![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Puerto Rico to ship pesky monkeys to Iraq
SAN JUAN, Puerto Rico -Puerto Rico has
found an unlikely solution to ease its surplus
of pesky wild monkeys: ship them to
Iraq.
About a dozen patas monkeys will fly across
the Atlantic on a commercial carrier in upcoming
weeks, courtesy of the Baghdad
Zoo, according to the Caribbean island’s
Department of Natural Resources.
Puerto Rico is eager to rid itself of the estimated
2,000 patas and rhesus monkeys
that have taken a toll on wildlife and agriculture
in the Lajas Valley since escaping
from nearby research centers 30 years ago.
“We will give them all the monkeys they
want,” said Sgt. Angel Atienza, a ranger
with the department. “We don’t have a
problem with that.”
Unlike rhesus monkeys, patas are not considered
desirable for research, and there
has been little demand for either from zoos
— until now.
The U.S. military recently has spent more
than $2.15 million to revive the Baghdad
Zoo, which collapsed after the 2003 invasion
when looters stole or freed almost
every animal. Three lions were killed when
they tried to attack U.S. soldiers.
The military rebuilt exhibits and trained
Iraqi zookeepers. Last year, the zoo reported
average weekly visits of between 8,000
to 10,000 Iraqis.
But animal welfare activists say the animals
are not necessarily safe in Iraq.
“In the middle of the war, animals are the
least of anyone’s concern,” said Lisa
Wathne, spokeswoman for the People for
the Ethical Treatment of Animals. “It’s just
reckless and insensitive to send these monkeys,
who will be caged, helpless and completely
dependent on humans to survive, to
such a hazardous area.”
Puerto Rico Natural Resources Secretary
Daniel Galan said he believes the Baghdad
Zoo is stable and has qualified zookeepers
to care for the monkeys.
In Puerto Rico, officials already have been
shooting some nonnative monkeys — a
method they consider more humane than
lethal injection — to control the population.
Other monkeys are captured, but finding
adoptive homes has proven difficult.
Galan said officials have been pleading with
zoos in the U.S. and across the world. But of
the roughly 90 zoos contacted, only a handful
have accepted and agreed to pay the
shipping costs.
Steve: Ricky, would you do the…
Ricky: OH! Chimpanzee that monkey news!
Steve: That, of course, is the jingle for the ever-loved Monkey News. Karl, what do you have for us today?
Ricky: Yes, what kind of drivel are you going to spew at us today?
Karl: So for Monkey News this week I have a story about some monkeys knockin’ about in a forest, damaging the trees and all that. This scientist, right, goes “Ah yeah, got to get those monkeys outta here, they’re messing up all the plants and such--”
Steve: Of course, don’t want monkeys messing about the plants; ever important plants are.
Karl: Anyways, the scientist knows the monkeys are trouble so he thinks about where he could send them so the plants stay protected.
Ricky: Oh I dunno, where would you send monkeys? A zoo possibly?
Steve: Right, right, a zoo would work.
Ricky: But most definitely not outer space or a doctor’s office.
Steve: Of course, no, that would be ridiculous.
Ricky: Yes, absolute bollocks. Continue.
Karl: The scientist had a friend who was like, “Oh yeah, I can help you out with your monkey problem, send all your monkeys to me and I‘ll take care of ‘em.”
Ricky: Who is the friend? Some random fella who has an inordinate amount of space and the license to keep these wild animals?
Karl: I’m just reading what--
Ricky: Not to mention the feeding costs, the cages to keep these monkeys in--and why is it only up to this one scientist to decide to get rid of the monkeys? Absolute rubbish.
Karl: So anyway the scientist was like, “Good, I can get rid of these monkeys and get back to savin’ the plants.”
Steve: Ah, so he is a botanist.
Karl: I don’t know exactly but anyways, he packed up the monkeys and shipped them off to his friend.
Ricky: Just like that, Steve. Packed ‘em up and shipped ‘em. Live animals. Brilliant.
Steve: Apparently this botanist has an in with DHL.
Ricky: “Yeah? You want to ship a couple dozen monkeys?”
Steve: “That’s right. I am sending them to me mate in Camden.”
Ricky: “Monkeys? You havin’ a laugh?”
Steve: “I do very important work with plants and these monkeys are destroying my plants, they need to be relocated.”
Ricky: “Well, I don’t know about that, mate. Can’t have wild monkeys runnin’ about.”
Steve: “I would really appreciate if you could help me with this.”
Ricky: “Say, you give me one of them monkeys and I’ll see what I can do about the rest.”
Steve: “Brilliant.”
Karl: The monkeys were shipped off to this friend in Baghdad--
Steve: Oh, whoa!
Ricky: What? You never mentioned Baghdad before! What is this fella doin’ in Baghdad with monkeys?
Karl: That’s what I’m getting to, innit?
Steve: Go on, go on.
Karl: So this friend in Baghdad, right, he gets all these monkeys shipped to ‘im and he’s like, “Oh, this is brilliant, now I can start my own zoo.”
Ricky: Just like that you can create a zoo ladies and gentlemen; its just that easy. Karl, you’re a fucking idiot.
Karl: So this fella has the pens and such and has food for the monkeys. His zoo is doin’ quite well an that, loads of people comin’ to see these monkeys an he’s makin’ a lot of money off it.
Steve: And what about the monkeys, Karl, how do they feel about this whole thing?
Karl: Well, at first the monkeys were a bit annoyed at being taken out of their habitat and whatnot but then they were like, “This bit aint too bad, loads of people comin’ everyday just to see us, might as well stick around.”
Ricky: Right, cause the bloody monkeys have the choice to stay or swing out of the zoo. Bollocks.
Karl: So this fella that owned the zoo, right, he comes to work one day and what do ya think happened?
Ricky: The monkeys started a union and demanded their rights.
Steve: What happened to the monkeys Karl?
Karl: They were blown up.
Ricky: What? Blown up?
Steve: How were they blown up?
Ricky: This is absolutely--
Karl: Bombs.
Ricky: --ridiculous.
Steve: Who bombed the monkey zoo?
Ricky: Monkey-haters; they’re everywhere you know, waitin’ in anticipation to blow up the first monkey zoo they can.
Karl: Turns out, a rival monkey zoo owner blew up the zoo.
Steve: There’s another monkey zoo?
Karl: Oh yeah, loads of them.
Steve: In Baghdad?
Karl: Yeah, everywhere.
Ricky: That’s absolute shit and you’re a fucking orange-headed idiot Karl.
Steve: Well, that’s it for this weeks Monkey News, tune in for another installment next week.
My house sprawls on an acre of lush grass and a few shady trees; a concrete driveway reaches back to the large disconnected barn turned garage. The thing I like the most about the garage is that it is quite old and the loft had been converted to a small apartment with a bed, desk, nightstand and bathroom. I decided to work on the garage loft first so I could live there while I painted the main house. I left the floorboards the way they were, bought some muted green bedding, cleaned the windows, mopped the bathroom floor, arranged essential personal items in the medicine cabinet and stuck some artful decals on a few of the walls. The loft became very comfy and I was a bit sad to think I would have to move out soon.
The main house was built in a country style with a large wrap around porch.
Two days after my London experience I headed back; repacked and refreshed. Unlike the previous trip, my train journey from Chester to London Euston was not crowded, which came as a welcome relief. From Euston Station I jumped the Tube to Waterloo. The Eurostar left from Waterloo Station; as I headed from one end to the other, I felt as though I were in line waiting to board a plane. The entire trip from London to Paris only lasted about three hours.
Stepping out of the train and onto French soil was more than a little thrilling. Although the station included English signs alongside French, I knew that as soon as I stepped out of this British-French station the English words would melt away. I had a battle plan soon after leaving the station. I wrote in my journal the streets I needed to take to get to my hotel; even noting which way to turn once I left the station. I walked out into the brilliant French sunshine; the absolute hub of the city encircled me and I chickened out to the point of following other British tourists to the line waiting for taxis.
The ride was not very long and cost 7.10 Euros. It was a taxi I was glad I had gotten; traveling is such dirty work and who wants to haul a suitcase around a foreign city looking for a hotel? I was dropped off in front of my hotel--Hotel Paris France on the Rue de Turbigo near the Republic--and happily was shown my room. The whole hotel was done in a blue/gold style with a sleek-looking rounded elevator that could just barely hold one person and one suitcase. My room was at the top of the stairs; I had a huge bathroom, all tiled white with only a shower. The thing I do not understand about showers in Europe are that there is little to no lip to stop the water from spraying absolutely everywhere. My bathroom was no better; the showerhead was placed right in front of the toilet. The room itself was quite spacious for a single-room. The bed was nice and clean, I had two sets of large French doors opening onto the beautiful and busy Rue de Turbigo. A little overhang allowed me to walk out and take beautiful pictures of the surrounding buildings. At night I could even see into other people's apartments across the road. I was more than a little surprised when I discovered there was no trash bin whatsoever in the room.
