As you may or may not know, Canterbury is an agrarian center just 7 miles from the coastal city of Whitstable. In fact, one can hike down there on the Whitstable bike path, which makes for quite the tour of Southwest England’s flora and fauna. I’ve walked this path a few times, but never the entire 7 miles to the coast. I am just a little too dedicated to public transportation, but someday… someday I will make the journey and maybe even stop for a little picnic on the way. Until that day– I am content to make my way around the quaint Canterbury by UniBus and the occasional stroll.
While the countryside is the ideological expression of my greatest affections for the land and expansive horizon– I must admit, that sometimes, it’s nice living out in the City.
This past weekend, I visited my good friend and former housemate, Rachel Weidner, at her dorm in Chelsea, London. I went with a couple friends from campus, Cody, Nile, Cecily, and Liz. We were all feeling a little too intoxicated by the country air and traversed to the metro in search of a little more grit to our porridge.
Whenever I enter a big city– whether by coach, train, or car– I get a sudden rush of endorphins. It is as if I could suddenly feel the buzz of human brains, the beating of millions of hearts and the mumbly chatter of distant conversations. When I am in the city, I no longer feel the throat clenching solitude that is a country night. I no longer feel that I may look over my shoulder to find no soul behind me. I am suddenly second string in a never ending orchestral performance. My footsteps are inevitably in time.
Upon arrival, we duck into a convenience store to pick up some drinks and a snack. At Victoria we find the Underground and take it to Scott’s Cottage. The gang is staying at Palmer’s hostel — restored Victorian with wooden lockers under the bunks– so we head there to drop off a load. Nile Cody and I took the coach while Liz and Cecily took the train, so we meet them in the lobby and they book up their rooms. Luckily, I don’t have to throw down the 20 pounds because Rachel’s roommate never moved into the dorm leaving a perfectly good twin bed for me to rest so sweetly upon.
We congregate outside to formulate some plans. Liz and I sit down on a bench and start looking up at the clouds with the other three compare notes on places to go and underground lines to take. Liz and I exchange indecisiveness and wait for direction. To the National Portrait Gallery! They say, and so we line up and down to the underground tube to tube to get around.
We emerge at Tralfagar Square– first time for me. Stunning projection into the sky with sweet old Nelson perched perfectly atop the mast of England. We throw pence into the fountain like so many scenes of movies I’ve never understood. I wished I knew more about God, which I tell everyone, they keep theirs secret in hopes that they may be granted– I’ve personally given up hope on that little puddle. Up the stairs we go to the National Gallery, but as I step up, a suicidal pigeon dives toward my moving feet missing the pavement by a shoe and crash landing into my ankle instead. I scream- Liz got hit too, we scamper up the rest of the stairs and laugh that our previous joke kicks came true.
In the National Gallery we see hundreds and hundreds of priceless paintings, Klimpt, Monet, Manet, Michelangelo, Van Gough, Goya and Da Vinci. To stand face to face with the fuel of in-numerous theories and debates about the state of man and creativity. To be nose to nose. Oh and the Execution Of Jane Eyre. Oh. Oh. To see what men did to preserve the absolute physiology of their subjects, and then to see three rooms later, the distortions that so logically followed.
Stendhal’s syndrome kicks in. I can’t even look at the paintings individually anymore, I walk by wall after wall trying to absorb a piece of every cake I can swallow. But I am dizzied with the sugar, and like a diabetic, I call out for nourishment. “I’m hungry. Anyone want something to eat?” We have all been passing this idea back and forth between masterpieces, it finally catches flame and we walk out into the bright white light of Tralfagar Square. We find Pretz- a kind of pre-prepared sandwich and soup shop. Savory Thai Chicken stew with little pieces of coconut floating. We eat and are full and warm and ready for another go at greatness.
Just up the street from the National Gallery is the National Portrait Gallery. I just keep thinking ‘ These aren’t photographs, they really aren’t Sagan.’ But I can’t believe myself so I stick my face closer and closer until I can see the tiny give away brush strokes. I hold my hand to my chest. If I were any older or ill of heart- I would be down in a second. I am amazed floor after floor.
We jet out after drooling over Annie Leibovitz’s book- a collection of her works. Out into the open air and we decide to head to Chelsea, they’re off to the Science Museum, and (finally) I am off to meet Rachel. I haven’t seen her since I arrived about a month ago, and the effects of jet lag and preoccupation made our previous encounter less than satisfying.
She gives me text directions and we meet on a corner with a run and spinner. She is wearing a baggy black hoodie over a white skirt with primary color squares erratically placed. ‘Oh Rachel, where did you get that skirt?’ She bewilders me. She found this jacket on the side of the road with a huge Scooby Doo zipper pull, it is at least four sizes too large, but somehow– she pulls it off. We walk excitedly back to her dorm. I’m happy to be in comfortable company. Company that has seen me at every degree of health, wealth and disaster. We have fought and loved and screamed and got each other out of the country, making promises for tomorrow and the next day over and over.
We hang out for awhile and just chat it up, we have a lot to catch up on. Later we go out to Brick Lane, which seems to be a pretty hipster hang out. A nice little club for free and some friends met and left and met again. Ride the bus home late. Wake up about 11 and walk to groceries and then to the tube in an attempt to hang out with my group. My phone dies- due to some heated text message battle on the way into London- and Rachel doesn’t know/ have anyone’s number. So we just turn around and go home. Talking about communes in Seattle and radio shows when we get back into Bloomington. Living like Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway- we say. Wish I’d lived in those days. Spend the rest of the day chatting and running small errands, lifted from here to there. Love love love that Rachel
Ride the coach back to Canterbury, sleeping then Subway where a drunk starts a fight and we catch the last bus home. I sleep and sleep and sleeeep.
Humans are Mostly musical.
