Jesse, Khalil, And The Detective

“I can’t believe we made it,” winced Jesse as we got off the plane and took our first step on American soil in over two weeks. I agreed with Jesse, and thanked my lucky stars our injuries weren’t fatal. Jesse was still holding on to his left arm in an attempt to dull the pain. I scratched at my own head bandages, and checked my gut, which stopped bleeding only a few hours ago on the plane. It still hurt, but the drugs from Doc Samson were not only keeping me from constantly gasping in pain, but also giving me a goofy grin. That grin was perfect for the press, which greeted the two of us before we could really even savor the fact that we were back from London.

“Come on guys, give us a break – we just got here!” I tried pleading with the mass of reporters, cameras and flashes. Multiple microphones rushed towards our general direction and I think one even hit Jesse in the chin. Jesse was pissed – he didn’t have the same painkillers I did and wasn’t as calm. Several not so friendly policemen eventually escorted the two of us as if we were not so visibly injured. We were lead into some kind of dark holding room with a very obvious two-way mirror. Jesse and I looked at each other, mentally preparing for whatever was gonna happen next. Just one more challenge, I thought, and then we’d be home. A man introducing himself as Detective Chad Paige walked up to us casually and lit his cigarette. The smoke hung in the room, visible from the single floodlight.

“Look Paige, I can’t tell you everything that happened to us - what we did in London and why we look this way. So you can stop wastin’ our time and let us go home.” I resented the time we were wasting with this cop, and just wanted a warm bed. Jesse didn’t say anything, but spit on the ground at Paige’s feet.

“Look guys, I’m not here to bust your balls too much. I just need a few answers, then you guys can go home to your fish, dogs, and pretty little girlfriends. I know how you guys had a great time in London – but that was a given, wasn’t it guys? But how well did you actually carry out your plan to see and do things while you were abroad? Oh, and boys – be as specific as possible.” This guy was really startin’ to get on my nerves. What kind of question was that?

“What kind of question is that? Are you asking if I got to see Big Ben, eat fish n’ chips, and walked around an outdoor market? Well of course I did those things. And it was a piece of cake; not only did we go to an outdoor market, but I went to three, and got a new coat at one of em. How did I do it? Well I got off my ass – oh, excuse me, I mean “bum” – and actually went out and did that. We basically got to do what we wanted. Every expectation I ever had was met.” Jesse gave me a nod of approval for the canned answer, and I let Paige sit with that for a moment. Detective Paige took out his cigarette for emphasis. It was like this guy thought he was in a movie, and his act was getting old. His tough guy act did not impress me, and of course I was growing impatient.

“Alright, so you got to see the sights you wanted… but you boys would actually have to go out of your way to not see these things right? Ya don’t seem like the types that would stay in your rooms and watch BBC all day. So I’m unimpressed. How about your classes? What did you think of those?”

“What do you wanna hear, man? I went to class every day like I was supposed to – that’s what I was there for. Sure there was plenty to write, but I was gonna do that anyway so my folks could know what I was doing. Not a big deal, right? It felt like a real class, and we were graded like such. I can’t speak for Jesse, cause he was in a different class, but I had a great time in English.” Jesse stared off into space, recalling the strange journey he had in an art class. For that time in his life, he vowed never to speak of again. Paige realized he shouldn’t push that particular question on Jesse and stopped for a moment.

“Anything…interesting, or unexpected happen to you boys in London?” Paige said, eyeing our visible wounds. This was a tricky part – we couldn’t exactly tell him what happened to us, but we looked far too battered to say a dumb excuse like “we fell”. Our London-based adventure, challenge, and sacrifice was forever a secret. We were not about to reveal anything to this chump.

“Yeah, the most interesting thing we did was probably visit the Tower of London – it had a whole bunch of history behind it, and we saw the crown jewels. I was actually surprised how much I appreciated the crown jewels. You should really go sometime Paige, ol’ chap!” Jesse finished with a wink. Paige was furious. He knew how powerless he was in getting anything out of us, and lawfully had to let us go soon. There was really nothing for him to do.

“Fine, guys. Fine. Just get out of my site – and don’t ever go to London again.” He flicked his cigarette and it arced right behind Jesse’s ear. I stood up first and opened the door for Jesse. Paige stayed in the room, and we never saw him again.

“That nosey sonofabitch was a real pain in the ass, man.” Jesse was particularly peeved with the flicked cigarette. I was just glad to be out of there.

“Hey Jesse, don’t worry. It’s over. Let’s go home, I know you have a goldfish that needs feeding.”

“All I wanna do is go to sleep. And I think you should probably go to the hospital… stab wounds are kinda serious. I don’t know what Doc Samson gave you, but you know he’s not a real doctor right?”