Not wanting to waste the rest of the sunny day, I followed my directions to get to the Carphone Warehouse to get a Virgin Mobile Sim Card. I haven't been in many cell phone stores in the US but I ended up waiting for almost an hour. When it was finally my turn, I tried in simple English to show her what I needed. After a lot of finger pointing and more useless English, I finally got what I needed. I wanted a quick dinner because 1) I was tired beyond belief and 2) I did not want to be caught in Paris my first day after dark. Now, it was a longish way off till total darkness, but nevertheless, I wanted to get something quick. I bypassed a McDonalds and finally decided on KFC. I ordered well enough for knowing no French whatsoever and took my meal back to the hotel. Somehow I did not realize that I would have French instructions for the Sim card and therefore it was rendered totally useless.
I went downstairs to ask the hotel desk clerk who checked me in to help me with my phone. He listened to the instructions but could not decifer what exactly I had to or wanted to do. He suggested that I try using a pay phone with my credit card because it would probably be the cheapest option. I went a block or so down the street and found a payphone and tried calling home; I was able to connect and was relieved that I was able to talk to mom before she freaked out and emailed the hotel confirming my arrival. I did not realize, until a few calls later, that the rate was quite expensive--more or less $70 for an hour call.
After chatting, I headed back up the street and to my room where I watched ER and 2 1/2 Men in French. I watching two television shows I would never watch in America, I realized that it was because of a need for familiarity in an unfamiliar place. I fell asleep at 8:30om and slept until 9am.
April 17th, 2007
I woke, took a shower and headed out into Paris for the first time on my own. I decided to bite the bullet and try my luck at the Metro; if I didn't then, I wouldn't get anywhere. I had previously read online how to use the Metro including how to insert the ticket and so on. I made it through Art Et Metiers station and headed to Chatelet. The thing about the Metro, which is similar to the Tube in London, is that there is a woman announcer for each station and therefore was able to learn a little more French.
At Chatelet I emerged from underground and found in the beautiful sunny blue sky day an even more beautiful city. From my first few moments in the heart of Paris I knew that I loved it more than I ever would London. Firstly, the weather was much warmer and sunnier than my time in London; secondly, the stone in which most of the buildings were made out of were of a light cream color which enhanced the light and the cheerfulness of the city.
I walked over Pont Au Change to the Ile de la Cite to experience a classic Parisian sight: Notre Dame Cathedral. I remembered back when my dad had found a 360 panoramic view of Paris from the top of Notre Dame on a winter's night. At that time in my life, I did not know that I would be going to Paris and so I viewed the picture with a heartfelt longing and desire to experience the magnificence of Paris.
Completely unexpectedly, there was a small fee for seeing most of the museums and churches in Paris; I will conceed this point is the only point in which London wins over Paris. I cannot remember how much I actually paid to enter the cathedral but to pay anything was overpaying in my opinion. I thought it would be much grander and beautiful than it actually was; I was thoroughly unimpressed by the whole experience. The tour groups and families with small children were loud and the cathedral's vaulted ceilings only served to magnify the noise. Thinking back to that day, I cannot specifically remember any particular part of Notre Dame; I did enjoy the outside of the cathedral more than the inside. I took lots of pictures around a beautiful pink flowering tree. The flying buttresses were a sight, much more interesting than anything inside. I walked around in capris and a t-shirt, the temperature hovered in the lower seventies.
Walking around the area, I happened on a small cafe that looked user-friendly enough for me. Father and Son Restaurant had a large glass case filled with several levels of delicious looking sandwhiches and pizza and further down, desserts. I found out that there was a lunch special of a sandwichi or pizza, a dessert and drink for 7.20 Euros. I ordered a Roma Panini (chicken, cheese, mushrooms), a double chocolate eclair, and an orange drink. The panini was quite delicious but the eclair was amazing; nothing will ever compare to an eclair from France.
I decided to continue on my exploring and took the Metro to St. Michel-Notre Dame station, which was one of the most confusing stations I encountered except for the RAR train line. I emerged at the Musee d'Orsay and joined the already humongous line to get in. Luckily there was an English translation for which line to wait in and I joined the correct one without embarassing incident. Eventually I arrived at a security guard near a revolving door in which he only allowed a few people in at one time. Once inside, I went through a security checkpoint and then on to the cashier. Luckily he spoke some English and I got in with a student discount for 5.50 Euros.
I took an English map from the entrance and headed into the train station-turned-art museum and my breath was instantly taken. I had seen the inside several times online as well as in guidebooks but once I stepped into the main hall, I knew this is where I would spend the majority of my afternoon. I made a beeline for a traveling exhibit entitled "The Forests of Fountainbleau" and was quite astounded by the beautiful depictions of the once great forest surrounding Paris. One particular painting in the exhibit made me stop and soak the whole canvas in and that was a Gustave Moreau painting that resembled a painting depicting an Arthurian legend. Another favorite was "Orphee" by Francois-Louis Francios.
The main hall showcased statues and a few interesting miniature opera set stands from La Traviata and a complete miniturized layout of the streets of Paris underneath the floor with glass overhead. I wandered in and out of the galleries; I was thoroughly amazed by the gigantic proportion of some of the canvases. I recognized one immense painting from my art history class; I cannot remember the name but it had something to do with the painter sitting centrally while a half nude model looks over his shoulder and a cacophony of others crowd around to watch the masterpiece unfold.
Some of my favorite paintings were Monets, Manets, Degas and Renoirs. I saw "Olympia" and felt a boost of self esteem to recognize it. Because of the Musee d'Orsay I fell in love with a few new artists I had never heard of before; Celestin Nanteuil, "Un Rayon de Soleil," Hendrik-Willem Mesdag, "Soleil Couchant," and Jean-Francois Millet, "Le Printemps." I found that I am drawn to the pastel muted colors of landscape art, my favorite being Monet.
I sat on one of the marble-ish curved seats along the outside of the galleries overlooking the statue hall when a heavyset British man, who had been sitting near me for a few minutes, let a huge fart go. He even leaned his butt over when he did it too! I thought it was a joke or something but he continued to sit like nothing ever happened. I thought to myself, 'Excuse me, sir, what do you think of your stay in Paris? Do you like the French?' And his response would be that horrible embarassment of a reverberating sound.
I stayed in the museum for 2 1/2 hours; I headed upstairs to the topmost level to view the Van Goghs; this level was much more crowded, hot and dark and I did not care for it. I left as soon as I possibly could but not before snapping a few pictures of some famous Van Goghs, a Renoir and a Monet. I headed out onto a open-air roof-top terrace and took in the amazing view. I went down the escalators, wandered a couple more minutes, saying goodbye to a beautiful museum, and then left.
Into the sunshine and brightness of the day; I crossed the Pont Sulferino to the Jardin des Tuileries. Paris' gardens are quite wonderful little rest stops from the business of the street and tourist traffic. I walked through a grove of shady, leafy trees and saw a small boat pool where a few young children were piloting their toy boats. I exited the garden on Rue de Rivoli and, as custom, took a picture of the sign. I traveled the Metro back to Art et Metiers and it was when I was walking back to the hotel that I realized that I had no debit card and only 60 Euros in cash for the rest of my Paris trip. I panicked at first because I wouldn't do a cash advance on my credit card and my phone bills would be racking up soon and I hadn't paid off my card before I came so I was in trouble if I didn't watch my spending. As I neared the hotel I also realized that I still have my room to charge on my card. I would save my cash for a possible taxi to the train station and any emergency necessities that did not take credit card.
I figured that I would be okay until I came home and I was. I went out to a cafe near the Republic for dinner and brought back a hot dog panini (there was some gooey stuff inside and I thought it was cheese but it didn't have a taste like a cheese so I thought it was warm mayo but as I learned once I came back from overseas that it was Brie cheese) with flan nature (flan with fruit) for dessert.
April 19th
Part 2
After the quick rest at the hotel, I struck out to Pere-Lachaise Cemetery. I had read in multiple guidebooks that cemetery visiting was not an uncommon pasttime. I traveled the Metro and after walking a few blocks, I found the main entrance to the cemetery. I could see looming over the old rock walls a huge domed building which I found to be a crematorium. The cemetery was absolutely beautiful; tree-lined avenues, huge family masoleums, intricate sculptures and artwork, it took me by complete suprise. I entered the main gate and proceeded to stoll along the avenues in a random fashion. I saw a gorgeous tree-lined steep cobbled avenue and so up I went. The only thing I would change about the whole experience
Eiffel Tower Part 2
Sitting on the plastic vinyl couch, writing my postcards, I had this fleeting desire to stay up there all day and into the night; it had all the necessities--a restaurant, bathrooms and a view like no other. Alas, I could not stay there forever and after finishing my postcards, I did as Samantha Brown suggested and mailed them from the Eiffel Tower in order to recieve a special stamp on each. My total Tower time amounted to about 2 hours. I took pictures from each side of the Tower in between the many tourists already vying for the best position for photographs. All things must come to an end and my time was up; I made my way on wobbly legs toward the staircase to take me back down to solid ground.
