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 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.

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?

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.