“Yeah, I know.” I didn’t really care. I just wanted to go home and rest for days on end. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll feel good enough for the next journey. I think it will be about time to visit London and those damned gypsies in a few months…but this time, we will be ready.

War Horse: What is It Good For?

I don’t consider myself a theater person at all. I am a student of film, and find the over-acting both annoying and distracting. I understand why it is done of course, but I find that it creates a poor substitute for a movie. I love the subtleties captured on film and prefer cinematic techniques to stagehand techniques.

War Horse is probably the first professional play I have attended. The preview looked hilarious to me – you gotta see how serious the actors are taking this giant horse puppet. There were three possible scenarios for this play.

A. I would love it and appreciate the critically-acclaimed play

B. I would hate the play for being so ridiculous, but enjoy the humor in breaking it down

C. It would be in the middle, and I could not make fun of it or actually like the play

It was C. for me. It is impossible not to be impressed with the puppetry involved. The horses have a slight steam-punk motif that I can certainly get behind. Movements seemed as realizitic as you can get for being a giant puppet impressively controlled by three puppeteers.

The first 20 minutes or so were filled with boring, drawn-out scenes to establish characters and show off puppet-play. The rest of the play teertered on being a child’s tale of a boy loving his animal a little too much (cliché) and then there were adult elements like the relationship between the drunk father and his son (cliché). I also felt there was an inadequate display of why “Joey” was a special horse. The boy in the play, Albert, seemed crazy for him…almost obsessed for no good reason other than his status as a horse. The story was unoriginal and poorly developed. It also suffered from simply being a play – an animated cartoon would have sufficed just fine.

I did find humor in drawing comparisons to Forrest Gump – Albert seemed just as mentally-slow as Forrest, and whined about “Joey” just as much as “Jenny” was mentioned in the movie. In a war scene, Albert’s best friend turned out to be a black guy (Bubba?) and he died as well. (That happens in war…)

But anyway, the theater teacher said it was one of the best plays he had ever seen. If that is the case, then most plays must really suck.

The Staple

Though I am not the protagonist of this story, (Jesse is) I was there with him at the time that this tale took place. With his permission, I have taken the liberty of recounting his experience from his own eyes. Therefore, the narrator from this point forward refer to Jesse.

There was nowhere else to eat on a Sunday night besides more tourist-friendly chains since traditional British pubs were closed early. Khalil and I walked by Ultimate Burger once already that night, but ignored it since we ate there on our first night in England. Khalil insisted on trying new things, but all I really wanted was another good bacon cheeseburger, so I convinced him to try Ultimate Burger again (since it was a sure thing. I reminded him of the large menu and with little resistance, he caved in. It was nice to eat at a more familiar and American-like as to the dark and foreign pubs.

I stuck with the old favorite – a bacon cheeseburger – despite the wide selection of sandwiches ranging from intricately topped beef burgers to no-less than three kinds of lamb burgers. Khalil got onion rings and a peanut-satay burger. Good thing Kim wasn’t around – I like my girlfriend and everything, but she just cant handle the peanuts well…

The meal was eaten in our typical way – we ate, talked, but I did deviate from my usual beverage of the free distilled tap water and ordered a Sprite. I was almost done with my burger, about two bites worth away, and I stopped chewing. Khalil was droning on and on about God knows what (probably art) and I instantly tuned him out and focused inward, concentrating on the bite in my mouth.

Something was wrong. There was a different feeling in my mouth from the previous bites. I felt a slight pinch, something hard amidst the ground beef and cheddar cheese and English bacon (trust me, its not like American bacon). Was that pinching sensation a fluke? I explored my mouth and felt it again. I began to isolate and separate what seemed to be the problem from the rest of my food. I felt my eyes glaze over and was vaguely aware that Khalil stopped talking and was probably watching me, watiging for an explanation for my detached stare. Careful not to swallow anything, I reached inside my mouth to pull out a surprisingly long, thin piece of what looked like metal. I looked around for anything that could have broken off into my food but found nothing.

Khalil was staring with a look of growing concern as If he were imagining the possible journey the mystery metal could have taken. We both lightened up after a while – because I had caught it in time and was perfectly fine. We decided that it was a metal staple from the slightly bent middle and pinched endpoint. The waitress eventually came over to ask how our food was, and I had to respond. I simply informed her of my stapled-food and she said I wouldn’t have to pay for my burger as she walked away. In her absense, I asked Khalil if that meant I still had to pay for my Sprite – and he said probably not, since there were no staples in there.

We began our scenario game, trying to figure out exactly what happened for this staple to find its way into my mouth. Maybe the chef kept his office supplies close to the grill and was flamboyantly flipping his burgers when he knocked the jar of loose staples into the meat. Maybe the chef was seasoning the burgers and has a salt shaker, pepper shaker, and then a staple shaker. Maybe he wasn’t a real chef at all- and maybe he was just some guy who cooks on a George Foreman grill at his desk job.