There were several people behind me waiting to get back down--both good and bad at the same time: good because then I would think of the people behind me waiting to leave and I would not think about being so high up and just focus on getting down. The bad thing was if I had a freak out and could not move or if I want to take my own time and go at my own pace the people probably would start to get mad cause I would be going so slow. When I got back onto the ground I took a bunch of pictures for my desktop--looking up into the Tower from directly underneath it, zooming in on the side struts, then some distance shots of the actual Tower itself. As I was walking away from the Tower to find some better shots, I ran into two guys stopped me and began asking me questions in French, one of the guys had a camcorder and tripod. I got it across that I did not speak French and the one doing the interview tried in broken English to explain that they were students doing a project about the upcoming elections in Paris for President and wanted opinions. I laughed and said I did not even know who was running, that I was just visiting for a few days. They laughed too and thanked me for my time. The heat of the afternoon was approaching and so I decided to take a quick rest back at the hotel. I climbed aboard the RAR train line, once again a little nervous that I was not going in the right direction, and eventually got back to my room.
Paris Cemetery
After the quick rest at the hotel, I struck out to Pere-Lachaise Cemetery. I had read in multiple guidebooks that cemetery visiting was not an uncommon pasttime. I traveled the Metro and after walking a few blocks, I found the main entrance to the cemetery. I could see looming over the old rock walls a huge domed building which I found to be a crematorium. The cemetery was absolutely beautiful; tree-lined avenues, huge family masoleums, intricate sculptures and artwork, it took me by complete suprise. I entered the main gate and proceeded to stoll along the avenues in a random fashion. I saw a gorgeous tree-lined steep cobbled avenue and so up I went. The only thing I would change about the whole experience was the bugs that swarmed in little patches and stuck in my hair so I wanted more than anything to go back to my room and wash those stupid gnat things out.
April 19th Continued...
I was entranced by the absolute beauty of the cemetery; the statues, the artwork on tombs, and the magnificent masoleums. I could not believe how different a cemetery in Paris is compared to one in Cedarburg; wide cobbled avenues, towering leafy trees, vine flowers climbing trelises over stone coffins. Some of the statues were so melencholy that it changed my mood of wonderment to a general feeling of sadness. To my surprise there were not many angels as I would have thought; the female statues were both young and old, bronze and stone. The whole place had an air of reverence and respect. One tomb had a bright mosaic depicting a bright orange sunrise or sunset with rays shooting out across the blue sky and purple clouds.
I was surprised at the amount of Romanesque type semi circled columns surrounding a tomb. Most of them were a bit ruined but that added a beautiful timeless elegance to the cemetery. I wandered on a stray black cat stalking through the tombs; a woman and her child stopped to watch the cat as it continued out onto the avenue and stretched out in a patch of sunshine.
I did not find Oscar Wilde's headstone or Jim Morrison's, not that I really know either one or really cared to find them, but I wanted to get pictures. The map of the cemetery was too hard to read and try as I might, I could not find either one. I did see some amazing masoleums; some had intricate stained glass (most glass windows were smashed), others were built to resemble mini cathedrals, and others were so large they required an iron fence with a gate surrounding it.
I was on my way out of the cemetery when a French dude came up to me and started talking to me in French. I tried to tell him I did not speak French and I felt a little uncomfortable with the whole situation; this was a prime spot for me to get mugged--quiet, not many people, tombs to hide behind. I was able to walk away quickly; unfortunately I wanted to get some more photos but went with my gut telling me to get out and onto the street. I did and felt instantly better. I think I would have been a mugging victim if I stayed or didn't leave as fast as I did. However, if this guy was really professional, he probably would have mugged me and not hesitated.
I took the Metro back to the Republic and walked down to what I thought was a grocery store. It took me several seconds of gaining my confidence before I actually went inside. Once in, I realized that it was a grocery store. I spotted a rent-a-cop type guard and felt a little wary since I do not speak French and if he suspected anything of me I could not explain I did nothing wrong. I spotted a mini refridgerator right before you had to pass through a little metal gate to get into the main grocery part. I picked out a cup of kiwi, a pasta salad with goat cheese and red peppers, a box of two wraps--a chicken caesar and chicken salad. I also bought a glass container of chocolate mousse which was the best mousse I have ever had in my entire life.
April 20th, 2007
After the amazing experience yesterday at the Pere Lachise cemetery, I decided to head over to another cemetery in the Monteparnasse district. I entered through the main gate and was rewarded with Simone de Beauviour abd Jean Paul Sartre. There were many little trinkets left on the tomb; I did not have anything really to leave and so I didn't. I was quite happy to know someone in some cemetery in Paris, we had just learned about Simone in my Women's Writing class and Sartre was one of the philosophers we studied a couple of years ago in Litarary Criticism. Where Pere Lachise cemetery had a certain garden beauty to it, Monteparnasse cemetery was like an artists studio. There was a huge bird type sculpture with wings and a orange beak.
I was able to get some really great shots of faces of the statues against blue sky and trees. I also stumbled upon the grave of Baudelaire--a poet and philosopher. Another tomb had little blue polished river rocks/plastic shaped as a heart with an 'M' in the middle. I could have spent hours in those Parisian cemeteries.
The last grave I visited was that of Charles Pigeon and his wife. It was along side one of the walls of the cemetery, it was so big you couldn't miss it. The tomb was shaped as a bed with a headboard and an angel on top; the angel held out a gas lamp. Charles Pigeon was the inventor of the non-exploding gas lamp. What makes this grave so interesting is that Charles and his wife had statues carved of them and placed them on the grave bed. So in this cemetery there is a bed with a man and a woman laying in it, and the man is half-sitting with a book in his hand. I will admit that it was more than a little creepy.
After the morning cemetery walk, I took the metro to Cite and ate at my favorite Parisian restaurant, Father and Son Restaurant near Norte Dame. I had a Roma panini and a chocolate tarte. Afterwards I went back to the hotel and then took the Metro to the Opera Garnier stop. I took several pictures all around the outside before heading in. Once inside I learned that the rehersal was still going on. I decided not to miss this opportunity to see the Opera, even though the main theatre was dark. I bought my ticket and started exploring. The lobby was absolutely grand; I was reminded of the grand staircase in Titanic, only marble instead of wood and with higher ceilings. There were magnificent wooden carvings on each of the bottom of the staircase of women holding these immense candleabras. Surrounding me were three stories of marble brilliance. I headed downstairs to wait for the crowd to die down on the grand staircase. I was rewarded with a beautiful fountain carved into the wall and floor. I turned down another hallway and found a circluar room filled with mirrors on the walls as well as the ceiling. It was absolutely amazing to see.
I went back upstairs to wander through the most ornately decorated hallway I have ever seen. It was almost as wonderful as the pictures I have seen of Versailles; and it was the closest I would get to Versailles. I walked down the immense hallway, carved gold chandliers hung every few feet, a mural on the ceiling depicting what looked like a Biblical scene. Further down the entire ceiling was covered in brightly painted murals--none of them faded or darkened by smoke from candles. On one side of the hall were floor-length windows that lit the hall with natural light. I wished I had a friend or boyfriend to pretend I was there for a performance and we would dance our way down the hall. I didn't have one so I took pictures instead.
I got some good pictures of the grand staircase but the lighting was really bad and with a flash it altered the actual colors of the marble to a washed out white color. I went upstairs and found the small wooden doors opening to the box seats of the theatre. The theatre was indeed, dark. I snuck into a box seat and watched, along with other people in boxes around me, as the crews set up backgrounds on the stage below. I could dimly make out the Chegall painted monstrosity of a ceiling before I left. I found a small library with one of those wheeled ladders and hundreds of books and little dioramas of opera sets.
I left the Opera satisfied with my self-guided tour. It was at that theatre where the Phantom of the Opera was originally concieved on account of the rumor of an underground lake lurking beneath. I wandered around the Opera and stumbled upon a very weird restaurant called The American Dream Multiplexe. It was a two storey black facade building with neon lights and life-size figures of Elvis, a highway cop (Chips?) and the two Blues Brothers. It was a nice sight for my foreign-wery eyes.
