe was packed that afternoon. I looked up to see the Fender Lead II belonging to the one and only Eric Clapton. He'd given the Cafe his guitar way back when, as a permanent reservation (still working to this day). Then the Who found out about it, and Pete Townshend declared that HIS guitar was just as good as Clapton's, so his is mounted on the wall next door. Looking around and sipping the darkest chocolate shake ever, I saw costumes from Elvis and Prince, Keith Moon's drums, signed posters and records--I kept craning to see who they belonged to, until Rachel told me to go down in the basement.

It was like all my dreams had come true at once. Regular people were eating nonchalantly like cows on grass, while framed on the wall behind them were the Gold Madonna album and Beatles' Platinum records, next to guitars belonging to Marilyn Manson, Jon Bon Jovi, Kiss, the Sex Pistols, and the Ramones. Floating in a glass case was a sky blue Mosquito with two necks, quite possibly the most beautiful rock instrument I've ever seen, belonging to Van Halen. I passed by the island many times, just to see the guitar again.


After the muffled squealing in our informal tour downstairs, we walked over to the Hard Rock Shop. The place had monstrous posters of Kid Rock, Heart, Gene Simmons, Dave Matthews, and Steve Perry all tacked above towers of Hard Rock sweatshirts, t-shirts, earrings, and other overpriced bling, even umbrellas. We finally got down into the Vault, some ten or fifteen of us looking around nervously.

A boy appeared to "lead us around"--our ridiculously good-looking tourguide was thin and sallow, with long dark hair and a gigantic smile made even bigger by the fact that he was higher than a kite. Rachel got a picture with him. (We abused her for the rest of the day.) The Vault was much closer quarters than the Cafe, so we were even closer to the awesome--there was a Kurt Cobain guitar, another Clapton, the stock sheets for all four Beatles (my favorite; they invested in corn, wheat, and all sorts of fruit). You know you're famous when they make your face into an American Express card. The guide asked what rock we liked best, and I piped up with "punk and psychedelic". He looked confused, probably because the p is the only thing that connects the two.

One last round complete with squealing, and we finally had to leave. Rachel's group shot must be the only thing to remember her soulmate by--but I guess she could just get a picture of Paul McCartney. At least one bigger than an American Express card.

Day 53: Communal Suffering

Our first religion test inspired panic, fear, anxiety, and the weird raucousness that occurs just before the apocalypse. Some kids barricaded themselves in the only quiet place in the house (the stuffy library) only to discover that other students were surfing Youtube and laughing more loudly than anyone thought possible. Some announced hourly trips to the Food & Wine to get more Dr. Pepper and Magnum Bars. Some stalwart study groups worked for twelve solid minutes at a time, breaking to sing Disney or N'Sync to just get through it. I stood this last group for about twenty-four minutes before I went upstairs to study properly, only to find a horde of girls learning some sort of rap cheerleading routine in the classroom. Thanks to Red Jumpsuit Apparatus and some really loud headphones, I could finally settle down to learn about the apostalic mission in detail.

I won't lie, group study guides inspire more uneasiness (and sometimes suck up more time) than just individual study. When it's obvious that one whole section of questions was researched on Wikipedia rather than class notes, it's enough to ruin faith in the entire ordeal. But, even so, everyone on their laptops, looking panicked about the imminent ruin just hours away, empty bags of chips and soda bottles scattered everwhere--I can't help but smile and calm down myself. Dr. Seely can't fail us all, right?

Day 52: Irritated People in the British Library

Another Magna Carta

The British Library is a pain to visit. After you figure out a non-work entrance (none of which are titled or have doors), you are uncomfortably introduced to an old guard clearly irritated at having to check bags that morning. Then the students upstairs glare at your touristish gait as you amble through their reading rooms like some cardless invader—but of course, none of them are willing to point you in the right direction. But upon discovering (purely by accident) the quiet darkened gallery, I was surprised to find it so unintimidating and decided to stay.

The Sacred Texts section calls for a second look; after admiring the gold-leaf lettering of ninth century Bibles, the illuminated Jain, Sikh, Hindu, and Buddhist texts are utterly stunning. Off to the side of Sacred Texts was a room titled MAGNA CARTA. Like the one in Salisbury, these copies lay under several inches of bullet-proof glass and offered little space to see. After I had finished congratulating myself on seeing three copies of the Magna Carta in such quick succession, I began to investigate the other information in the tiny vestibule. There were bishops’ revised documents, a video explaining the main ideas, and a timeline from 1100 to after 1776. It was here that I learned about the political turmoil that precipitated its drafting. What a political triumph that even the king was now subject to rule of law!

It was then that I began to compare these two originals with the Magna Carta in Salisbury Cathedral. If the document has such obvious political ends, why is it found in a monstrous chapter house? Is it a sacred document, or merely the triumph of the papacy against malicious King John? And what does it have to do with the growth of Christianity in England?

The Charter’s original drafting is evidence of entrenched Christianity in the political scene of thirteenth century England. King John was a despicable character when it came to taxes and arbitrary punishment, but I suspect that it was his conflicting with Rome that encouraged the barons to voice their displeasure. In the aftermath of Canterbury being left without a succeeding archbishop, John naturally favored one of his own men so as to influence this church stronghold. Pope Innocent III put up a fight and eventually excommunicated the king and pulled most of the clergy. Although the peasantry did not revolt against the king, they no doubt mentioned their displeasure and even fear of non-salvation to their barons. If the king could reject the Pope, that could be tantamount to rejecting God, which no doubt inspired hellfire fear. The question then became “Who is greater, the king or God?”

To the politically-strapped barons, the answer was plain. The king would have to be subject to the same laws as the rest of God’s children. The spiritual implications of the Magna Carta really struck me in Salisbury’s chapter house; without arbitrary punishment, regular people began to see the limits of royal power, gain faith in God (who has unending power) as well as dependable laws, and thus find conviction in God and country, rather than just one or the other. Naturally the Magna Carta could not cure all the troubles of throne and Rome: it would be several centuries before Henry VIII would claim them both together and pave the way for the Reformation in England, but no longer did people have much to fear from a monarch’s bad moods or immoral decisions. I believe it was this document that led Christianity to spread so widely across Europe—by limiting the king’s power, the larger influence of Catholicism would reach the far corners and mold the nation.