Oh well. I figure I’m okay now, and since then I have had several staple-free meals.

The British Science Museum

I can’t remember the last time I went to the museum of Science and Industry in Chicago, but it cannot be half as grand as London’s. London’s British Science Museum is comprised of several themes such as space, energy, and mathematics. Every exhibit could exist as a stand-alone museum somewhere else; they are that massive. I don’t even like boats or nautical things, but was impressed by the sheer number of display models.

The best exhibit however was on the top floor almost hidden away in a seemingly boring section having to do with the history of audio, telephones, and radio communication. It was called the Listening Post. The award-winning display is in a darkened corner of the theme, and intrigued Jesse and I. At one end of the room, hundreds of small 3x6in LED panels displayed green text. Ambient music was playing in the background. Jesse and I initially skipped the explanation panel, so we went back to the room entrance to find out what was going on.

The LED panels display text typed out by people in various chat rooms in real-time. The display initially starts with an opener, such as “I Am” or “I Love”. As people type something that starts with the opener, such as “I Am 17” it is displayed and read aloud by the robotic voice. If a second response appears, it is read in a different tone, so that the voices begin to harmonize with each other. Because of the nature of chat rooms, the exhibit is never the same thing twice. Some responses are very bland and normal, and a good 40% of them are sexually explicit in some way. It is really something to see the spirit of the age (zeitgeist) display itself in such a multimedia fashion.

At some points, it is overwhelming – responses layer on top of each other for information overload. At other times it is calm enough to let each part speak for itself in a sobering way. The robotic voice is emotionless, and reads responses in the same tone from “thinking about killing myself, need advices,” to “any straight h0rny guys here wanna get sucked? discreet guy here”. It’s hilarious, sad, informative, and genius. I could probably sit for quite some time watching. There is always the possibility that it uses Omegle for its database…in that case I’m sure it has seen plenty of strange things from yours truly and friends. There was displayed at one point, a bunch of usernames – one of them jwagner. I don’t think we have to worry until we see King Jesse on the board.

The Tate Modern

The Tate Modern is yet another free museum in London, but focuses on what would appear to be the antithesis of what you would think of as one of the most historical cities in the world. I like some modern art – I really do. I like the interactivity between a contemporary piece and the viewer where you really have to figure out what you are supposed to be looking at. I like taking simple, well-known objects and looking at them from a different viewpoint. I like patterns arising from repetitions of strange objects. I like some pieces where you actually have to do a double take after you see the picture, then look at the title, and then look back at the picture to make some sense of it. That’s the good kind of interactivity.

The Tate Modern art museum has some pieces like that. But my kind of modern art (really the only kind I can tolerate) seemed very few and far between. In rooms with dozens of pieces, I found myself only appreciating and accepting one or two. The museum has an uncomfortable layout, seeming as if it is a giant airplane hanger or warehouse with paint on the walls. Rooms have themes I guess, but they simply lump one or two artists’ pieces together. Many pieces follow a similar style – some guy took a bus and dozens of sleds equipped with his idea of survival kits and shipped them all to an art gallery. One guy took a big uprooted palm tree, painted it a dusty bronze, and laid it on the ground of the art gallery. One guy threaded a few hundred bars of soap on a string and hung it up in an art gallery. Another guy took a mirror and stuck it on a canvas and hung it in an art gallery. Does this mean if it is in an art gallery, it’s art? I don’t’ really think so.

There were of course, some Picassos, A Monet, Pollacks, but those did not stick out as much as the performance videos they had throughout the museum. There were casual warnings that there was explicit material that ‘may not be suitable’ for children written on the walls, but that of course could mean anything. In this case it meant nudity, blood, self-mutilation, writhing, and other bodily functions. I just flat out didn’t care. It wasn’t really the fact that it was a little sickening; it was the fact that these ‘artists’ got even the least bit famous. I don’t think it is artistically ignorant or uncultured to get sick of seeing twenty or so pieces utilizing this stuff.

I still had a blast looking at the pieces and making of them with Jesse – but that’s not really due to the art museum itself; we just know how to have a good time. It’s a good thing London has plenty of other museums to remind tourists that it is still a culturally and artistically rich places in the world. It’s still definitely worth checking out – just don’t go expecting real art, and go with an intention to have fun anyway.

The British Museum

The British Museum is a fine establishment that excels in both organization and quality of pieces. Besides having completely free admission to the public, there are also guided tours which meet at designated areas free of charge. There are donation boxes everywhere, and it is interesting to see among the British pound notes and coins that there are also American Bills, Euros, and money from all over the world. I noticed some kind of Arabic bill with “50” written on it. Every piece has an informative paragraph; even large display cases with multiple pieces have them numbered to correspond with their descriptions. Rooms are arranged by locations, chronology and themes such as “Money” or “Time”.

