Poor Timing (April 11, 2010)

Hello all,
To those of you courageous enough to open your inboxes after the onslaught of my two previous emails, my thanks.
I last left you breathless and resentful on Sunday evening. I arrived in Bristol, walked through the twilight with a slight breeze, and checked into the Rock 'n Bowl hostel in Bristol...a hostel associated with a bowling alley. Yes, I know what you're thinking, and believe me, I was thinking the same thing too. The place was being refurbished, which it could certainly use, and I found myself in a room with five Colombians, a Hungarian, and no working lockers. I was tired, but a call from my parents cheered me up as I took a quick stroll in search of some food, which I found. After getting in touch with Karin, I called it a day.
The next morning, the fire alarm inexplicably went off around 8:30. This was kind of a bumpy start to the day, but I was surprised and pleased to enjoy a hot shower that was actually hot. I spent most of the morning listlessly browsing the internet, not really feeling motivated to do a whole lot. I finally emerged from the hostel and spent two hours in a coffee shop writing in my journal, then I attended Evensong at the Bristol Cathedral. I explored the area by the quays in Bristol for a little, then it was back to the hostel, where I realized that the tattooed man gaping at the television in the common room with a sedated expression on his unshaven face had been sitting there apparently all day. I killed time until going to bed.
The next morning, one of the three bathrooms was out of service, with the door dangling from a single hinge--as I waited for a stall to open up, a fellow patron from Istanbul remarked to me about how much she hated the hostel. I could see why.
Some quick background information on Bristol--ranking as England's sixth most populous city, Bristol's history dates back to the 12th century. The city is situated around the Avon River gorge and set on the coast of the Severn Estuary, between England and Wales; its history is linked to maritime commerce through the port of Bristol. Nowadays, Bristol is one of the major cities of the southwest and has a distinct and active culture of its own.
I set out to see what I could find, and before long I wound up at the Bristol City Museum and Art Gallery. At this point in my trip, I wasn't terribly enthusiastic about the prospect of yet ANOTHER museum, but I ducked in nevertheless, and to my surprise enjoyed my time browsing the collections. The museum wasn't huge, but it contained a variety of things, such as displays on natural history, egyptology, mineralogy, and fun collection of tigers--plastic tiger, carved wooden tigers, tiger textiles, etc. This made me think: the huge, themed museums that I'd been to were great, such as the Tate Modern and Museum of Natural History in London, but there's the hazard of becoming overwhelmed by rooms and rooms of paintings or taxidermied animals. Even the famous paintings such as Van Gogh's Sunflowers and the Arnolfini Wedding Portrait can seem stifled when surrounded by other, lesser-known works, and these works themselves can be unjustly overshadowed by their celebrity neighbors. This wasn't the case at the Bristol Museum--with just a little bit of everything, a person could take it at a leisurely pace.
Also, in a semester that's been so museum-intensive, this gives rise to another bite-sized epiphany: why the heck to we like museums so much in the first place? Playing sports or going to an amusement park are both fun and exhilirating, but what is it about going to a big building crammed full of stuff and just walking around slowly and not talking to anyone for an hour or two? It's hard to say, but I think it just speaks to a certain natural curiosity we possess as humans. Once you scratch the surface, just about everything is interesting in its own particular way, and there's an entire world of things to discover. Personally, I found myself interested in the local wildlife snarling back at me through the glass display cases because not only do I seldom see animals up close, but some of these are animals that we just don't have back in the states. It's times like those that I recall all the listless days when I just feel bored and berate myself for that.
After the museum, another stop at a coffee shop for an hour or two of journaling--yes, I find myself slowly drawn toward the coffee-shop demographic I have mocked in the past. I browsed an English newspaper for probably the first time since my arrival: I read an opinion piece by a journalist who had traveled in America and gleefully announced to his readership that all the stereotypes about American Southerners were not only true, but actually exceeded his expectations. I also read through a sports piece about Tiger Woods' latest press conference, wondering why anyone outside the US would care about American golf, then I remembered that the sport was invented on this island.
