exit, pursued by an owl

We headed out for our Stratford adventure this morning with a new coach driver and a new coach. “Coach” is English for “Bus” and don’t you forget it. And it wasn’t really a bus, but more like a giant 14 person van. It took me a bit to get accustomed to a smaller bus, er coach, since we’ve had giant full size coaches in years past. It also took me a bit to get accustomed to a driver who had absolutely no idea where he was going. He was a great guy, and we all became good friends, but I basically drove that bus. And by driving I mean that I shouted directions whenever we hit roundabouts. So it was a little adventure! Which I wasn’t really expecting.
I love Oxford, and my students always flip out over it. Especially Scott Stringham, who is such a Tolkein fan that he named his three sons after characters in Lord of the Rings. Considering that I named my kids after characters in Shakespeare, I understand his hero worship. So Oxford, where Tolkein lived, studied, and wrote is a mecca for guys like Scott. For guys like me, Oxford is mecca because we love Radiohead. It was here at the Jericho Tavern that Radiohead met, wrote, and devised music, and played their first gigs. It was also here that I had a really fantastic chicken sandwich and fries. I love the idea that I might have sat where Tom Yorke sat when he came up with “Fake Plastic Trees,” or where the band scribbled together the convoluted chords of “Paranoid Andriod.” A storm hit as I ate my lunch, and it was nice to be in a warm pub – feeling dry with no alarms and no surprises.

You can see my Diet Coke there on the table (I PROMISE IT'S DIET COKE:)


The weather died down by the time we hit Mary Arden’s farm, luckily, since a working Tudor farm can be a little soggy and marshy in the rain. We got there just in time for “Woolly Wednesday,” which means we saw cotton shearing and felt making. I learned a lot of interesting facts about felt that I have now since forgotten. Sadly, the world’s largest pig, who I have regularly visited for the past two years at Mary Arden’s farm, has been eaten! C’est la vie, I guess. But it’s sad to think that I may have eaten my friend at some point and not known it. We also watched the falconry exhibit – I was really impressed this year; the falconer wore a costume and was quite a card. Alex caught a really cool shot of this Love Owl swooping at his head:
Here is the old pig (who was eaten)

Here is the new pig (who will be eaten)


After this we were off to Anne Hathaway’s house. I spent the majority of the time sitting in a willow arboretum talking to Lisa on the phone. It was great to hear her voice, though such a romantic setting made me miss her more than ever. So we had a nice talk, except for the time when Margaret bullied her way into the conversation and told me that she likes to eat waffles with a spoon.

Dinner tonight at the Dirty Duck! The technical name of this pub is the Black Swan, but Dirty Duck fits it so much nicer. This is the pub just a few doors down from the RSC, so you can eat before or after a show, and chances are solid that you’ll see some actors. I was waiting in line to order my food and this really large guy, who seemed particularly drunk, started talking to me and goofing around. And then, about an hour later, this same guy turns up as Autolycus in The Winter’s Tale. That’s a regular occurrence at the Dirty Duck.

The Winter’s Tale was really great. I have had such hit and miss luck with the RSC in the past few years – their productions have been more weak than not; tonight’s was definitely a step in the right direction. It had a wonderful visual look to it; everything was created out of pages ripped from books. Even the giant bear who eats Antigonus was created out of torn pages and controlled like a giant behemoth by a team of puppeteers. The fertility dance of the Mummers was suitably phallic, but the costumes were pretty sweet. And the story was told with energy and thought. The production was beautiful to look at and it was engaging as an audience member. Particularly in the second half, when a handful of us snuck down to fill empty seats in the front row. It’s amazing how things open up to you when you sit on the front row. This proximity also afforded me the opportunity to steal one of those torn pages as a keepsake once the show had ended.

As per tradition, we gathered in the Holy Trinity graveyard on our way home to tell scary stories. Alex also demonstrated his fancy laser pen on the branches of trees and the walls of the old church. I’m sure all of the ghosts in the yard were impressed as well. Rachel claimed to have seen one. Whatever!

hands and faces, earth and sky

In class today we talked about Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, and Katherine of Aragon. This was in preparation for a performance of Henry VIII we're seeing on Saturday. Luckily it was also good preparation for the National Portrait Gallery, which we hit today on a whim. But I'll get to that in a second.

The students climbed St. Paul's cathedral today, and I was happy for them. I'm on a strict "every other year" policy for St. Paul's, and this is an off year. There would be no 590 stairs for me today. I would love to say I spent the time sitting on the steps of the cathedral feeding the birds, tuppence a bag, but I thought I'd jaunt down to the South Bank to find the Menier Chocolate Factory. The Menier was once a chocolate factory, but now it's a theatre. It's also the location for the show we saw tonight. I wanted to scout it out since I had never been there, and i'm glad I did - it's tricky to find. The neighborhood feels very south bank; if you know London you know what I'm talking about. Lots of pubs, lots of overhead trains, and lots of working class folk. Not a lot of tourists. So I like that, even though I basically am one. I have been known to affect an English accent so no one treats me like a tourist - and I generally get away with it. Generally. One time this lady thought I was Dutch.