It is interesting to note that this is the first place I have seen Braille. It also seems like the worst possible place to have a blind person stumble around looking for the name of an exhibit they cannot see. And don’t you think someone would be traveling with a fully-abled person who would tell them the name of what they are “looking” at?

One of the top exhibits in the British Museum exhibits are the Elgin Marbles, or Parthenon. The sheer amount of collected pieces is large enough to fill its own museum, but it finds a nice home in a nice wing that is probably one-tenth of the museum. The pieces were brought over by some bloke, Lord Elgin who may or may not have purchased and brought everything to London illegally. Either way, the British Museum wants to keep them, and Greece has been working hard to reclaim their treasures.

Walking into the western side of the museum on ground floor, you first pass an impressive-enough display of part of a temple of the godess Nereid. It had some short-lived wonder as you wander into the much bigger room that serves as a grand hallway with marble battle scenes along the walls taken from the Parthenon. Worn bits, rough bits, and surprisingly detailed and intact pieces depict grand scenes of war, worshipping, and common life. Each section is divided up into dozens of scene descriptions and explanations. Countless hours, manpower went in by artisans and storytellers to create awe-inspiring pieces. The most impressive to me were the pieces at the extreme ends of the exhibit – the west and east pediment. The pieces were grand sculptures rather than reliefs that depicted their own scenes.

The one that caught my eye the most was a horse’s head on the far right side of the east pediment. It is simply a horse’s head, and not the grand fighting figures of warriors and centaurs, but it conveys the same kind of grand power. It was designed to hang over the side of the pediment, and is displayed as such. In a room where various heads, limbs and entire sections are broken off, missing or were defaced somehow, it was refreshing to see a part in its entirety. The smooth marble is detailed enough to make the horse actually look as if it has veins, muscles and life. Its exhausted expression makes it seem as if it is still panting for breath after serving as one of the moon goddess’ chariot horses. There are a few bumps, craters and scars in the stone-white marble, but it unexpectedly adds a realness to both the piece and gives it an overall more historic value. If it were too neat and polished up, one would think it might be made of plastic. There are many more fantastic things to see and learn, but the Parthenon horse head was my favorite.

Streets of London Revised and Updated

Traveling is all about experiencing a different culture, country and way of life. It is easy enough to see the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben or the Statue of Liberty as monumental landmarks to remind you of your location, but it is actually the simpler, subtler differences that fully immerse a traveler. The complexity of the road system is fully mastered by almost any American by the age of seventeen, and it eventually becomes part of common sense. It takes a full ten minutes of driving or walking around London’s streets to snap the American mind into culture shock.

After spending over twelve hours in either an airport or airplane, I think everyone was clamoring to get his or her first glimpse of London on the bus ride to the hotel. First of all, I had to get used to the cars driving on the wrong side of the road, (which they seem to compensate by also having their steering wheels on the wrong side of the car). Vehicles in London are much more round, with oblong curves replacing a slightly sleeker look in America. Even the boxier of cars, like buses have distinct round edges. I am not really a car person (therefore cannot identify the makes and models of the vehicles), but I seemed to recognize plenty of BMW’s and a handful of Mercedes. There are some Audis, probably stemming from one of the largest Audi dealerships in the world being here. The colors on the cars reflect what seems to be a national color scheme of black, white, silver, and reds that are either candy-apple red or maroon. There really doesn’t seem to be as much variety of cars in London as there are in America, and there seems to be a regular pattern of the same three or four kinds of cars in the same three or four colors (or colours as they write it here). License plates appear to have random letters and numbers; there’s not a single vanity plate in sight. Front plates are white, and back plates are yellow.

Aboveground public transportation relies mostly on buses and taxis. Bright red public buses are numerous with planned routes and can be seen if you look in any direction. Some stop at designated and visibly marked areas while others must be flagged down. When loading, you simply swipe the handy “Oyster” card that is also accepted at London Underground, or “Tube” subway stations. Though there are cameras pointed at all areas of the bus, I noticed when getting on that some did not swipe at all. The interior of the bus is set up more like a subway car than a traditional bus, where some stand and hold on to rails. Tour busses are also understandably common, and remind you that London is a much bigger deal for tourists than say…Peoria. Busses also have their own lanes at the side of many roads, which are clearly marked with worn red paint and the words “Bus Lane”. The roads themselves are sometimes very thin, and it is a wonder sometimes how the buses make their turns so close to other traffickers and signposts.

Taxis are plain black round little cars that lack the obnoxious checkered sides and huge signs on the top. Instead, a small sign calmly announces that it is a taxicab with other signs on the side. I haven’t used one, but I admire the taxi-lanes by popular hotels, such as ours. Outside one of the main entrances, in the middle of the street (literally, the middle of the street, where traffic diverges around the taxi-lane) there is room for about five taxis.

