A nautical theme, and some stateside apologies

As it turns out life on a bus is nowhere near as cool as life on a boat and some various extreme details came up, and so anyway, please excuse my lack of response to your calls/actual mail for a bit longer! Especially if I said LET US LUNCH or LET US HAVE SILLY DRINKS and then totally never produced either lunch or drinks with umbrellas. Soon!

In other news I might be this guy:

In other news, I should be this guy:

…so I will return to that, belatedly…

Dear Toto: welcome home

(things found at eye level, northwest quadrant of d.c.)

And the end of all our travels…

…isn’t quite now. Though I am back at the beginning, in a way; somehow in the excitement of THE STRIKE and THE ESSAYS and LOTS OF TEA I forgot to mention that I would be, briefly, heading back to EST.

It’s true. There was no jetlag. I am a lady without a circadian rhythm. I am however a lady with a jumbo pack of REESE’S PEANUT BUTTER EASTER EGGS, which has created such an effervescent effect on my bloodstream that EVERYTHING MUST BE IN CAPITALS.

Oh, chocolate (!) and peanut butter (!!). You are lacking in foreign lands. This is a sad thing, but now, you bring me great joy (!!!!!!!).

Anyway. I’ll be ricocheting between the nation’s capital and the nation’s first capital for the next ten days or so. I will not be bouncing back across to the University of Hertfordshire, which is, I kid you not, offering a Master’s in Vampire Literature. I don’t even know.

ANYWAY D.c. is pretty fantastic and Philly is pretty beguiling and probably, if you’re in town, you should say hi.

Minutiae

There is sun in the sky, yes, the actual sky, which is actually above England. Right now! I thought it was a mythical creature, like unicorns that shoot lasers, and Peanut Butter. But no. There is sun.

Sorry, folks, it’s week 9; the exciting events of term have given over to weeks of staring at the sky and idly considering whether “ecru” or “eggshell” is a better call. I’m talking about clouds, people. Because it beats the fascinating trip through pollen count and forminafera shells that comprise the history of marshlands in Wales, and North Somerset.

…though, if anyone has an unconfessed desire to learn all about pollen counts, by all means, confess thy sins.

Oxford, by this time, is a skeleton of the term time. At night, because the mist and fog make sense then, the only people out in the backstreets are idly smoking in corners; they’re too young for Oxford, or they’re already past their cap and gown years. To get a five mile path out of Oxford requires some degree of ingenuity, since even I decline the chance to walk down forest paths near the witching hour. After a quarter of an hour out, the houses have all changed; the spires are somewhere back in the distance, though in the dark, there’s no way to tell. Bridges over the canals and dark waters of the Cherwell rise up and fall, sharply. The route to the south is all boathouses and swans beating wings against the Thames, where ten minutes of fleet feet will get you to fields and canals filled with moor hens and sleeping mallards, and something evil under a bridge. I can’t believe it’s taken six months to see the city to its ends, to see the spires set against the heavy weight of the sky.

Miscellanea

Fascinating things written by other people edition!

Letters of note, which contains magnificent examples of epistolatory munificence, including Salinger being, well, Salinger, complete with tossaway Whitman quote, and this beauty:

Back in the day, when men had letterhead, and wrote in dribbles of ink hilarious, outrageous things. (Money quote: “We believe that all people who write sonnets should be hung to the nearest lamp post.”).

The gardening section of the Telegraph wrote about Latin, and it includes a dirty pun. Because, apparently, the gardening section of the Telegraph wasn’t British public school enough.

In other news today marks the momentous occasion of basically doubling the amount of time spent watching hockey in my lifetime because NOT ONLY is Team USA about to smash into Canada, repeatedly, again, but the Oxford Blues Women’s Team smashed into Cambridge’s…Light Blues? [Dear Oxbridge: fail] and won, wonderfully so, in part due to one of the proud members of Flat G. So jolly good show! I can’t actually talk after screaming for two hours, but I assume the team america soundtrack will drown out the wails of the faltering canadian fans, when the time comes.

Obnubilate: to cloud over, obscure, darken. Ex. England.

Interestingly, the sender chose to avoid the entire debate over the insertion of the Oxford comma entirely by usurping its rightful position with “+” signs. Clever, anonymous sender. Also, I’d buy you a pint.

