Dragons in the Old World
In one of my many typography books, the author has seen fit to display for our review a page from a magazine now thirteen years old. The text on it is a piece of poetry, but there is no clear definition as to who has written it. Google has been of no help, strangely. Nevertheless, the line has stuck rather snugly in my head, so I'm going to take it out here:
Ancient maps of the world
when the world was flat
inform us, concerning the void
where America was waiting
to be discovered,
Here Be Dragons.
O to be a dragon.
The recent trek of a significant chunk of The Tribe out to England, where most of us have some kind of roots, was a fantastic experience. I say this using 'fantastic' in the sense of a wide-eyed tourist-child-thing, marveling at the difference of things and the strangeness of the similar.
I'd like to say we took the country by storm, but of course it barely even noticed our passing. Such is the nature of nations. Little invasions like this happen all the time, and no one flinches, except maybe a few family members of the betrothed. We were loud, we drank too much, and we probably said 'cheers' enough to be seriously annoying. It went both ways; I think we're all now carrying around a substantial pouch of sausage on our bellies, which may take a couple of weeks to fully work its way out of your systems.
Farms and cities. Fancy, frequent trains which still manage to completely fail five meters out of the station. Some things don't change. The grammar of culture was the same there, more or less. Their money feels more substantial, but you're not allowed to tip.
I think I'm going to be writing about this trip for a little while. There's just a lot up in my head that I'm going to have to work through. I'm also looking to draw this out because my photo lab decided to be difficult and not scan my slides onto CD for me in time for pickup. I'll therefore have to do the job myself when I get access back to Pratt's facilities, which might not be until next week. The slides look great, though. Until then, it's just some supergrainy 3200iso black and white film and digital pics.
I wouldn't normally care, but I'm starting to get hassled to post SOME pictures.
First, a few impressions.
America takes a lot of flack for having arrogant motorists and dangerous roads. Bullshit. I've never feared for my life as much as I have sitting in a Kentish cab barreling along weaving, bobbing country roads too narrow to form a proper driveway. These drivers navigate two way traffic, making the best speed they can, while blind 20 yards ahead on a road barely wide enough to fit two cars past each other. In London, as with the countryside, there are no shoulders on the roads. This means that while you walk on the sidewalks, traffic's moving at 40mph at arm's reach. It's scary enough to be on the street; crossing it is an exercise in faith.
If you're going to hold a wedding reception with unlimited booze but only finger food, expect memorable results without anyone capable of remembering them. I do remember standing between two gay friends of mine who complimented my ass so much that they called over the nearest English Grandmother to verify their flattery. This over my objections that two gay men probably have enough expertise in ass classification to not need backup. Anyway, this sweet dear shambled up, grabbed my ass, and declared that it was, indeed, a very nice ass. My rear is English Grandmother Approved.
Bunker Chic is big in London, but boy do their bunkers look great. The Heathrow Express train stations look like a Hollywood interpretation of NORAD command in the year 2050. Whenever we Americans build something out of concrete, it ends up looking like the inside of a used sewage tunnel.
London bouncers are willing to take a lot more gruff than New York ones. Until the new law takes effect later this year, all pubs issue last call at eleven o'clock, after which they promptly close, unless they're one of the lucky few with a late license. After closing a pub in Camden Town, my companions and I bumped into a crowd of similarly dry-mouthed locals and found a bar/club that was still serving. At the door, when handing my bag over to be searched, I recall saying (loudly) words to the effect of: "It's a bunch of cameras, because I'm a fucking tourist." He let me in with a warning to keep an eye on them. In my town, I'd probably still need an icepack.
It's late, and I think that's all for now. What? Oh, fine. The bride looked radiant, even in grainy black and white.