After leaving the coffee shop, I browsed my way through a couple shops (I haven't met a bookstore yet that I can resist popping in) and ended up at an independent movie theater by the Bristol waterfront where I saw a screening of a film called Double-Take. Rather than a narrative, this film was more like an 80-minute montage forming an overarching meditation on doubles and doppelgangers. It was unique, and kind of difficult to explain: the screenwriter had adapted a short story by Jorge Luis Borges, himself preoccupied with doubles in much of his work, to recount a fictional meeting between Alfred Hitchcock (who also explored themes of doppelgangers and mistaken identity in his films) and Hitchcock's own doppelganger. Intercut with this narrative was footage of Cold War press conferences, 1960s commercials for instant coffee, trailers and television footage of Hitchcock himself, and interviews with Hitchcock impersonators, one of whom supplied a voice-over for the film. I didn't completely understand it, but the director was preoccupied with comparing Hitchcock's films with Cold War politics and examining the role that the advent of television played throughout.
The only reason that I go into such detail on what was admittedly an unusual film is that footage of press releases surrounding the Cuban Missile Crisis elicited a reaction in me that I reach from time to time in contemplating the past. Through my childhood, the impression I got of the past fifty years or so of American history was a bright cheery one, formed largely by the television and films I saw that dated back to that era. I imagined that I might have enjoyed living through those times. Now that I've learned more, my views have changed: with the dissolution of the USSR and the destruction of the Berlin Wall occuring about the same time of my birth, myself and all those of my generation really have no idea what it was like to live in the atmosphere of showdown between two nuclear superpowers. People aren't scared of Russians or Communists the way they used to be (why do you think Tom Clancy hasn't been able to write a decent novel for the past fifteen years?), and to watch newsreels of children participating in the infamous "duck and cover" drills seems quaint and laughable to us now. The thing is, even at that time, weren't these films and depictions of "Leave it to Beaver" society little more than hiding one's head in the sand? In the face of nuclear war, what else was there to do? When I think about the Cuban Missile Crisis especially and how close we were to plunging into catastrophe, it really sends a chill down my spine. All you older readers of these emails who grew up during these times, I've got to say, I can't imagine what it must have been like, and the closest I can imagine seems so unreal. Perhaps later generations will feel the same way about the times we're in now, and marvel at the terror of September 11 and the threat of subversive extremist terrorism, equally threatening as the nationalistic saber-rattling that was the Cold War but in different ways. It's really remarkable how we can live with the shadows of these things looming over us and still keep up with daily life--grocery shopping, going to the gym, watching sitcoms on television, and keeping track of professional sports. Somehow we dodge the bullet over and over again.
Forgive me my digression--back to Bristol:
I spent my final day in Bristol seeing more sights of the town. I walked out to the western border of the city, passing through a park with a commemorative monument to John Cabot, who came from Bristol, and past a crescent of high-class apartments, similar to one I had seen at Bath. Then I came upon the Clifton Suspension Bridge which spans the Avon Gorge. I got views of the bridge from a hillside observatory, and also descended a stone passage that emptied into a rather disappointing cave that opened on the side of the gorge. This bridge has been in place since 1864 and was engineered by a 24-year old by the name of Brunel, who is one of Bristol's most famous natives, along with Cabot. Another example of Brunel's handiwork is the SS Great Britain, described as the "world's first great ocean liner", and which I saw from a distance anchored in the inlet. This was a decent amount of walking, but the weather was sunny and warm, a recent development that was just fine with me. I got some browsed in a couple more shops, got some lunch, and talked to two different students who were both volunteering to raise funds for the same charity--one, a guy named Jake who reminded me of one of my high school friends, and the other a girl with dreadlocks whose name I can't remember. They were both friendly, and it was nice to have brief conversations with them. Then I stopped by a modern art museum called the Arnolfini Gallery, which was a venue for rotating exhibits, but they were in the midst of installing new exhibits, so there wasn't much to see. I camped out in Starbucks yet again (for those of you keeping count at this point) until catching my train for Stratford-upon-Avon. I felt like I was just getting to know Bristol, and I was a little sad to leave it.