We were hoping to hit Westminster after St Paul's, but it was too tight a squeeze with the time we had, so we went to Trafalgar Square where da action iz. Actually they have installed a giant hedge maze in the middle of the square, which sounds fun and irritating at the same time. I didn't go in, but Daniel and Becca did and they got pins that said it was "A MAZE ING!" I opted for the National Portrait Gallery. I always love the Portrait Gallery because it's like a giant yearbook for famous people. Here are some of my favorite faces:

Anne Boleyn, who in real life three breasts, six fingers on one hand, and a google-eye.

Elizabeth, the "virgin" Queen

This fat baby. What is this strange obsession I have with fat babies?

This rosy faced gentleman. I don't remember who he was. But nice wig, bro.

There was also a portrait contest going on, just like last year. This was the winner:

Spooky! That's a dead lady! Like three days dead. It's the painter's mother - she gave her permission to paint her after she died. What is that blob on her stomach? Stop looking at it!!!!

My favorite was this portrait, done by Michael Gaskell who did my favorite portrait last year. I think it's fantastic. You forget that it's a painting:
I also liked this one. This guy looks snappy and reminds me of my cousin Ryan:

Tonight we saw Aspects of Love at the aforementioned Menier Chocolate Factory. Aspects of Love is another Andrew Lloyd Webber show, and this is the first professional revival of the show since it opened in 1990. I remember this show well. I had the sheet music and my sister Page and I used to play and sing songs from it on the piano. We had no idea what the songs were about; and that's probably for the best. As it turns out, Aspects of Love has some fantastic music but a crazypants plot about people who change lovers every thirty seconds, or so it feels. There's this actress who has a French accent (sometimes) and she loves this young guy, but also his uncle; and it's this big sexy love triangle until the two men decide in about 15 seconds they don't actually love her anymore and basically sing a "you have her!" " No, YOU have her!" song. And then the young guy shoots her, but just grazes her arm so she gets to sing a few songs in a sling. And then someone has a baby, and then the baby goes behind a bush and comes out 10 years older, and then she falls in love with a 40 year old man who was 19 a few scenes earlier but hasn't visibly aged. And then this old guy has a heart attack and this other guy gives him CPR while some other people belt out a big ballad. I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen. And the actors had beautiful voices and there was some wonderful staging, but man that story stank up the joint.

Anyway, it was fun fodder for discussion on the tube home. That, and these really really drunk German guys who kept trying to talk to us and wanted to know how many wives I had.

good morning, g'day, goodbye

I sleep with my hotel windows open in Paris because there is no AC. You run the risk of pigeons flying into your room, but it's a risk I'll take. It also means you may be awakened at 5:00 am to hear street cleaners, as I was this morning. I got out of bed and took the above picture for some reason, and then fell back asleep. Not sure if it's important or not, or if it has any cosmic meaning, but there it was on my camera.

Our last day in Paris felt in many ways like it was the first. I prebooked the group on a Fat Tire Paris bike tour as the conclusion of our long weekend here. What I should have done, perhaps, was make this tour the introduction.

This is my first time doing the Fat Tire tours, though I’ve read about them a little online and had several people recommend them. I can see why. They are run smoothly, professionally, and with a lot of enthusiasm and wit. We met our initial guide under the south leg of the Eiffel Tower, and he walked us to a little alleyway full of beach cruisers. We were allowed to choose the cruiser that suited us best, and I picked a plucky blue one named “Amigo.” Amigo he truly was, too. We spent four glorious hours together. Our guide was Karl the Kiwi, who had no idea what he was in for when he began tooling us all around Paris. We kept him thoroughly entertained, and I truly believe it will be hard for any group to top our energy (or irritation, depending on your tolerance level for thespians on bikes.)

Karl took us all around the city, and I should preface by saying that it was the balmiest, most perfect weather of all time. OF ALL TIME. We biked under tree lined avenues, past Napoleon’s L’ecole Militaire, past the Dome Church and through the Champ du Mars, where Karl was accosted by an angry French woman who blamed us for scratching her ankle days earlier. No one spoke French except me, and my French is super junior high, but I amply defended us against this angry harridan.

After crossing over the Pont Alexandre III bridge and into the Place de Concord, we learned all about beheadings and marshes full of blood. Karl taught us to use the “palm of power” when we cross the street to fend off cars, and if the PofP doesn’t work, the shaking finger “no no no!” We stopped at a café in the Tuileries, where I had a quiche that was so good that it changed not only my life, but basically the progression of the world as we know it. While at lunch Karl played “most fun table” with us, and then partook of shaky face photographs.

Following lunch we moved back through town to the Eiffel Tower. At one point we dominated an entire street with our beach cruisers, and we sailed through several intersections cheering and laughing at how fancy we felt to be on bikes. Can I take a moment and recommend the Fat Tire tour? It’s pretty fantastic, and you can do it in London, Berlin, and Madrid as well. Many of my students said it was the highlight of their trip.