After the Opera I went to the Rue de Rivoli to do some of my last minute shopping for souveniers. I bought a bunch of Eiffel Tower keychains, a mini box of purfumes for Katie, a stylish black purse that says 'Paris', a bag for mum with a cat on it, a t-shirt for Alex with 'Paris' written on it and a t-shirt for Aiden and a toy for Rosie. I dropped the souveniers off at the hotel and reluctantly went to the Louvre.
My experience with the British Museum in London completely changed my outlook on major museums--they are far more trouble then they are worth. I got to the Louvre about late afternoon/early evening. There was not a long line to get in and so I waited to get into the glass pyramid. Inside it was quieter but not deserted; I went to get a ticket and learned that 26 and under students are free after 6pm on Fridays. Unfortunately did not have a student ID or drivers license on me but the woman was nice enough to let me in. I went downstairs first, to the basement and walked around a medieval fortress. I made my way up and saw Etruscan artifacts and mummies. I figured that I would get the two main sights out of the way first and then take a leisurely walk around the museum. I saw the Venus de Milo, which was not very impressive at all. Then I headed over to where the Mona Lisa was hanging. In the room there were mounds of people piling up on one another to see the painting. A rope was stretched out about ten feet in front of the smallish painting. No cameras, phone cameras or video cameras allowed. A mean looking security guard paced back and forth in front of Mona Lisa, pretty much blocking everyone's view every few seconds.
When I finally made it up to the rope I took one look and thought 'Wow, now I know why some people think the Mona Lisa was Da Vinci in drag.' It was very ugly--I think the reproductions in textbooks are touched up a bit cause the woman was ugly! I moved out of the way soon enough but not enough to make me less stressed or hot. I wanted to get out; people kept stopping in front of me and I got so angry. I left the Louvre vowing never to return.
It was my last night in Paris and I still hadn't had a crepe. Since I didn't eat any dinner, I went to a McDonalds on the Rue de Rivoli to get a cheeseburger or something. I stood in line for 7 minutes without getting any closer to the register. I said forget it and left. I tried to find other fast food places around but they were all closed! It was a Friday night! I walked inside this cafe, thinking they would have a cooler with some food that I could take out. As soon as I stepped inside I realized that this was a fancy cafe--linen napkins and tablecloths--and I was clearly not dressed the part. A few couples turned to look at me and before I could turn to leave a waiter came up to me and said something in French. I told him I spoke English and asked if there was take-away. He understood and showed me outside on the sidewalk there was a take-away counter for me to order from. I thanked him and ordered a chocolate crepe. I got it and headed happily to the Metro to get back to the hotel and eat my crepe. I was hot and tired and wanted to eat my crepe. It took forever to get back and on the Metro a guy said something to me in French but I thought he was talking to his friend and I just ignored him but as soon as I stepped off the train he yelled something else.
I ate my crepe and it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted in my entire life. I went out to get some McDonalds afterward and packed for my ride home. I checked out fine and took the Metro the next day to the Eurostar station. I had my own seat and it was not crowded. When I got back to London I had to buy a pass to ride the Tube to Euston station and from there I went to Chester. It sounds so quick here but in reality it took a long time and traveling from Metro to train to Tube to train and then walk the several miles uphill to get back to my dorm house was almost intolerable. But I made it and I wouldn't change my experiences in Paris for anything.
Author: George Orwell
Notes:
-The concept of Big Brother for the head of the Party is eerily similar to our society's coined term 'big brother.' The Big Brother of 1984 is no one and everyone at the same time; BB watches Outer Party members constantly, the Inner Party members occasionally (if at all), and the Proles never. The Proles, the class of people who are most like modern society, are free to do whatever they wish. However, life isn't all peachy for them, mainly because of the fact continual rocket bombs obliterating whole blocks and many people being killed. The Proles have no telescreens so Big Brother cannot watch them and control their lives. The Inner Party members have telescreens but are able to turn them off at their leisure; however, this knowledge comes only from O'Brian who is unreliable on account of deceiving Winston and Julia. Who knows? Maybe Inner Party members don't have telescreens on at all. The Outer Party members have no on/off switch for their telescreens and are constantly in fear of betraying a single emotion for which the fear of the Thought Police coming to take them to the Ministry of Love to be tortured and eventually killed. The Outer Party, I would have to say, is the worst party to belong to; it is the most watched, fearful, oppressed and shrunken.
-"War is Peace" this is one slogan of the Party. When I read that I immediately thought of George W. Bush. It seems exactly like something he would say or have said. Can war be peaceful? The war that the Party wages is not war in the sense that we have in our modern society...war is more imagined and therefore I can see where the slogan can be true. In our society, war is war--fighting, blood, death, battles, guns, tanks--and war is not peace. Peace is peace. Another slogan is "Freedom is Slavery," which I thought of the film 'Fight Club.' The whole Tyler Durden sermon about being slaves to consumerism and how you are not your grande latte, your car, your khakis and Swedish furniture, and how being free in this materialistic society is slavery. So, if you go by Tyler's way of thinking, freedom IS slavery. But if you buy into that then you are recognizing the Party's concept of doublethink, which is exactly what they want you to believe.
-The four different Ministries of Oceaniana; the Ministry of Love, the Ministry of Peace, the Ministry of Truth and the Ministry of Plenty all represent the opposite of what they say they represent--another concept of doublethink. The Ministry of Love is not a touchy, feely wonderful place, this building is the opposite--barred, barb wired, tanks, guards with machine guns, torture, prison and death. The Ministry of Love
When I was in elementary and middle school journaling was the ‘cool’ thing to do; if you did not have your own Lisa Frank journal, complete with lock and key, you were not a ‘real’ girl. I grew up and the technology changed; my sister wanted a journal for Christmas which had a fancy electronic lock which promised to keep pesky little brothers away. Now we live in an age where blogging is the new journaling; to blog one simply writes whatever they feel like and post it on a blogging site or their own website. Blogging is such a huge trend that lots of people are making money for posting their thoughts on the web. Writing is the best way to express opinions, thoughts, feelings, and divulge secrets because you are not directly speaking to another person and for those of us who are introverts, writing is the best way to communicate and show your true self.
For some of us journaling is a way to remember important life events and for others it is simply an outlet for anger and frustration. Journals are glimpses into the past, a way to time travel without the machine; good journals should contain dates, names, specific places, opinions, thoughts, current events and/or the inclusion of present tech gadgets, movies, television, fashion, culture and music. When writing in a journal, thinking about who might be reading it might help guide your writing topics but never let it censor you. Be open and unbridled, daring and unrestricted, love your style and be passionate. If you get into a rut and have nothing more to write about than monotonous daily life, Google is an excellent resource for writing prompts. Prompts range from personal topics to more general questions about the world and life. Some people think you need to have an entry for each day of the year, I have found that to be the quickest and surest way to losing interest in journaling. Space out your entries, when you find yourself worked up about an issue or something you saw on television or in a movie, grab that journal and write out your feelings and opinions. A personal journal is more effective than a generic technical journal for leaving a footprint in history.
Imagine that fifteen years ago you wrote in a journal every week for a year and you recently discovered this long-lost relic of your past at the bottom of a pile of clothes in your closet. How would you feel finding that piece of history? On reading some of the entries did you realize how much you’ve grown? Did you write about movies you saw and admired? Was your emotional state any different than it is now? How much life have you lived since writing in that journal? These are the questions you can think about when you are writing in your journal. Whether you journal on paper or blog in cyberspace, writing is about remembering the past, yourself and who you really are.
The Evening World, NYC
July 6, 1904
These Rules Are Laid Down by the Celebrated Female Expert, Clara Dalton
There are a few rules which, in learning to swim, a woman especially ought to observe, for she is the most likely to violate them, writes Clara Dalton, the celebrated swimmer, in this month's Outing. These are the rules:
1. She should never go in the water for swimming when she is fatigued. Since the late afternoon hours are the popular time for bathing at the seaside resorts, a woman is likely to be fatigued by the golf or bicycle riding or walking that have made up her day, and she is then not in fit condition for the exertion of swimming.
2. She should never go in swimming within two hours after eating a heavy meal. This is a rule never to be broken, and failing to observe which almost wholly takes away from swimming the benefits the exercise would otherwise give.
3. She must not stay in the water a minute after she feels fatigue or chill.
4. She should never allow herself to be "dared" to swim further than she has ever swum: over-exertion in swimming is extremely dangerous to her health, to say nothing of the peril while in the water.
5. She ought not to swim away from the crowd until she is an expert swimmer.
6. She should learn not to be frightened or lose her head if a limb becomes cramped. If it is raised from the water and rubbed for a minute the pain will cease.