In order to get to Stratford-upon-Avon, I had to change trains at Birmingham, where I had previously spent an unplanned night in the city following an error with my rail tickets. I admit, I was somewhat relieved to pass through that city without incident the second time. It was dark by the time I arrived in town, and I hired a taxi to drive me to my hostel, which was four miles out of town.
After breakfast on Thursday morning, I caught a bus into Stratford, which is a verdant and picturesque city located right on the banks of the Avon River (one of many rivers named Avon in England, I might add, since the name "Avon" originates from the Celtic term used to describe any old river). After getting my bearing, I immediately headed off to the main purpose of my visit: William Shakespeare's birthplace and childhood home.
Shakespeare requires no introduction. The house where he grew up is now managed by the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, and is referred to in many publicity materials by the grandiose name of "The Birthplace". To a satirical mind (such as my own), it conjured notions of a site not associated with any specific person, but with perhaps some unknown but notorious quality of fertility--namely, I pictured a warehouse or factory building, humming with industrial noises, with a perpetual stream of infants crawling out a trapdoor. Or perhaps a genetic laboratory where mass batches of babies are "grown", like in Brave New World.
In reality, the visitor to The Birthplace first goes through the Shakepeare Center, which is little more than a series of three or four introductory videos in different rooms with a few token artifacts, such as a signet ring thought to belong to Shakespeare and a copy of the First Folio, the seminal first published collection of the Bard's plays, surreptitiously undertaken by a pair of Shakespeare's friends without his approval and peddled on the streets of London in the 1620s. The video presentations were impressive, featuring excerpts of different filmed productions of Shakespeare's works with such figures as Laurence Olivier, Kenneth Branagh, and Leonardo DiCaprio. Set all this to Mendolssohn's Midsummer Night's Dream Overture, and the result was much like theater itself--it got the viewer excited and stirred up, without really a whole lot of substance behind it.
The birth house itself is presented alongside gardens that are planted with flora described in Shakespeare's works. Inside the house, once can see the rooms furnished in a probable Tudor style, although what was a lavish accomodation during Shakespeare's childhood seemed very primitive according to modern standards. The workshop where Shakespeare's father would have crafted gloves is furnished accordingly, as well as the master bedroom where it is believed Shakespeare was actually born. There is also a room describing the house's past as tourist mecca of sorts, relating how Shakespeare's offspring retained at least partial ownership of the house until the 1800s, during which time the structure served as an inn and fell into disrepair. In the mid-19th century, the house was purchased by a trust and restored, and has drawn tourists ever since, including numerous famous literary figures.
After the birthplace, my next stop was the Church of the Holy Trinity, the site where Shakespeare was baptised and also the site of his grave, which bears his famous exhortation that his remains not be disturbed. Having thus gotten the "bookend" view of both the beginning and end of Shakespeare's life, I walked along the River Avon back into town, passing the Royal Shakespeare Company's Shakespeare Memorial Theater, currently undergoing renovation and expansion. I checked by the nearby Courtyard Theater where the Company performs in the meantime, but was disappointed to learn that there were to be no performances that evening. This was in keeping with an exasperating trend throughout my break of missing out on performances--neither the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields nor the London Symphony Orchestra were present in London at the same time as I, and now I had missed the Royal Shakespeare Company as well. Typical, but not too discouraging.
At this point, I figured out that there wasn't really a whole lot to do in Stratford once the Shakespeare sites were checked off one's list. I retreated to a bookstore and spent a few hours paging through different books there...which gives rise to: Pretentious Digression #3 for this Email (don't worry, this is the last one):
I've made a lot of references to authors, artists, and other talented figures through the course of these emails--this is because I'm pretty fascinated with the creative process. I never get tired of trying to figure out what makes these people "tick", what sets them apart from everyone else, and if they're really all that different from all the rest of us. And not only that, but do go about their craft so skillfully and apparently so effortlessly. Here I was in Shakespeare's birthplace--Shakespeare, who is praised for his vivid descriptions of nearly every character one is likely to encounter in life--and I found myself perusing works by Stephen King and J.R.R. Tolkein. In order to do what these men do, not only must you somehow reach an understanding of the world and what makes it ring true, but also in Tolkien's case, take it a step further to expand this knowledge to a world of one's own invention. I wish I understood how people are able to do that.