I can’t really say very much as Oxford has been sheathed and coated in clouds for days now, in which hail has fallen, with its friend, steady, unremitting rain. Somehow this has caused a case of acute hibernation, in that I have been awake for a paltry handful of hours the entire weekend. Yesterday I saw blue, briefly, in the sky, and that was enough to climb all over my desk, fall halfway out the window, and snap pictures. Yesterday was also another bout of bitter drinks (not at all in emotions, but because the base elements are “gin” and “tonic” and neither lends to thoughts of umbrellas or cherries) with men who wear garters and court dress and that is a thing I will miss, come the end of this terms, and most especially at the end of the next.

It is, after all, the start of 7th week. 7th week! Out of 8! Out of the ten (eleven, I suppose) I have left. What a ridiculous year. So far, to check: life? Well, I haven’t picked up a Zombie habit, so let’s go with yes. Soul? Still dubious. Happiness? What a curious thing to think of. Because I haven’t lived in the library; I haven’t forgotten the color of sun. In fact, I think I could stand to read substantially more. But still. On the whole- things are okay.

The real world

It may be the biggest media mobilization since Katrina (outside of military zones, which is kind of a big deal), but I’m not sure people actually care:

Top articles at newspapers, one American, two Brit.

To be here is not like being at home. One of the priests from a church we have worshipped at is missing, learned from several articles [edit: Good news! He was found!]; here, no one has brought up Haiti. Still above the fold, as it were, but the media is more frantic in our grief and fear and anger than on this side of the ocean.

I’m not trying to turn this into disaster porn, as so many of the news sites seem to have succumbed to. It’s just one of those cliched evenings where the distance seems impossibly long. I don’t know what I would do if D.C. fell apart. In 2003, we watched as D.C. flooded from Hurricane Isabel from three thousand plus miles away, and that was cosmetic in every extent compared to this.

In other words: damnation this country lacks hugs. And Haiti lacks everything. There’s nothing else to say.

A moment of silence

I was going to post something like OH NO A CENTIMETER OF SLUSH HAS FALLEN WOE- is….me….and then, when I was laughing into a mug of tea, I read the news reports on Haiti, and the devastation caused by the earthquake. Disaster is not hyperbole. Estimates of fatalities range from thousands to a hundred thousand plus; nearly all urban infrastructure- electricity, water, government, security- near Port au Prince has been disrupted or destroyed. You know, in case somehow you’ve missed that news, which I suppose is silly, but honestly, after seeing the photographs: I am still in shock. This link right here, which I will post in full, http://voices.washingtonpost.com/livecoverage/2010/01/haiti_earthquake_how_to_help.html?hpid=topnews, is a current listing of organizations assembling rescue and response teams. I suspect that Oxfam will have further information for this side of the ocean.

So, anyway: a prayer, a moment of silence, blood and time and money- I’m pretty sure Haiti can use whatever you’ve got to spare.

Except for you, Pat Robertson. You speak nothing but hate, and there is no reason in it.

OH NOES SNOW

UPDATE: It snowed an inch in three hours!

UPDATE: THERE IS SNOW FALLING IN LONDON OH WHATEVER SHALL WE DO THE GROUND IS WET.

I hear that there is snow elsewhere in the island, given that the news reporters will talk of nothing but snowmen and the M43 and the A-whatsit. But, you know. It is basically damp, in a slightly more interesting way than usual. I know, there are places in the country with actual snow, and that some bad things have happened, and that, yes, there have been runs on bread and milk, because when in doubt, you can always have toast and tea. In London of course you could also pick up enough packs of Decent Sushi and some dark chocolate biscuits to wait out the snow flurries so really, bread and milk is just crazy talk.

UPDATE: I looked outside my window and it was dark. More BREAKING NEWS TOMORROW WHEN THE SUN IS OUT.

IF THE SUN COMES OUT IN THIS BARREN, USELESS WASTELAND, THESE GLACIAL SHORES AND THESE PAINFULLY NEAR FREEZING STREETS.

ch. 12.19: In which I ramble on ramblings with M

A street with Pacman graffiti, a hotel with walls made of papier mache, gray rooftops with little peaks. Extremely pointless canine companions, all of them smaller than the average basketball sneaker, and many of them less interesting. A restaurant with typewriters as candles.