7. If she ever has the occasion to save any one from drowning she can do so, even if she is not an adept swimmer, by remembering not to come in front of the drowning person in order to rescue her. She should approach her from the back and seize her firmly by both arms near the biceps.
The Evening World, NYC
July 7, 1904
MRS. BIDDLE NOW INSANE; MAY DIE
Young Farmer's Wife Attacked by Negroes in Her Home Loses Her Reason and Is in a Dangerous Condition.
DANGER OF LYNCHING NOT YET AT AN END
Crowd Is in an Ugly Temper, and but Little Provocation Would Be Needed to Bring About Attack on Jail
(Special to The Evening World.)
BURLINGTON, N.J., July 7 -- The mind of Mrs. Charles Biddle has given way under the terrible shock following the attack made upon her by four negroes, who have been arrested and have confessed.
Dr. Rink announced this afternoon that the unfortunate woman was insane, but he said it would take days before it could be determined whether this condition would prove permanent or only temporary. Her vitality continues low and her life is in danger. An officer left here to-day for Lancaster, Pa., with warrants for Aaron Timbers and John Sims who were arrested in Columbia. Four negroes are under arrest charged with ill treating Mrs. Charles Biddle, and three of them have made full confession, implicating the fourth. The negroes arrested are Aaron Timbers and John Sims, caught early to-day in Columbia, Pa.; William Austin, caught last evening in Philadelphia, and William Jones, in jail at Mount Holly, who was caught yesterday and positively identified by Mrs. Biddle as one of her assailants. Sims and Timbers made a confession at the time they were caught by the Columbia police, according to word received here to-day. They said that Austin and Jones were equally guilty.
Austin Also Confessed
Austin also made a confession implicating Timbers, Sims and Jones. Jones denies his guilt. He is badly frightened, for outside the jail in which he is confined is a mob of men who are clamoring for his life. The arrest and confession of the negroes has not quieted the excited people here. In fact, one misstep on the part of the soldiers or the National Guard, the police or the deputy sheriffs who are endeavoring to restore order, and there will be mob rule and possibly a race war. That such conditions prevailed were manifest to-day when armed men walked through the streets openly threatening vengeance upon the first negro who championed the three asailants of Mrs. Biddle. For a long time there has been a bitterness between the whites and blacks in this place and in Mount Holly. The blacks number about as many as the whites, and it is said to-day that they are equally well armed, and should there be an attack on any one of them because of the sympathy expressed for the assailants of Mrs. Biddle that it will be resented with shot.
Everybody Goes Armed
Burlington and Mount Holly were dangerous places to be in last night. The very best element of both towns have joined in the general demand that the negros be quickly tried and punished to the full extent of the law. Every man who appeared on the streets after dark was armed. Men patrolling the country roads between the two towns or searching through the woods for the negroes, took their life in their hands. It was reported that more than one shot was fired at these searchers. Only a guard of determined police and deputies, backed by members of the National Guard, saved William Jones, the negro in the Mount Holly jail, who was identified by Mrs. Biddle as one of her assailants, from hanging at the end of a rope during the night. Angry men, with pockets bulging from pistols or carrying rifles or shotguns on their shoulders, stood about the jail. All that was needed to precipitate riot and bloodshed was a leader. Had this leader sprung up the jail would have been stormed and there would have been bloodshed and death. While the white men stood outside the jail, making no effort whatever to conceal their identity, the negroes were in another part of the town talking fight, should the jail be stormed and should harm come to Jones before a trial. Rain began falling after midnight, and the mob outside the Mount Holly jail dispersed for the time being. They went to nearby shelter, but there was little sleep in the town, and day was breaking when the men again began to assemble. There were black looks on their faces, too. It was remarked that these men do not represent a disorderly class. They represent the most respectable farmers in New Jersey, and they have been joined by wealthy land owners. These men are being urged on by wives daughters and mothers, who agree that death alone is the only justice that can be meted out to the negros.....
The Evening World, NYC
July 7, 1904
HORRIBLY BURNED ON "L" THIRD RAIL
Employee's Face, Hands and Arms Seared by Strong Electrical Current--Injuries Are Likely to Prove Fatal.
Richard Frank, and employee of the interborough Rapid Tranist Company, while working to-day on the structure of the Sixth avenue "L," in front of No. 417 West Broadway, slipped and fell on the third rail and was horribly burned before his fellow-laborers were able to rescue him. His face, hands and arms were seared by the strong electrical current until the parts injured were as black as coal. Frank was removed to St. Vincent's Hospital and the surgeons there think he may not recover. The injured man's home is at No. 325 Nineteenth street, Brooklyn.
-Kayak down a river
-Play tennis
-Get an even tan
-Relax on the beach
-Read more than 10 books
-Repaint/redecorate my room
-Hike in a State Park
-Bike somewhere new- outside of Cedarburg
I arrived at Paddington station and stepped back out into the daylight; I pictured the Mapquest map in my head and rounded the corner to reach St. David's Hotels, not much more than two blocks away. I checked in and shown to my room; it was a nice room, small, but comfortable. I opted for a room with a bath inside and was unpleasantly surprised at finding an airplane-type shower. As I found out, after taking a shower everything within a two foot radius was soaked. Slowly I learned how to lessen the water outtake and I think I made the cleaning lady happy. I thoroughly enjoyed my view of Norfolk Square; I had a small balcony (enough to just stand on) in which I could survey the entire Square. I enjoyed taking in the beautiful white Victorian buildings surrounding me as well as the small park opposite the street. There were mornings, as I recall, that included a duet of angry voices yelling about some thing or other. I was a little frightened they would brandish weapons their talk was so rough and fierce.
The after the long cramped train ride I was ready to see the city I so desperately loved three years ago. I wasn't planning on traveling quite far, I wanted to see Big Ben again, and the Thames so I hopped on the Tube at Paddington and headed over to Westminister station. I emerged to sunshine and the huge tower that holds Big Ben. It was quite amazing; into the crowds swelling and elbowing each other to get the perfect picture to bring home and show their families that yes, they were there and yes, they took a picture to preserve the scene more than a mere memory would. Memories are just as flimsy as pictures, digital or print, but I believe pictures oftentimes restrict our memories. If you only took pictures of a vacation, years later would you remember the wonderful dinner you had in a restaurant filled with souvieners from various shows headlining on the Strand. Or a particularily scenic walk along the Thames observing the wide variety of people and statues that line the embankment. Of course video can capture more than photos can but I believe memories, aided by journal writing, are the best sources of rememberances for any and all occasions.
I went with the flow, not really caring where I was going or what I was seeing, and crossed the busy intersection to the Westminister Bridge. Passing several gaudy tourist souviener stands, I chose to walk the route I had previously walked on the first trip I took to London. I recalled walking along the Victoria Embankment but soon we veered off and went up Whitehall. I chose to stay on my course along the Thames; it was such a beautiful and partly sunny day that I did not want to leave the murky brakish waters that supplied life to this magnificent city for centuries. I took pictures of the skyline: the London Aquarium, the London Eye, various large buildings, and place called Sea Containers House with an interesting sea design on the roof. Along the Embankment interspersed every couple of yards or so were tall black lamp posts with sea serpents lining the base. There were large clear light bulbs strung from each lamp post. It was all very Victorian and Disney-like at the same time. Out on the water there was a large barge floating near the Embankment; a large sign said "I EAT RUBBISH."
There, across the brown-littered water, the Tate Modern. On impulse and further memory of the wonderful installation titled The Weather Project I began my crossing of the Milennium Bridge. It was a bit windy over the water; there were the typical sweetened nuts vendors at the end of the bridge but I paid no attention as I headed into the massive art museum. The entrance was as I previously remembered but I wanted to see the Turbine Hall once again. I knew what the installation was before I even left for London; I was sufficently wowed by the slides that twisted into weird curly metal noodles. They ranged from one story to three; people paid an admission price according to the level they wanted to slide down from and used rough burlap sacks to sit on. The tops of the slides were partially covered with a clear plastic cover. As much as I did not want to slide down, I could not help watching people scream and giggle as they flew down to the bottom.
I took some pictures and then wandered through the collections; I had an agenda and I knew what paintings I wanted to see so that I would not have to spend hours there. I sat in the Rothko room for some time; it was dark and lightly cooled. I enjoyed the dark muted colors and the immensity of the canvases that surrounded me. I sought out Chegall, which, as I would later learn, belongs on a canvas and not on the dome of a Parisian opera house. Of course I had to stop by the pop culture icon Roy Liechenstein and the muted elegance of Monet.