I got dinner in Stratford and returned to the hostel, where I messed around on my harmonica for a bit and took a nap before Skyping in Karin, despite the interference of a mob of French tourists.
Friday morning passed uneventfully in a coffee shop, researching Shakespeare and confirming more details for the rest of my trip. Then I migrated to the local library and filled out another page or two in my journal, while an elderly gentleman sitting across from me at the table worked diligently on some mysterious project--he meticulously wrote out a letter, whispering each word too himself as he wrote it, and enclosed it in two separate envelopes, along with a bundle of newspaper clippings. As I walked through town to the bus stop, I also saw a steet musician decked out like a one-man band, with his dog sitting on a folding chair beside him. At intervals in his performance, he would pause the music and cue the dog, who would then obediently contribute a short howl or a yip to the music.
For some reason the bus wasn't running according to regular schedule, and I ended up having to call a taxi to the hostel at the eleventh hour to get to the rail station. I missed the train I had intended to catch, but luckily I was able to catch a later service with my same ticket. This service entailed another transfer at Birmingham, which went off uneventfully, thank goodness. My next destination was Oxford, and I found myself seated next to an Oxford native on the train, who was kind enough to give me some pointers about the town. I spent the rest of the ride reading Papillon. Upon arriving at Oxford, I checked into my hostel, a self-described "funky" hostel which plays hit music continually, has barbarians painted on the walls, and has a plaque stating "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here" mounted on the door to the sleeping wing.
I ventured out into Oxford yesterday morning, pretty much just to scout out the lay of the land, and inevitably found myself drawn into a bookstore before long. It seems like overall there's a much better selection of reading material around here, and in rail stations and tube stops, there are full-sized posters advertising recent novels, just like how movies are advertised in the States. The weather was perfect, and I had a leisurely stroll through town. I'll save a more in-depth description of Oxford for my next email, since this one is already ridiculous. After spending a couple hours in town, I returned to the hostelf for a nap, then back into town to grab some supper and attend a performance of Handel's Messiah at Christ Church Cathedral. I enjoyed this greatly. The bass soloist was outstanding, and the alto soloist was, quite literally, a man. I was kind of thrown for a loop when the Hallelujah Chorus began but the audience didn't immediately stand. However, about half of the spectators ended up awkwardly on their feet. I called it a day after that.
I slept in this morning and attended Eucharist at Christ Church Cathedral, where I happened to run into an aquaintance and fellow Calvin student who's been studying in Oxford all year. We had intended to meet at some point during my visit, but as we hadn't worked out anything specific, this meeting was a surprise. Walking through the town afterward, I was surprised to see the exact same street musician I has seen in Stratford-upon-Avon jamming with his dog, a crowd gathered around him. After an interval in a Starbucks typing out much of this email, Christine, my aquaintance, showed me to a house outside of town where about thirty American students from different colleges around the US live in the course of studying at Oxford through an association of Christian colleges whose name escapes me at the minute. I met one guy who's from South Bend, and a girl who is familiar with Ivanhoe's in Gas City. After traveling on my own through England for the past two weeks, it was nice to meet a bunch of Americans and hear people speak in a familiar accent.
So I've been camped out in this house for American students for the past couple hours, feverishly hashing out this email as some of them feverish barrel through their final theses for their semester, which ends after this week. I get the feeling that a considerable current of brain power flows under this roof.
Another long email. Hope everyone enjoyed reading it! If you didn't, I apologize--it must be the academic atmosphere of Oxford getting to my already-swollen head.
I hope this finds everyone doing well! Hopefully the weather is as nice for all of you as it's becoming for me. I think of you all often!
God bless!
Sincerely,
John Morton