Everywhere you go the place is littered with organized road signs. From helpful Tube stops, to the equally handy “Look Left” written on the streets, London makes it easier on tourists and locals alike, though it does look a bit cluttered sometimes. Many important sidewalk locations have sightseeing destinations marked in their directions. Rather than mark the distance, they are measured in minutes, as in “St. Paul’s Cathedral: 5 Minutes”. The one sign I haven’t seen yet are speed limit signs, but Jesse’s book, The Septic’s Companion says that there are understood national standards for certain types of areas (Rae, 29). For example, in town, it is 30mph. And yes, they use miles per hour for some reason. The reason there are no signs is probably because the speed limit system hasn’t changed since its 1965 inception (Rae, 29).

America’s buildings along the roads are overrun with billboards and advertisements. London’s primary form of advertising instead relies on the sides of the heavily prevalent and efficient bus system. Tall double-decker busses have plenty of space for showing off the latest play, movie, or business for a singular, attractive ad. Longer double-busses have much more horizontal space for their graphics. Tube stations also have plenty of large ads garnishing the hallways and platform. Someone walking around outside on ground level would not even know it is there. It is a refreshing change from home; If it weren’t for some of the most expensive stores in the world hiding overpriced fashion pieces on the inside of Victorian buildings, one would almost think that this is a decidedly less consumer-driven culture than ours.

Being in London, England so far has introduced me to fantastic sites, unique food and numerous other customs. I have been inside Parliament, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and some of the greatest museums and galleries in the world. To truly experience a unique location such as this, however, you really have to get out there in the streets. Not like, in a prostitute way, but you know what I mean. The English streets are a wonderful reminder that London is a vastly different place than my hometown Mokena, school in Peoria, and the nearest city of Chicago.

National Portrait Gallery

I went to the National Portrait Gallery today, not to be confused with the National Gallery. The NPG is specifically meant for portraits of royals, notable folk, and features the human face in all its forms. It is another free museum of good quality that makes a good 3-4 hours pass satisfyingly.

The entrance isn’t as grand as The National Gallery or British Museum, but the display rooms make up for it in an efficient and comfortable manner. Most rooms have simple open ceilings and plain walls to let the pieces speak for themselves. Many have color schemes and specific lighting to highlight certain kinds of paintings, eras, or preserve the paintings from harsh light. The first level had the recent results of a nation-wide photography contest. As a display said, nothing like a contest brings out the best in people. Black and white, stylistic, narratives, and gritty photographs were everywhere.

In one area, there was a room from a specific artist who did disturbingly chaotic pictures of some famous chap named George Melly, a performer and writer. The room had a collection of 6 or 7 scribbley pictures of this guy that turned out to look like the Joker with a hat. I was also drawn to another room with a red sculpture of a man’s head. It was encased in a glass thingamabobber and was unmarked. A thermometer displayed the temperature inside. I searched the room and found the description that told me it was Marc Quinn’s sculpture entitled “Self”. The red color of the head came from several pints of the artist’s blood that he poured into a plastic mold of his head. It was then frozen, so needs to be in a specific environment to keep it’s shape. I didn’t quite buy the explanation, which included the old cliché “fragility of life” for the meaning of the piece, and seemed to me to be self-indulgent while utilizing shock value. While looking through the most contemporary sections of the gallery, I was very amused to see a guy looking at the paintings with the classic little French artist hat and glasses.

The museum really was arranged well. A long, thin escalator took visitors up to the level with historic paintings of Kings and nobles through the ages. I didn’t expect to get such a history lesson out of this trip, but each numbered room went up in numerical and chronological order, featuring works of kings, lords, ladies and more. After a while the painted posed pictures pretty much blur together and look the same. There was a period when all the subjects grew fat. They eventually straightened themselves out, but the picture size seemed to increase dramatically for lords and ladies alike.

The NPG is a must for any history buff. Actually, it is a must for anyone who wants an illustrated picture book of England’s history for free.

Saving A Life

I attempted to save a life today. It is, however, unconfirmed as to whether or not I was successful. I was trudging back to the hotel in the light snowfall, happy to realize I no longer had Bob Dylan’s “Desolation Row” stuck in my head. I woke up thinking of the song for no apparent reason but wasn’t particularly bothered by it; I just didn’t think Bob Dylan belonged in London. Instead, a much more fitting Beatles tune, “Norwegian Wood” found a home in my subconscious. Humming the tune to myself, I walked through an open park, making one of only a few tracks in the recently accumulated white slush.

Looking around at the London skyline as much as possible, I almost dismissed a large group of birds on my right side in the grass. I’ve seen plenty of birds in America, and pigeons certainly were nothing special. But among the pigeons were two large, black birds - presumably crows. The pigeons were numerous and were going about their pecking as if they didn’t notice the others. I noticed, however, that one crow was making violent heaving motions on the ground. Spasming, the crow lurched up and down at random intervals, while the other crow looked on as if keeping guard.