Paris is still a kaleidoscope, a flush of colors of the carnival by the canal, the taste of warm nutella melting from crepes and down fingers. Honey or marmelade or marron glace or nutella by the kilo! The cotton candy was abandoned because really, the wind, it would be blown away. Or, you know, because in the knock-em sock-em rumble, chocolate and sugar beats sugar floss like the Hulk v. paper snowflakes.

The carnival also included such fun attractions as King Kong’s Castle of People-Munching Hydria Doom, which not only lit up but also flung dismembered limbs of men in a jerky manner.

We found the river, and the paths that line it, and the sleek bridges that slip across from bank to bank.

We found Notre Dame and I had to double take- real? movie set silhouette? But we stood on the banks of the Seine and there it was, the Ile rising up, the stones dark against the sky. Inside of Notre Dame I think everyone finds a different peace or at least a different fuzzy postcard; the candles still flicker, and oh, the voices, if you go at sunset, there is still light behind the stained glass, and there are sopranos who flood the stones. That does not do justice. None of this does justice. I didn’t take any photographs because honestly, they would be a pallid reflection of stones worn out by prayer. You should go, and you should walk to the back, where it is quiet, and you should stop.

I feel like next came blocks of cobblestones and restaurants, always more restaurants, with menus in languages and candles on every table. The city of lights! Que magnifique!

The halls of the Louvre are so long that they start blocks away, and it is minutes until you can see a painting, or a lit hall. Mona Lisa’s smile is probably stuck in a dust heap on top of a gilded frame in the little-used peintures of still life niche.

Honestly I think the huge number of pictures- and that is not all of the catalogue- speak for my mental state. Candy shop? It was like being asked to choose clouds in the firmament. (M- oh, do I love you, that you did not abandon me after the nineteenth close examination of Roman corkscrew drillholes). Even better though (sorry, Romans) was the Baroque- those shadows! Those eyes, the folds of fabric that never end! M reminded me that the ceiling is a sight and looking up was the best idea ever. Forget the Mona Lisa. She is stuck in a wall beyond plexiglass, the least sexy and appealing gallery partition- bright, industrial lights? Plexiglass? A BEIGE wall?

And worst, she is all alone in a wall that is Godzilla-tall, which is probably why everyone is so surprised at the portrait’s curtailed stature. Also, that is somewhat demure, as poses go, and she shares the room with Titian and Tintoretto and everyone else who saw velvet and flesh and decided in some genius way to make paintings from passion and candlelight. In other words, she is surrounded by bold and dashing men- men, and saints, and angels- and frankly, da Vinci did not make her a gallant.

Anyway, once we escape the coterie of suitors for la gioconda, we found more old things and further old things and a great many saints. Also a modern art exhibit that was sort of awesome, from a distance, until I read the labels and realized we’d been had by pretentious modern dreck. Fleeing, the land of the Empty Galleries of Non-European Art arose before us. It was empty, but it was full of wonderful things. Really! You should go, especially if it is at night and the shadows are creeping.

Oh there was so much more- streets and more streets and the Opera-Bastille at night, and the Archives, and the mistake of ordering too much sweet and crisp white wine. Whoops. Chocolate mousse. In Paris. You should probably book a flight now.

The Paris metro sells items impossible in America; it also delivers high velocity travel on a meandering ribbon- okay, bizarre weaving of lines and numbers- which it gets away with as it is cheap, fast, and the trains open doors every six minutes or so. MAGIC.

After turning a corner at Trocadero the next morning, we discovered bright sunlight and something called the Eiffel Tower, which, despite its ignominious end in three movies (one excellent, two dreck), seems to be doing okay for itself. If you go into the museum nearby you can buy (good) pricey cappuccini and sip in strangely ovoid chairs while looking out on a plaza and vista of white limestone and the Tower. This is also highly recommended. (Thanks to a certain photojournalist-yachtsmen with an architecture habit!)

There was a giant Ferris wheel for no particular reason in the Jardin just off the Place de la Concorde, as well as the ridiculous fountain, noted below in two parts because at that point I was drunk on all the sunshine.

At some point we ended up back at the top of the tourist map, where the Gard du Nord stood waiting, and where we narrowly missed Posh Spice in her latest Nazi Detective phase. (I am borrowing this allusion from a British tabloid, which should explain everything.)

It is true that the rest of the missing week had been spent in England, but aside from a run-in with Steampunk attire and Persian astrolabes and overdoses of marshmellow- well. It was an excellent week.