We had a few hours before train time, so we all split and did our own thing. You know me, I had some neighborhoods to explore, and so I set out for The Latin Quarter, home of the Sorbonne. This is where the students are. Not mine, they went to the catacombs, but the students who built barricades and waived flags a while back. I started at the Museum de Cluny, a Roman/Medieval Museum where I saw:

A famous tapestry where a lady frolics with unicorns:

A stained glass window with all kinds of dubious going ons:
Another stained glass, this one with eye gouging:
The Gallery of Kings, sculpted in 1220:
Old Roman baths!

Just as I was exiting the museum there was a loud clap of thunder and then a giant downpour in the courtyard! I luckily had an umbrella. I huddled under a door frame and worried about wet shoes. Luckily, I stayed pretty dry. Once the rain lightened, I wandered more around the Latin Quarter, where I saw:

The Rue Galande, which is very mysterious.
A cool window along the aforementioned mysterious Rue Galande:

The second downpour hit just in time for me to hide out at Shakespeare and Company, a quirky and chaotic bookshop that doubles as a haven for bohemian ex-pats:
Shakespeare and Company is a pretty fantastic place; very booky, very quaint, and somehow also very American. There was a children’s reading nook upstairs, and all the books up there were to be read, not sold. So all these people are huddled in chairs and benches reading, and there is an old piano in the corner that you can play, as long as some guy doesn’t hog it the whole time (I'm talking to THAT GUY.) You can type someone a letter on an old fashioned typewriter, but that was a little twee for me, so I just sat, read, listened some guy hog the piano, and waited the storm out. The storm broke eventually, and I started my sojourn back to the hotel, stopping at a very important place: The Thinnest house in Paris!

At 7:00 we regrouped and crammed onto a metro so full of rush hour travelers that you didn’t need to hold onto the pole. You were completely propped up by bodies all around you, with varying levels of hygiene. Which is fine, since those poles are, I assume, coated in swine flu and melanoma. It was a fitting way to say goodbye to Paris, a city that is also little too full, and sometimes too sweaty, but definitely always moving and alive.

let us eat cake, too

If you’ve seen the Sophia Coppola Marie Antoinette, you’ve really only seen half of the story. It’s a great movie, or perhaps I should say a divisive movie – you love it or you hate it, and I love it – but it finishes just when the story gets good. Marie and her husband, Louis XVI, are fleeing the angry mob of Parisians who want their heads. They say goodbye to Versailles, waive their fans, and cobble off in a carriage. And there the film ends. The history, however, is a little more brutal. In reality the mob caught the carriage, imprisoned the king and queen, and Marie had to listen to her children being whipped and beaten in adjoining prison rooms. The severed head of her best girlfriend was put on a pike and waived at her through her jail window. And then, you know, they chopped her head off as well.

I only tell this story because we went to Versailles today. It’s easy at Versailles to think of it as this beautiful and romantic period of French history. I imagine it probably was in the beginning, but it also feels stained with arrogance and blood. So there’s a lot going on, and you definitely get a sense of that.

Versailles is beautiful but it’s always really packed. I think it’s something you need to do if you go to Paris, just to say you’ve done it. But it’s difficult to get a sense of the history when you are jostling with other tourists to get a shot of the royal chapel, or you get elbowed in the Queen’s bedroom by some lady who really, really wants to push to the front of the line, or you go to the hall of mirrors and see some grown man pick his nose and eat it. Sir, you were busted. And it’s impressive and amazing and opulent, but it also becomes a little overwhelming. Because how could people live like this when so many other people were starving? It’s strange and hard to reconcile. Ah, what do I know, I’m a democrat.

I do love the gardens, though. After we had a light lunch in town (OK, it was McDonald’s and I WILL NOT BE JUDGED) we headed back to the gardens. I love the Queen’s Hamlet, and even though it takes 25 minutes to walk there, it’s worth it. You pass some amazing fountains – we were there as they were all on and it was breathtaking - through the Petit Trianon, past the temple of love, and into the hamlet. I know the history of it; she built it so she could live like a shepherdess. She had elaborate costumes made and she walked around with goat crooks and picked eggs. It’s really gauche and ridiculous. But she sure built a beautiful little village to play-act in. We sat under a large oak tree by her pond and took in how picturesque it all was. We played with ducks and fed the carp. None of us can relate to her lifestyle or her wealth, but everyone loves a little village.

On the way back we found the little grotto, and I heard thunder in the distance. I was hoping for rain, but it never came. The clouds were great, though, and kept us cool as we wound our way through the garden paths.Back in Paris we split our separate ways for dinner. I split off by myself, with the blessing of Alta Stringham, and ducked into a Chinese Restaurant (no pun intended) I found on Avenue de Washington. It was nice to sit quietly by myself and eat chicken chop suey. It was a little hole in the wall, but the staff was so happy to have me. They were very kind and gracious, and this kind of service is a hot commodity in Paris.

We finished a busy day atop the Arc de Triumph – meeting at nine so we could watch both the sunset and the 10:00 Eiffel Tower twinkle. We took a lot of pictures for a lot of people. We also managed to stake some for ourselves.