I inched closer to confirm my suspicions and blinked the thick snow out of my eyelashes. The crow was indeed pecking, attacking, and killing a small pigeon under its feet. The pigeon, still alive, was constantly struggling but could do nothing against the might of the black bird. I resisted the sadistic urge to whip out the camera and tape it (mostly because I didn’t have a great view of the scene) and leapt forward onto the grass. The assumed grateful bird hobbled off in a flurry of newly red feathers. The stunned crow hesitated an extra moment before he too took off with his buddy in the direction of the wounded pigeon. I had and still have hope for that pigeon; if only because he had a head start on the other ones. I did snap a picture of blood-red snow mixed with downy feathers before I left...Is that weird?

Initial Observations

My first observations of London occurred on the journey from airport to the Royal National Hotel. I was in a bus, so I noticed how different the road system and streets particularly caught my eye.

First of all, I had to get used to the cars driving on the wrong side of the road, (which they seem to compensate by also having their steering wheels on the wrong side of the car). Vehicles in London are much more round, with oblong curves replacing a slightly sleeker look in America. Even the boxier of cars, like buses have distinct round edges. License plates appear to have random letters and numbers; there’s not a single vanity plate in sight. Front plates are white, and back plates are yellow.

Everywhere you go the place is littered with signs. From helpful Tube stops, to the equally handy “Look Left” written on the streets, London makes it easier on tourists and locals alike, though it does look a bit cluttered sometimes. The one sign I haven’t seen yet are speed limit signs, but Jesse’s book says that there are understood standards for certain types of areas. For example, in town, it is 30mph. And yes, they use miles per hour for some reason.

America’s buildings along the roads are overrun with billboards and advertisements. London’s primary form of advertising relies on the sides of the heavily prevalent and efficient bus system. Tall double-decker busses have plenty of space for showing off the latest play, movie, or business for a singular, attractive ad. Longer double-busses have much more horizontal space for their graphics. It is a refreshing change from home; If it weren’t for some of the most expensive stores in the world hiding overpriced fashion pieces on the inside of Victorian buildings, one would almost think that this is a decidedly less consumer-driven culture than ours. It’s also refreshing, so that the buildings are able to shine on their own.

The architecture of the buildings are amazing here, and are what really make up London’s charm. I would say that most of the older buildings look dirty (like many in Chicago); but it isn’t as simple as that. They are all weathered, worn, and historic. Ivy climbs up some of the countryside homes, while old roman-columned buildings are anything but new and pristine. I’m sure I will write more about the architecture as the trip goes on.

Early morning London saw the classic hazy-blue filter of Hollywood movies, but the warm sun poked out later in the day, making me regret the lack of sunglasses. When I saw warm sun, I mean it – it was a welcome feeling in this cold city. A deep cold that layers can only prevent for so long prevents this from being the perfect tourist destination. People on even the most moderate of budgets can appreciate the beautiful sights of the city for free. In this town, it seems as if everyone is a tourist. Much more so than Chicago, it seems as if only 1 in 6 actually live here.

Departing Flight To London

Every good trip begins with a good experience at the airport and airplane. I was dropped off at O’Hare almost 4 hours early, to compensate for my lack of caucasionality and last name of “Smith”. But it turned out to be a piece of cake – got a regular boarding pass without needing to go through the usual special security, and got through to my gate in less than a half hour. It was a bummer because then I had a lot of time to kill, and the iPod wasn’t getting WiFi.

Jesse came soon enough, then we took off exploring the airport terminal. Nothing really exciting happened, except we noticed that there were no Cinnabon’s around which was very weird. If there is one thing you can usually count on at an airport, it’s the cinnamon-y aroma pumped in the air by fresh-baked rolls. We got McDonalds, then boarded the plane. The plane wound up taking off 45 minutes late, but it was comfortable enough, and there were plenty of new things to discover on international flights as opposed to domestic.

Besides obviously being a much bigger plane, our Boeing 777 had touch-television screens in the back headrest of every seat with a remote that controlled movies, TV shows, games, music and up-to-date flight stats like altitude and speed. I played Tetris, Battleship, and a Pac-Man ripoff. I watched 4 episodes of The Office, and the movie Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs. Each seat had a nice little prize basket of a tiny hypo-allergenic pillow, hard plastic earbuds, and a Snuggie-quality blanket. I slept for about a half hour while listening to Bob Dylan and The Decemberists, and then gave up sleeping on the plane.