I headed out of the Tate by way of the Turbine Hall; I gave one last look at the smooth concrete sloping slabs and left the Tate forever. Over the Milennium Bridge once again I trailed behind a couple of girls a couple years younger than me. I was meloncholy; it wasn't so much that I wanted my friends there but that I wanted to be apart of a group, I wanted to be comfortable in the city, I wanted to know London like the back of my hand. I didn't want to worry about getting sick and finding a bathroom, I didn't want to worry about the cost of things and conversion. I continued to feel this way all the way up to St. Paul's Cathedral. I did not go inside because, as I remember, it didn't seem worth the cost. I took the Tube at rush hour which took me forever to get back to my hotel. I stopped in a little grocery by my hotel and picked up a Weight Watchers turkey and stuffing sandwich with a side of pasta and milk. After the long day I had I felt a little deserved relaxation was in order and so as I ate my delicious dinner I watched Houses Abroad, 2 1/2 Men and CSI: Las Vegas.
The next day I took a shower as well as the rest of the little cubicle of a bathroom and then headed out to face another day of being a tourist in London. I decided to start out in Hyde Park. From what I remember, I think I took the Tube to Hyde Park station but realized that I could have easily walked there, well, maybe not that easily, but I had already purchased the tube tickets and why not get my full use out of them? I started out across the street from the station; I walked around a pigeon poop spattered concrete walk around a bunch of fountains. It was a bit cloudy and I wished the sunshine would come out so my pictures would look more cheery. After studying the statues and watching some foreign family's children run around and giggle as they splash the water. I don't think I had a clear map of the park and so I wandered, staying to the main walk, until I reached a sign post pointing several different directions towards the various places in the park that were of interest. The main reason why I went to Hyde Park again was to see the Peter Pan statue like I saw in the movie 'Hook.' Well, I found it alright and I took about ten pictures of the statue because it had so much detail that I wanted to have a complete 360 in pictures.
Following the trail through the park I found myself in the middle of an ongoing argument between two middle-aged men. From what I could decipher, it seemed as though the men were both upset about something that transpired between their dogs. The whole process was quite an experience, one that most American tourists are not privy to, and I had the infinate joy of storing it in my head until I got back the hotel to record it all. This fight went as follows; one man would walk ahead of the other man and stop to yell arguments back at his opponent. The opponent would continue the argument, not wanting to back down from a fight in which he knew he was right. They would go on like this for several yards, I was stuck in the middle, unfortunately, and I believe that my being there (and their wives restraining them) kept the two men from going at it right there in the park. It was all very trivial to me, one man was angry the other man did not have his dog on a leash and the dog roamed wherever it wanted. The funny thing about it was that the argument seemed to be over and then about two or so yards later someone would shout something and the argument would begin all over again.
I finally left the turbulent atmopshere behind me and headed over to the Princess Diana fountain. Alas, the fountain was not on or working it seemed because there were a crew of people working on the mechanics of it. I would have liked to have seen what it looked like when it was fully functional but that I must save for another day, another trip, another time. The weather was pleasant; warm but cloudy. I relaxed by the Serpentine for a little while. Behind me was a little restaurant with chairs and tables set out for summer dining in the park. The Serpentine was a beautiful calm; farther down was a boat house set up with all sorts of recreational equiptment but it looked closed for the season. I had come too early it seemed. As I sat on the little bench, I studied the water before me; it looked like a beach of sorts (no sand, mostly pebbley stone pavement) but who in their mind would want to bathe in the Serpentine is beyond all comprehension by me. I knew this to be a beach/swimming area on account of the ropes strung a couple yards out to keep the swimmers in. A gaggle of geese and a pair of ducks swam through the swimming area; it was shallow enough for the ducks to dive to the bottom for scraps of food. I know Lake Michigan is nothing to brag about but at least it is a lake, I mean the Serpentine is an enclosed man-made pond so where is the drainage and runoff? Where does the goose poop go? Where does the feathers and garbage go? No where is where it doesn't go and yet parents allow their children to play and splash in the disease-infested waters of the Serpentine. No wonder London had such problems in the 17th century, what with the Great Plague and such. I digress.
Since it was not a Sunday (alas! Will I never get to Speaker's Corner?) there were no demonstrations or speakers on soapboxes for me to gaggle at. I would very much like to experience a Sunday there. Marble Arch was a quick jaunt from the corner and so I headed over to take some photos on account of my previous trip the entire Arch was under bright blue construction tarps. Moving across the street I had a nice little lunch at my favorite London restaurant, Pret. The cheese and roast tomato sandwich was quite wonderful as was the diet Coke and fudge brownie which accompanied it.
After a Pret lunch I decided to wander around the neighborhood; I happened on a square with a couple of large administrative buildings. One in particular stood out to me; it had a large golden eagle and an American flag flying. On closer inspection the sign designated the US Embassy. I cannot deny that it made my heart flutter a bit; I did some research and discovered that the Rolling Stone's song 'Street Fighting Man' was written about an incident that happened in front of the US Embassy in London--the very same embassy that I was standing in front of. Apparently, so the story goes, Mick Jagger was inspired by an anti-war rally at the US Embassy in London where mounted armed guards were wading through the throng of protesters and subsequently wrote 'Street Fighting Man' from that experience.
Later that afternoon I had a mind to take a walk down Regent Street from Oxford Circus; don't ask me why I did because I cannot remember; I think there must have been some shops I wanted to patronize. Also, it isn't a typical tourist sort of thing to do. The pavement was crowded with British shoppers and as much as I tried to go with the flow, the flow kept changing and so I felt like a salmon in the seasonal runs upriver. The traffic was of course due to the high volume of moderately priced shopping venues such as: Clarks, Lush, Next, and Hamley's Toys. I walked all the way down to Piccadilly Circus and found a nostalgic feeling creep up inside of me; I stood there, looking up in amazement at the bright neon lights three years ago. Turning back to Regent Street I consulted my city road map for Brewer Street; now I did not want to seem like a tourist during my time in London but to find a side street in Oxford Circus--a place I had not previously explored until then--was going to take a little more than memorization.
After a few back street right turns, left turns, past Chinese food restaurants and tea rooms I finally found Brewer Street. The reason for my little journey into the 'other' regions of London was on account of a wonderfully reviewed store I found in my London travel book. The Vintage Magazine Company is the kind of store I had been searching for; as the name implies, they sell a variety of vintage magazines, movie posters and prints, mounds of film and music memoribilia, t-shirts and anything else you can think of. I spent quite a bit of time in that store; I bought myself a notepad and postcards from The Bates Motel. I bought Alex a Bob Dylan and Blues Brothers picture and for Katie I bought a Grease movie photo.
I made my way back to my hotel in Paddington Station and rested for a little bit before I headed out to Bloomsbury. Why Bloomsbury? Why not? Actually, there were two stores I wanted to check out in that area; besides, Bloomsbury brought back some fond memories from the last time I was there. However, the time I spent looking for the stores was not pleasant; it was warm--I was warm--and there were these patches of gnats hovering above the middle of the pavement just waiting for an unsuspecting tourist to walk straight into them and feel the little buggars squirming to get out of her hair. It was quite gross and I felt gross and I had not yet found either store. I resigned to my map again and eventually figured out where I was and the appoximate location of the two stores. I finally found Faulkner's Fine Papers across the street where I had been walking. Inside there were rows and stacks of book bindings, papers of all sizes and textures. I took a peek at some of the journals and they were a bit too pricey for my likes; besides I had already purchased a journal in Chester and I still had a small leather journal from Italy. With no spending at the paper store I decided to try my luck at Fancy That of London--the official tourist souvieneer store.
I found Fancy That near the British Museum--a relic of a place where I experienced my first letdown of the mystery and excitement of London on my previous trip. Back in 2003, I had imagined the British Museum to quite ancient with musty rooms filled with collections from around the world. I imagined a dimly-lit paradise where history and life mixed daily. I pictured worn marble staircases winding to the upper floors where even more ancient treasures lay hidden. All in all, I imagined it to be much like the British Museum portrayed in the film 'The Mummy'. So there I was, a wide-eyed American tourist; first time in London, first time traveling internationally, ready for the all ancient wonders that the British Museum could offer. I was sorely disappointed; the museum was nothing like what I expected--it was clean, bright and bustling full of people. I was so letdown that I spent less than an hour there; most of it was spent looking at the gift shop, eating and waiting in line for the bathroom.
