STREET SYNTHESIS

A night in London.
I spent the majority of a Friday with Rea and her Uncle Homer, nervously anticipating the moment they'd have to leave me on my own to find The Beaver. Yes, The Beaver, my hotel of choice, located in the cozy neighborhood of South Kensington. I'll never forget that moment, exiting the tube, saying goodbye to Rea and Uncle Homer, Rea anxiously wishing me good luck: "I'm sure you'll be fine. I guess I'll see you on Sunday?" "Yeah, Sunday probably. I'll be fine, don't worry about me!" I was terrified. I turned, feigning confidence, and walked up and out of the tube station, never looking back. I felt certain that if I did, it would "give me away", so to speak, as a tourist... not like my bursting backpack with a burnt orange longhorn wouldn't have taken care of that for me.

I made my way to The Beaver. It was dark by that time, and being in a strange place in the dark always makes me feel vulnerable. Evidently, this lovely borough of Kensington wasn't as nice as I'd thought. I walked through that neighborhood, feeling so scared, so small, so Texan, so tourist, so SORE THUMB sticking out for the world to steal what little this gal's got with her. All of a sudden, I looked in the window of a home to my left. I stopped dead in my tracks at a serene scene of a young mother with a baby in a bassinet, watching TV with the lights off, several candles burning brightly on the mantelpiece. In this moment, my fears were erased. As irrational as it may have been, I felt safe. If this mother and her baby are here, I'm ok. Nonsense, but it's how I felt. I continued to grow in my confidence as I walked down the street, not at a gunshot pace like before, praying no one would approach me, but more in fascination at these evening paintings I was fortunate enough to behold. A small family eating dinner together in their vibrant red formal dining room, wine glasses on the table (elbows off). Two teens on a white leather couch, watching (but obviously not watching) a movie, hyper-conscious of hand positioning, too close for Mom's comfort. Looking through a living room to the kitchen, an older woman washing dishes with a small TV on the counter displaying the evening news. These scenes seemed so normal, so familiar, so comforting. They reminded me that yes, I'm in a strange country, a new neighborhood, at night, alone.... but these people are just people. They live here. They rock their baby to sleep here; they eat dinner here; they make out on the couch when Mom isn't looking here. It's just a neighborhood.

&...

as I stepped into The Beaver, I felt a small sense of accomplishment- at least I'd made it to my hotel room. At least there was that. I watched some British TV, thumbing through the pages of a Time Out London I'd bought with good intentions earlier that afternoon. So many things to do, so many people, out and about in this city. I could see some just out my window on the street. Girls in their "going out" heels. Yet I was on pause there in the room, paralyzed and panicked. I think something inside of me, the way I was brought up, told me not to go out alone. Cue inner dialogue:

Mom would kill me. I'll get mugged, I'll get raped, I'll be stuck here in London and no one will ever find me again! Besides, BBC is quality television. We don't get this back home... well, maybe we do, but not as many options as here in England! I'll stick around here, relax, maybe take a shower. Yeah, that sounds good- I need to relax anyway, been so busy this week! No one will ever know. No one will ever know.... that I've sat here on my butt all night long?! No! No, I can't stay here. Must go out. Must find SOMEthing to do! Be brave, you'll kick yourself later if you don't go out and make some sort of memory.

And so I did. I went out, took the tube and I found Soho. I found Picadilly Circus, I found Covent Garden, I marched along the Strand. I did it alone. And I didn't get mugged or raped or maimed in any way. I did meet Luis, the Columbian rickshaw driver who let me sit in the back of his ride while I ate a slice of pizza, trying to figure out where to go next. We had a most pleasant discussion about Columbian music.

~~*~~

Yes, yes... there it was, the Amazing Learning Experience. It sort of encompasses my feelings about this trip to England- growth being the key element. Self-confidence out in the big, bad world, out of a safety bubble with emergency numbers. I feel proud of myself, like on this trip I've honestly accomplished something real, something useful for the rest of my life. I know it's silly to feel proud, really, when I've only grazed the surface of "experience", and it was an English-speaking city... but hey, a gal's gotta start somewhere.

***NOVEL SYNTHESIS***

In each of the four novels we read for the London course, there has been an in-class focus on relationships between characters. In all cases, a homosocial aspect has been present, not to be confused with the homosexual elements so prominently displayed in The Picture of Dorian Gray and Mrs. Dalloway. With the topic of the homosocial versus the homosexual, it is easy to make connections and distinctions between the four novels.