I don’t think I ever had a complete meal on an airplane – and I have to say I was impressed with just how complete it was. The options were beef and mashed potatoes, or rice and chicken. I got the chicken, which had some kind of mushroom sauce and vegetables mixed with the rice and everything. It was hot, but it all tasted the same when mixed together. There was also a small salad with dressing and it had a surprisingly ripe and delicious tomato in it. There was a cold, not-too-tough roll with butter and a wedge of soft swiss cheese and crackers. The desert was actually a very good piece of dense, vanilla/white chocolate cake. Breakfast was a disappointment, a croissant, a packet of jam and butter (did they expect me to put them both on the croissant?) strawberry yogurt and a cup of sour orange juice. I asked for tea with milk and sugar. The yogurt was the only good part. The airplane was enjoyable, though I can’t say I look forward to the trip back home, since that signifies the end of London.

Remember When I Went To Canada?

This London trip won’t be the first time I’m leaving the country, nor my first time writing a travel journal. Going all the way back to my sophomore year of high school, I went on a wilderness retreat into Quetico Park somewhere in Ontario, Canada. Lured in by an elaborate Power Point presentation with beautiful pictures of pristine lakes, canoes, and lush forests, I impulsively, and what was at the time a little uncharacteristic of me, wanted to go. I had never been a boy scout and I have never even camped outside in a tent before, but something told me I had to go.

I did the best I could to try and convince my friends to go, but no one could get together the money. Luckily for me, I had begun working as a dental assistant a few months prior, and at least had a steady job. I paid my dues, packed my bags and welcomed the challenge ahead of me. Normally I might have had some reservations on going somewhere without my group of friends, but I was too excited to let that stop me.

The excursion began with a 7-9 hour bus ride on a nice charter bus. It turned out to be the first time I was on a large vehicle that was not only an alternative to a school bus, but also had television screens. It was the most minor of new experiences, yet I was still impressed. Once we got to the Canadian frontier, with our canoes, food, tents, and miniature outdoor kitchen, the real trip began.

Each day consisted of the hardest physical challenges I had ever faced as a non-athletic, computer and television-raised kid. We canoed hard across huge pristine (and drinkable) lakes only to reach land where we would have to portage over muddy trails. Each canoe weighed 75 pounds and rested neatly on the shoulders that required serious balance and concentration while traversing uneven ground. After hours of happily grueling through it all, we had the rest of the day to ourselves to explore, bond or just do whatever we wanted. I brought along a journal, and wrote almost every day and drew some pictures. It was a great practice; not only could I relive the days’ events as I wrote them, but because they were there for me to relive again and again years after I want to make sure that London will be no different.

Fencing

I havn’t been to London yet… I’m sick of reiterating goals, expectations, and things to look forward to of the trip. With a lack of a previous London experience, I decided to write about something I associate with the location, even if it may be a bit of a generalization.

Fencing brings images of spoiled-rich brats prancing about in upper-class British accents while poking each other with swords. That being the case, I fence. These stereotypes are not always true, and I can say that confidently since I have fenced before. Though I am not sure what qualifies one as a “fencer”, it may have something to do with competing professionally (which I have never done). What I have is some experience spanning the range of 4 years, though I have fenced on and off for only months at a time.

There are three types of fencing swords, or styles. The foil is the most easily recognizable as the classic fencing sword. The foil requires fast reaction speed; the lightest blade of the three, the thin blade is meant to lightly strike the tough fabric of the jacket. The blade is flexable enough to bend without applying too much pressure. Feeling nothing more than a light poke, fencing with a foil is the beginning step in fencing.

Fencing with a sabre is the most intense. A round lasts only moments, since the goal is to strike, slap, or tap the opponent as fast as possible. The speed of the fencers and flatness of the metal blade often leaves long red welts on the upper back or midsection. The sabre also has an extra defensive part to cover the hand.

Fencing with an Epee is what you get when you cross a heavier, more substantial version of a foil with an all-encompassing striking area. To score a point with an Epee, you can strike almost anywhere on the body, as opposed to a more limited area with the foil. This sword requires more swordplay than the rest and most-closely resembles the swashbuckling seen in movies.

First Essay - Jesse and Khalil Visit The Soothsayer

There are only seven days separating myself from a seven-hour flight to London, England. Seven days and seven hours are all that is holding me back from one of the world’s greatest cities. Along with my pal, sidekick, school-chum, and friend, Jesse, I plan on exploring as much of that semi-foreign land as I can. There are many things I wish to get out of the trip, since I haven’t been out of the country yet. The goal is to document my experience as best I can through photographs, video, and the written word to share it with all the faithful fans of Khalil and Jesse Adventures^®. Jesse and I are not merely travelers: we are partners in exploration; journeymen in the extreme; hunters of the ultimate quest - a good story. We have had a great many to date, and will continue if the old psychic is correct.