Now that I have almost completely digressed from my most recent trip, let's get back to where I left off. I was determined to buy all my London souvieneers at Fancy That, and I did. I bought two bags there--a black plastic bag with the skyline of London in white and a plastic Union Jack purse for Katie. I got dad a t-shirt, mom a water globe, and a couple of little keychains. I walked around the area for a while before I started to head back to my hotel. I wanted to wait so that I wouldn't hit the Tube during rush hour so I took my time. I ran into a woman who asked me if I knew how to get to Covent Gardens. I had never been there before but I had a map so together we figured out how she would get there. After helping her and feeling quite good, I headed for the Tube only to be dismayed by having not missed rush hour at all. Rush hour on the Underground is not a pleasant experience; there are crowds of people pushing, shoving, trying to get to the train before anyone else. You travel with them and clammor down the steps. The crowd swells around you like a great wave before it crashes against the wall at the bottom of the stairs and separates like two great diverted rivers to the platform to the right or the one to the left. Once to your platform the crowding continues and grows worse as the train comes into view. If you are lucky enough to get onto the train the first time, you'll be packed so tightly sweat breaks out the instant the doors close.
I arrived at Paddington station sweaty and gross; I walked the block to my hotel and on the way was called 'love' by two guys hanging out on a stoop. Frankly I was angry but a little surprised, I mean, come on, I probably looked horrible--make up all shiny and face greasy, hair matted down and stringy--but somehow these guys were interested in talking to me. I sound pretty needy, huh? I did not indulge them, in fact, I ignored their calls and just kept on walking.
I freshened up in my room and, having stepped out on my balcony to see if the stoop guys were there (they weren't), I locked my door and headed out to forage some food for dinner. I didn't want to go back towards Paddington Station; there was a lot of construction going on for the new station and I didn't feel like dealing with people. I took only what I needed--my room key and a couple pounds in my purse. I walked around the neighborhood in search of a cafe or restaurant that sparked my fancy. Walking further from my hotel I realized I was headed deeper into a residential section of the city with no hope of a place to eat. I took a couple of wrong turns and ended up 'lost'. I say it in quotes because I was able to find myself again and I didn't panic. The closest I came to panicking was when I realized I did not have my Tube pass (and therefore could not find the closest Tube station to hop on and get back to Paddington), hardly enough money to buy a pass, no debit or credit card and no map. I realized that if I panicked it would get me nowhere and I'd probably just end up embarassing myself somehow. I spied a park bench and took a seat to calm myself down; I knew I couldn't get lost in London--I would eventually recognize a street or landmark or something. I got up and tried to find my way back and eventually hit Hyde Park to my infinate surprise. From there I knew how to get back to my hotel; I ended up back at Paddington Station. I resigned to the burger place near the Tube station; I ordered a falafal burger and a twix bar. I headed back to my hotel and watched 'Legally Blonde'.
April 12th began languidly; I watched 'Just Shoot Me' and 'Friends' as I got ready to face another day in London. I took the Tube to Lancaster Gate and walked to Westminister Abbey. As I headed towards the Abbey a woman was handing out Peonies for a cost; she saw me coming and I fixed her a stare that quite literally told her to sodder off. She did not accost me with her paper flowers. Feeling like a true Londoner, I set off for the line to get into the Abbey. I had had the opportunity to go the first time I was in London but declined and instead of going with the group, I went with a another girl on a day trip to Stonehenge, Bath and Windsor Castle. I was ready to be wowed with delight that is Westminister Abbey.
To the Abbey's credit, I thought I was worth the trip and cost of seven pounds. What I found thoroughly fustrating and annoying was the sign which declared no cameras or camcorders allowed. Honestly, why have that rule? I can understand perhaps no flash but why no cameras at all? I wrote as I walked along with the tourist crowd, noting interesting tombs and statues. There was a tomb of a knight sleeping peacefully--nothing special except that at the end of the tomb a lion was carved and the way both the lion and knight were carved, it seemed that the knight was kicking the lion. I do not think that is what the knight had in mind when he commissioned his tomb. On another tomb a knight was carved looking like he was just resting--his legs were crossed at the bottom.
Pictures can only capture so much; flipping through them over the years is monotonous and leaks other possible memories out. I look through these photos and I want more, I wonder where is the rest of my album? Didn't I take so many more pictures? As much as I knew I wanted to record every inch of every building and landscape, at the time I felt like a nerdy tourist and I wished for nothing more than to blend in and become unrecognizable as an American. However, as time passed and school came to a close, I wanted nothing to do with the British; never before had I felt such an on rush of patriotism and pride that I wanted to boast with joy that yes, I am an American and yes, I think my country is better than yours.
I loved walking along the canal; that perhaps was one of my most favorite parts of Chester. Although the canal's waters were at times dirtied with food containers, bird feathers and metallic oil swirls, the brown free-flowing liquid gave me some relief and peace. As an Aries my principle element is fire and my opposite is water; as I learned in Italy, I cannot live somewhere that does not have a significant water source, be it a lake, river, or sea. I used the canal as my guide as I let it take me through the city and beyond. I went to the outskirts of Chester to the east and discovered a idllyic house and garden that would fit perfectly as a tabletop fountain. I say fountain because near the front of the house is a waterfall, which looks and acts more like a natural water slide. From somewhere near the house water comes bubbling out and tumbles down, twists and then finally shoots out into the canal. The house was small, painted white, had a trim garden and yard complimented with a clothes line with billowing men's white shirts and knickers. The yard extended a few yards back to fence in a pony. I watched enviously as the owners of the house went about their duties; the woman pinning up evermore laundry, the man hunched over toiling endlessly in a garden that would yield enough vegetables for a couple sides to their dinners. They were not poor, nor were they rich; in that small glimpse into their lives I knew they were content with their lives. They could be a retired couple; the house was probably not theirs entirely. The house was situated on a part of the canal that had a lock; doubtless the house belonged to the city and whomever lived there their duty would be to watch the canal for houseboats and consequentially help the boats pass through the lock. I walked slightly along the canal path until I came to a curve that ended with a large electric station. Common sense told me to begin to head back since it took me awhile to get there and the sun surely would not stay so high in the sky much longer.
Heading west, I followed the canal behind the University of Chester and was rewarded with an altogether different view of the city, actually, not the city at all but the outlying residential and eventually, meadows of Chester.
Today, (March 20th, 2009) I was at work and randomly thought about the Information Center in Chester--the one near St. John's Ruins. I remember going there a few times; they had some Roman artifacts on display in the upstairs part. I think a few of the Spanish girls were with me and we used the bathroom up there. Another time I went it was more towards the time in which I would be leaving forever. I remember it was raining and cold but I trekked over there because I wanted to pickup some good souvieneers for home. I don't remember what I bought there. There were a lot of Roman things and random.