In Bleak House, we saw Esther participate in many homosocial relationships. She was connected with many female characters; her relationship with Ada was most prominent. In this case it is interesting to see how female friendships are portrayed in Dickens' time in comparison to Virginia Woolfe's time. In some senses, the relationships between Esther and Ada and Clarissa and Sally are very similar. In both instances, the women were socially thrown together and became the closest of friends almost immediately. In contrast, the two relationships are different in that Esther and Ada were close friends, but Esther played a more maternal role in Ada's life. It seems that Clarissa and Sally had a much different sort of relationship- I was left with the impression that Clarissa idolized Sally in a way; we know she admired Sally and had strong feelings for her. While the relationship between Esther and Ada was pure friendship and nothing more, I would argue that there was romantic love present between Clarissa and Sally, as we have some insight into the matter:

"But this question of love (she thought, putting her coat away), this falling in love with women. Take Sally Seton, her relation in the old days with Sally Seton. Had not that, after all, been love?"

In this vein, we can move along to the comparison of Dorian Gray's relationships and the friendship between Samad and Archie in White Teeth. In The Picture of Dorian Gray, nearly all of the male relationships had a homosexual element to them: Basil's obsession with Dorian's beauty, Dorian's fixation on Lord Henry's words, Lord Henry's fascination with toying with Dorian's mind, and on and on. Though the novel was written in a time in which homosexuality was a crime to be imprisoned for; Oscar Wilde was quite blatant in his approach to describing these relationships. Although nothing overtly sexual occurs in the novel between men, it is implied in his flow of descriptive language.

This bears sharp contrast to the friendship of Samad Iqbal and Archie Jones. The two men have an unlikely friendship, connected probably solely through the war. They have completely different backgrounds, yet their lives are connected through the war and the things they have in common in their current lives, such as their children of the same age in the same school, the pub they convene in daily for chips and beans (or mushrooms in Archie's case), PTA meetings- the sort of day to day mundane is what continues to bind the two together, in addition to their constant rehashing of old war stories. It's interesting how much more functional a relationship between two men of such different backgrounds is in comparison to the relationships in Dorian Gray, in which all of the men are of the same social class and background. The men in Dorian Gray are all mentally or socially peculiar in one way or another, and the result is confusion, manipulation, and death. This proves an interesting point: congruent social, historical, even geographical backgrounds do not a perfect friendship or relationship make. Archie and Samad are almost polar opposites in that respect, yet their relationship has survived for years, through thick and thin.

It is also interesting how the city of London plays into these stories. London's role in the novels is perpetually shifting- we move from the sludge, mire and soot of Dickensian London to the wealth of The Strand in Wilde's time. From there we walk with Clarissa Dalloway through the streets of a still wealthy yet less extravagant London, to the more modern day suburbs of a poor east London- Willesden Green, where Archie and Samad reside. This course in the city and the novel has tied these two elements together in a way I had never previously thought to take note of; in hindsight it seems so completely obvious that I can't believe I passed over such an important element of reading a novel. The ever-changing background of London and its interaction with the lives of the characters and their relationships proves most interesting; the city truly colors each novel in a different way and gives each one a completely different energy.

***THE NOVEL***
White Teeth

The question of the moral fiber of Archibald Jones is an interesting one. To some, he appears as a sort of bumbling dullard, wandering through life with no real conviction of character, no rules for life, no religion- no nothing. These people may have some affection for his character as a sort of silly old man, but don't really value him in the novel. I have a different view of old Archie- he's my favorite character in the whole book. When it comes to the question of the man's character and values, I feel that Archie is perhaps the most virtuous guy in the story. But it takes a while to get to this point; the opening scene finds the man attempting to kill himself. A real act of cowardice (displayed as courageous in Archie's mind) opens the novel:

"But dying's no easy trick. And suicide can't be put on a list of Things to Do in between cleaning the grill pan and leveling the sofa leg with a brick. It is the decision not to do, to un-do; a kiss blown at oblivion. No matter what anyone says, suicide takes guts. It's for heroes and martyrs, truly glorious men. Archie was none of these. He was a man whose significance in the Greater Scheme of Things could be figured along familiar ratios:
Pebble:Beach
Raindrop: Ocean
Needle: Haystack."