A few weeks ago, we made our monthly appointment to the soothsayer Gwanda. She helps guide us by offering a brief glimpse into our “near-immediate future” as she calls it. She lives and conducts business in an abandoned boxcar off of Interstate Fifty-Five. Jesse knocked on the side paneling and we were beckoned into the familiar interior of the boxcar. Surprisingly cozy, the walls were paneled with lacquered wooden panels from several different kinds of trees to hide the corrugated metal. A stove in the corner burned a few logs and the smoke exited the boxcar via makeshift chimney. Gwanda put a kettle on and we sat at the table and we three held hands for a moment. Jesse never cared for this greeting ritual, and only a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his anxiety. I, however, knew that this was necessary for our purposes and put aside my own disgust. Explaining that we were about to go to London, and needed advice, I passed her the wad of fifty one-dollar bills – her strange and usual “donation”. Gwanda’s weathered, ninety-year old face smiled its toothless grin and we knew it was time to start.

Gwanda rolled her eyes back and adjusted her body as she let go of our hands. Jesse and I could only watch while she received her visions. This time, she took a little longer than usual, and I cleared my throat. She snapped out of it and told us what we needed to do.

She started by saying we needed to first exchange our American money for British pounds because, as she explained, “de country you are goingk to vill not so kindly accept balls of dollar bills as I do!” Jesse looked at me as if to say “No kidding…” and I brushed him off as we struggled through her disturbing accent to hopefully gain some actual advice. We were disappointed when she told us next that we must learn how to use the London Underground, or “Tube” to travel to practically anywhere we wanted to go. Our fifty dollars were beginning to look like a bigger waste of money than usual – we both already knew and were excited to hop aboard the world famous subway system!

We were surprised when her third piece of advice was an actual useful tip. She told us to ride the London Eye, a Ferris wheel which I probably would have skipped had she not informed me that it is one of the best ways to get great pictures. Even if we don’t get to go inside Big Ben, she said to make sure to be outside during one of the chimes, because it is so loud and truly something to hear. Gwanda insisted we go see Parliament, West Minister Abbey and Buckingham Palace to witness historical and architectural wonders. Jesse’s engineer-ears perked up and he began to feel more at ease to see the fantastic buildings. I was however, slightly impatient, and wondered if she would have any information on museums to see. As if she read my mind, (which I imagine shouldn’t be too difficult for a soothsayer) she looked directly at me and said that we simply had to go to the National Gallery and Tate Museum for the finest collections of art in the land.

I was glad she knew something about museums and my stomach grumbled having not eaten much that day. It was particularly loud, and Gwanda poked me in the stomach and told me I had to have the local food, including meat pies and fish and chips. I was startled at having her boney fingers dig into my tummy, and a little annoyed since I assumed I would have plenty of opportunities to try local cuisine. Jesse interjected and asked, rather eagerly, if Gwanda knew what kinds of grades we would get in our courses. With speed surprising for a woman of her age, she turned and bopped Jesse on top of the head with the tips of her fingers. “Foolish boy, de purpose of your jorney is to live and learn amongst de locals. You should not vorry about precious grades or academic standing! Dis is de opportunity of a lifetime, don’t vaste it child!” With Jesse’s pride, far more wounded than the top of his head, I knew it was time to step in before his famous temper got the best of him. I thanked Gwanda and told her we had to leave, and sorry we couldn’t stay for tea (which was never good anyway). Before we left, she called out to us. “Be sure to brush up on your fencing skills boys! Vere you vill be goingk vill test you in ways you cannot imagine!”

Jesse and I walked back to his car, thankful that our meeting was over. Gwanda had never failed us in the past, but it was just a pain to be around her. This time she seemed particularly vague. She used to be much more specific, and that was what we liked about her. Maybe she was trying to tell us something though. Maybe she was trying to get us to stop thinking and planning so much that we lose focus on being abroad. Every single thing we do in London will be something new and special because it is half-way across the world, and we should probably just enjoy being someplace that is not America for as long as we can.

“Do ya really think we will get a chance to fence over there?” Jesse asked me as he started the car.

“I sure hope so. But you know what?”

“What?”

“Gwanda was right about one thing, you definitely need to brush up on your fencing skills. Last time we crossed blades, it was like fighting a--”

“Hey! As I remember it, I believe it was you who lost last time…but anyways, are you worried or scared about anything?” Jesse got serious, and I knew he was a little bit afraid of leaving home.

“Naw man…besides missing my guitar, I can’t really say I’m worried about anything. What’s there to be worried about?” I wasn’t exactly sure how he could be so afraid of London! He seemed so excited about it a few days prior.

“Jack the ripper.”

“Oh come on man, that stuff doesn’t happen anymore.”

“Theft.”

“That happens all the time here too numbnuts! Why on earth --”

“Oh yeah, what about those orphan street urchins that are roaming around with their grubby little hands in fingerless gloves?” I turned to look at Jesse and realized he was just playing around. He was just as excited as I was, and neither of us had any real fear of traveling. This was gonna be the best trip ever.