* = Don't waste time reading
** = So-so, good one-read book
*** = Very good book, possibly read again
**** = BUY IT!
1. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, John Berendt, ****
2. City of Falling Angels, John Berendt, *
3. The Orchid Thief, Susan Orlean, ** (a lot of beautiful lines though)
4. The Poseidon Adventure, Paul Gallico, *
5. Slammerkin, Emma Donoghue, *
6. The Bell Witch: An American Haunting, Brent Monahan, *
7. Notes From A Small Island, Bill Bryson, ***
8. I'm A Stranger Here Myself, Bill Bryson, ****
9. The Lost Continent, Bill Bryson, ***
10. A Walk in the Woods, Bill Bryson, ***
11. Neither Here Nor There, Bill Bryson, ***
12. In A Sunburned Country, Bill Bryson, ***
13. Plane Insanity, Elliot Hester, * 1/2
14. The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, Bill Bryson, ****
15. The Devil Wears Prada, Lauren Weisberger, **
16. The Thirteenth Tale, Diane Setterfield, *
17. The Girl With A Pearl Earring, Tracy Chevalier, ***
18. The Rent Tent, Anita Diamant, ****
19. My Antonia, Willa Cather, **
20. Sarah, Marek Halter, ** (teen read)
21. Hannibal Rising, Thomas Harris, *** (fastest book I've read yet)
22. A Room of One's Own, Virginia Woolf, ****
23. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Tom Stoppard, **
24. Voyage in the Dark, Jean Rhys, *
25. A Portriat of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce, *
26. Wide Sargasso Sea, Jean Rhys, * 1/2
27. House, Frank Peretti and Ted Dekker, *
28. Gillette, or The Unknown Masterpiece, Balzac, **
29. Dead Run, P.J. Tracy, ** (better as a movie?)
30. Sandman: Dream Country, Neil Gaiman, *
31. Next Exit: Magic Kingdom, Rory Maclean, **
32. Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, David Sedaris, **
33. The Crying of Lot 49, Thomas Pynchon, -10 stars the worst book I've ever read
34. The World's Wife, Carol Ann Duffy, ****
35. American Gods, Neil Gaiman, ***
36. Sandman: Doll's House, Neil Gaiman, **
37. Sandman: Season of Mists, Neil Gaiman, **
38. Sandman: A Game of You, Neil Gaiman, **
39. Sandman: Fables and Reflections, Neil Gaiman, **
40. Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton, ***
41. Sandman: World's End, Neil Gaiman, ***
42. Sandman: The Kindly Ones, Neil Gaiman, ***
43. Sandman: The Wake, Neil Gaiman, **1/2
44. Skin, Ted Dekker, * 1/2
45. Stardust, Neil Gaiman, **
46. Manly Traditions, Simon Bronner, **
47. Real Men Don't Eat Quiche, Bruce Feirstein, *
48. Purfume: The Story of a Murderer, Patrick Suskind, ***
49. Anansi Boys, Neil Gaiman, **
50. Ghost Ship: The Mysterious True Story of the Missing Ship and Her Crew, Brian Hicks, **
51. Under the Banner of Heaven, Jon Krakauer, **1/2
52. Our Former Lives in Art, Jennifer Davis, ***1/2
53. Letter to a Christian Nation, Sam Harris, **
54. Austenland, Shannon Hale, ***
55. The Devil in the White City, Erik Larson, ***
56. Thunderstruck, Erik Larson, ***1/2
57. Sin City: The Hard Goodbye, Frank Miller, **
58. The Machine Stops, E.M. Forster, ***
59. Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, ****
60. Secrets Can Be Murder, Jane Valez-Mitchell, ***
61. 100 Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, ****
62. The Lottery, Shirley Jackson, **
63. The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, Edmund Morris, ****
64. Theodore Rex, Edmund Morris, **
65. The River of Doubt, Candice Millard, **
66. Sin in the Second City, Karen Abbott, ***
67. The Meaning of Night, Michael Cox, **
68. The Dress Lodger, Sheri Holman, *1/2
69. Fingersmith, Sarah Waters, **
70. Falling Angels, Tracy Chevalier, **1/2
71. Burning Bright, Tracy Chevalier, **
72. Marrying Mozart, Stephanie Cowell, **
73. Of Love and Other Demons, ***
1. I want to travel to every single country in the world for entertainment/pleasure purpose only--not like for a job or anything.
2. I want to travel to Belize and stand on top of the tallest Mayan temple structure and survey my domain. I want to spread my arms and feel the power the previous kings and queens must have felt.
3. I want to explore an underground cave in Mexico, where the water looks like air.
4. I want to explore an ancient Mayan/Aztec ruin.
5. I want to travel into the Mayan Underworld and meet Chebalba.
6. I want to return to the Opera Garnier and pretend I am dressed in a huge ball gown and waltz down the long mirrored ballroom with the man I love.
7. I want to revisit Windsor Castle and pretend I am a royal guest and walk stately down the royal coat of arms hall with the man I love to greet the queen.
8. I want to go on a ghost hunt with the 'good' members of TAPS (Steve, Jason, Grant) and experience paranormal presence and get good EVPs, Thermal and video.
Meaning: Liable to make a mistake, be innacurate or erroneous.
Sentence 1:
Working at a bank has taught me that humans are fallible; we simply cannot be compeletely accurate one hundred percent of the time.
Sentence 2:
His essay was due in two hours; he asked me to proofread it through because I graduated with English honors. As I read about the Battle of San Juan Hill, I realized that he was quite fallible on account of the numerous red markings his paper received.
Definition: Causing irritation, distress, or vexation.
Personal: When I go back to work on Monday, a certain nettlesome coworker will be disappointed when I don't talk to her anymore.
Fiction: I walked along the lakeshore beach in the mid-afternoon nettlesome sunlight. My eyes squinted in the bright light and my skin tingled from the excessive tanning I had only previously done yesterday morning.
Nonfiction: Not only is nettlesome acne medically irritating, but it also causes undue stress and depression in younger people--especially during the high school years.
Meaning: a woman of extrordinary stature, strength and courage; a woman regarded as loud, scolding, ill-tempered, quarrelsome or overbearing.
Personal:
Throughout this election I wanted to vote for Hilary Clinton so that she could pave the way for future female presidents, as a person she isn't a virago--which I believe one needs to be in order to be president.
Working at Ozaukee Bank has brought me into an array of different types of people. One of my most favorite people is Jill who is kind, caring, intelligent, open and warm. One of my least favorite people is a virago named Julie.
Fiction:
Bella stood on the precipice of a giant fjord, the icy blue sky spread out in front of her. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply. She imagines what it must have been like Ingrid, the virago who lived here thousands of years ago.
Judd and Amy were seated in the corner of the new trendy italian bistro. They spoke softly to one another about future plans for marriage and a new house. The waiter brought them a bottle of the best house wine and a light apartief. Just as Judd bit into a piece of calamari a loud sigh of disgust rang through the restaurant as the woman seated at the table next to them stared Judd down. Judd swollowed his squid as this virago almost gagged in distaste for his choice in food.
Nonfiction:
Literature is filled with women of distinction; from Jane Austen to J.K. Rowling and each in between. Jane Austen should be considered as one of the imminent authors of all. This virago selflessly chose to write in a time when female authors were not considered 'proper'.
In the novel 'Matilda' by Rohld Dahl, the character of Ms. Trunchbull is quite a virago. The way in which she acts towards her students is particularily frightening; hopefully there is no such principal in the world like her.
Meaning: clothing, in general; garments
Personal-
A couple of weeks ago I saw that my mom had set out brown paper bags for the Purple Heart pick up. I sorted through my closet and pulled a fairly large pile out. One raiment I regrettably donated was a black dress shirt which I never got the chance to wear.
Fictional-
Kristen never liked anything her boyfriend bought her; she wanted bigger, better things. Thomas simply could not afford what she asked for. Their wedding was a disaster--at least that's what Kristen believed--however; everyone who attended praised the lovely couple for such a beautiful wedding. Kristen's predominate annoyance was the raiment worn by the groomsmen; Thomas chose a simple tuxedo with a cream cumberbund and a sleek burgundy vest to match the bridesmaids. Kristen was furious he ordered them without her approval; it was her wedding after all, she said.
Nonfiction-
The wide variety of raiment worn by the models on the television show America's Next Top Model are quite interesting both culturally and visually. Each outfit is designed with the photo shoot in mind, and, blended with hair and make-up, the whole outfit comes together beautifully.
This past week was a hard one; Jill left Ozaukee Bank on Wednesday. Nothing could've brought the morale down further than it already was. I have promised myself to only be polite and courteous to both Julie and Barb in matters pertaining to the bank. I hate to say it but if I shun Julie, I believe I will have the heat turned up on me. Hopefully Amy will begin our one-on-one sessions and we can band together and get Julie transferred to another office.
I finished reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez's '100 Years of Solitude' last night and today I felt a little despondent. I did not feel like the story really ended...maybe because it ended so abruptly and uncharacteristically of the Buendia family history but it was a weird and magical ending of the line with the baby, neglected, being carried off dead by red fire ants.
After a trip to the library today to donate my Blu-Ray Pirates 3 DVD, and after cleaning my room and doing some laundry, I began to read a biography of Theodore Roosevelt. If you have no opinion of this president the prologue will give you a wonderful first impression. I was extremely amazed at how this man held himself and regarded those around him. It is said that he read at least a book a day, even on his most busy days! I began thinking; a little more than one hundred years later our president now reads on average one book a month! Bush's reading list, however, is not as impressive as I would have thought. In fact, there was a book on the list I even had read a bit of! I think, though, I will try some of the books on his reading list because a number of them do seem interesting and informative, especially the one about Muslin women.
One young girl explained to the documentary crew how she sees people that have passed on in life. One example was quite terrifying; one night she sensed there was a presence in the room with her, in fact, it had woken her up. She went to her closet and opened the door to see a dead girl hanging from the ceiling. It scared her very much yet she continues to hone her psychic ability. More recently, she has developed the ability to go inside people's bodies to see problem areas. At the camp she touched a woman's knee and was able to describe exactly what she saw inside the knee and the problem area.
Adult mediums, to me, seem a bit overdramatic. At least that is what I have observed on television and around my own area. What struck me the most about this program was the children and their convictions of seeing dead people. Children are naturally sensitive to otherworldly factors but these children can oftentimes communicate directly with the deceased. Watching this program I was afraid for them; I couldn't believe these children have to go through this day after day. How do they lead normal lives? Some of them were scared of the ghosts they saw, sometimes the ghosts appear in the same condition as how they died, i.e. bloodied and scarred, limbs missing, horror etched on their faces. These children have already been exposed to death and dying, some adults haven't experienced what they have in their entire lives. These children are strong and extremely gifted; I hope they continue to develop their abilities and learn to deal with their fears, though easy as it sounds, will take a lot of effort and perseverence.
Aristotle and Cicero
Text: Aristotle's Physics, Book 2
Notes:
-There are things which are from nature and those which exist out of nature--they don't have a reason for movement or change. Things that are artificial do not have a source for their own production.