Ultimately, Archie does decide to kill himself... by gassing himself in his car. This hopelessness the man feels, the cowardice in dealing with his troublesome life- these things show lack of character in my opinion. However, Archie does not die. Archie lives. Archie is saved by (in my opinion) divine intervention, in the shape of a man named Mo. As a result, Archie transforms himself from a depressed and washed-up old character into a man with a new lease on life. He's alive!

"Later that morning, Archie did an ecstatic eight circuits of Swiss Cottage traffic circle in his car, his head stuck out the window, a stream of air hitting the teeth at the back of his mouth like a windsock. He thought: Blimey. So this is what it feels like when some bugger saves your life. Like you've been handed a great big wad of Time.....

Go straight past Go!, Archie-boy, he tells himself; collect two hundred, and don't for Gawd's sake look back."

This new and improved Archibald Jones is my favorite character because of his zest and appreciation for life and the people in it. His new wife Clara, his daughter Irie, his best friend Samad... I think Archie knows what to value and what to not obsess about. Samad is constantly stressed about his sons and their spirituality, their roots, to the point of splitting them up and sending one back to his homeland. This is insane to me; the work of a madman. Archie appears to have the concern of a potato in comparison, but if we look a little closer and dig a little deeper into who Archie is; where he's been, what he's lived through, who is is presently, I think we find a man with his values in the right place.

GENERAL UPDATE FOR THE MASSES:

Sorry I have been so terrible about updating the blog. I promise to tell everyone anything you want to know! Here's a recap of last week: saw two amazing Shakespeare performances. The first was The Comedy of Errors at the Globe Theater in London on Tuesday (I think). It was really funny and entertaining- it was such a cool experience in general to be in the Globe- we had standing tickets in front of the stage, so it was neat to sort of experience that. It also rained during the performance which I loved. Before the Shakespeare performance, we had gone to east London to explore some ethnic neighborhoods to coincide with our reading in White Teeth. We checked out a Muslim mosque, which was interesting. As an anthropology major, I felt a little uncomfortable going in to mosque. I don't mean this in the sense that being around another culture was uncomfortable- being uncomfortable in that sense is always a good learning experience; it was more of the fact that a large group of us sort of went tromping about in someone else's mosque unannounced during their prayer time. Nevertheless, it was an excellent opportunity to view someone else's religious practices in action. The mosque was really beautiful inside, as was watching the men and women practice their prayers. After that, we went to an area of London called Brick Lane, which was SUPER cool. I found some awesome record stores and bought some Black Crowes vinyl... one limited edition clear vinyl with a calendar included from 1993. I'm still really excited about them.

Also last week we visited another magnificent garden at Rousham. It ties at number two with Stourhead for my favorite, because the two were so different. They were both really majestic and massive, but Rousham was different in that there was no distinct tour or path we were supposed to take; you could wander at will and come upon the more painterly views of the garden, as well as the picturesque. They were simply framed differently than Stourhead, where you could see a view of a temple from a mile away. At Rousham, you could wander through some woods and then just happen upon an old temple. It was fantastic. There was also a really nice par terre garden close to the house.

We also got to see The Tempest last week in Stratford, starring Patrick Stewart. Yes, I mean Patrick Stewart from Star Trek. He was really excellent. The Tempest really freaked me out though- there was this one part when freaky Ariel (this weird sprite dude) came unexpectedly out of a freaking walrus or something all bloody and I was sort of terrified. I did not enjoy that bit. The rest was good though. Just the experience of realizing, sitting in your seat, that you're watching the Royal Shakespeare Company, with Patrick Stewart, act out The Tempest, in Stratford.... it's mind-blowing. I keep reminding myself to take a step back and realize in the grand scheme of things, how amazing these experiences are!

Friday, I went with a few friends to do some more touristy stuff in London- for the Buckingham exhibit, see the last post. That night, we miraculously got discount tickets to see The Producers- the newest Mel Brooks musical. It was absolutely hysterical- we had an awesome time, and SOMEHOW managed to get second row seats! I don't know how this happened... divine providence, I think. We were second row, right in the middle behind the conductor! We even got some interaction with one of the actors! It was a blast!

Phew! So, things are sadly winding up here. In classes we're working on final projects, finishing books, etc. I don't want to leave! I love England, save the food and occasional snotty people. The weather today is so cold, it feels amazing.... I really don't want to return to the likes of 110 degree highs in Austin. I also love my profs and the kids- I feel so blessed to know these people and we're kind of like family now. I will really miss being around them every day in this happy little bubble at Brasenose College. I do, however, miss many things about Texas. Number one: friends and family. Two: Ned Plimpton. Three: texmex and edible food in general. Four: ice cubes. Five: water that does not smell like sulphur. Those are the top five. In in all honesty, number one weighs out against everything I adore about England, so don't worry, I will be coming home. :)

xo,
Sarai

ps- i do still promise pics- i think i will have to use the lab because my internet connection isn't fast enough.

***The Museum***


This past Friday, I had the rare opportunity to view the interior of Buckingham Palace. The Queen is on vacation somewhere, and the 19 state rooms are currently on display for the general public (at a rather hefty price!). But what I really desired to see was a special exhibit of the Queen's evening gowns. It was included in the tour of the state rooms, so luckily, I was able to view it.

When I first walked into the room and saw all of the gowns, I was completely overwhelmed and I actually got a little teary-eyed. There were glittering dresses of every hue, sorted by color. To the left, a gorgeous collection of blues; past that canary yellows; then pinks, reds, greens, and on and on! It was a vintage lover's dream come true. Never in my life have I seen so many amazing gowns.... but it makes sense, because honestly how could it get any better than the gowns of the Queen of England? I took in every detail, laughing at how the Queen has changed shape considerably since 1947 (the oldest dress on display, a red velvet number) from hourglass to rectangle. It was also amusing to see that even the Queen was affected by tiedye in the 1970s- why her designer thought it a good idea to incorporate it into an evening gown, I'll never understand.

It may seem highly materialistic that I get so excited about "a bunch of old dresses", as a friend put it. But to me, they're not just dresses, they're history, and I find it fascinating how styles and trends have changed through the years, and how they even affect someone in power like Queen Elizabeth. The dresses mark certain important events; she was rarely allowed to wear them twice. Each one was crafted with exquisite detail, even with elements of the country she may have been visiting- something like a national flower or symbol, to show respect and admiration for that particular country. In addition, there are gowns in the exhibit that mark special dates in the Queen's personal life; what she wore when crowned, what she wore for her official photograph, what she wore at her son's weddings, and on and on. That's why these gowns are important to preserve- because they're not just dresses; they're a special piece of pop culture and world history, and one woman's personal history in one.

***The Novel***
Mrs. Dalloway

"How long had Dr. Holmes been attending him?
Six weeks.
Prescribed a little bromide? Said there was nothing the matter? Ah yes (those general practitioners! thought Sir William. It took half his time to undo their blunders. Some were irreparable)."

This section of Mrs. Dalloway, the part in which Septimus finally sees a proper doctor for his mental ailment, is depressing. Septimus suffers from post-traumatic stress syndrome after his time in the war; but at this time, any decent form of psychiatry was only just getting off the ground. This poor man had to suffer a long time with another doctor (one of "those general practitioners) telling he and his wife that he was perfectly fine! Imagine all of the men who came back from the war like poor Septimus, unable to get real help. And also sadly, Septimus was one of those irreparable men. Even the great Sir William couldn't get him to the country to recover fast enough before he killed himself... as whispered about at Clarissa's party: "Lady Bradshaw murmured how, 'just as we were starting, my husband was called up on the telephone, a very sad case. A young man (that is what Sir William is telling Mr. Dalloway) had killed himself. He had been in the army.' Oh! Thought Clarissa, in the middle of the party, here's death, she thought."

The connection between these two people, Septimus and Clarissa, is what makes me feel certain I don't like the character of the latter. Throughout the book, I found myself relating to her absentminded thoughts wandering as she ran her errands; her extreme nostalgia; her thoughts on past relationships. I cannot, however, relate to Clarissa's shallow response to the death of Septimus. The stupid woman is upset at the mention of death at HER party. Naturally, in accordance with her character and the stream of conciousness narrative, she continues to think on Septimus' death... but her party draws her away from these thoughts. She's too busy playing hostess to really display any true emotion about Septimus' suicide- things must be kept pleasant for her party; no more mention of death.