To commemorate our time together, our trip coordinator planned a big last-night dinner at a Belgium restaurant for our entire group. Although I'd done my fair share of griping (and crying because of my stupid ankle), I knew I was going to miss some of the girls in the group, so I was appreciative of this gesture and the meaning behind it.
I sat next and around some of the people who had made me smile, laugh and think throughout the trip. Amber was a continuous source of inspiration because of her gorgeous smile, great attitude and fabulous fashion sense. Alexa was always the calm during the chaos with a very chilled-out attitude and easy-going smile. Heather started each day with a sweet compliment and a positive attitude. Lesa helped me to look at things from another perspective with her unique views and patient nature. And Becky, my constant travel companion--my sanity when I felt like going insane, my partner in crime and my SAA sister. Good GOD, I can't thank her enough for being there for me.
The environment was low-key and easy-going, which made the conversation and laughter come easy. We savored some inside jokes that had developed over the course of the two weeks, recounted our best and worst moments and tasted each others' dishes. I somehow ended up with a huge bucket of mussels for my dinner, so I was all too happy to share them because there was no way I could finish them all, no matter how much I adored seafood. The night drew to an end too quickly, but we all were feeling the pull and pressure from being abroad for so long. Even though few would admit it, we were ready to go home. But for a few short hours, we were together for one last time, not talking about the implications of education or student affairs, but showing another side to ourselves and enjoying each other for one last time. In the flickering candlelight, on those long wooden benches we bonded for one final time. And though very tired, I couldn't have been more grateful.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Oxford
Our last stop of the day was at Oxford University. The reason I wanted to go on the day-tour was because of Oxford, yet it was the least exciting part of the trip for me. Perhaps it was because we only got an hour or so in the city. Maybe it was because our tour guide didn't really know what he was talking about or couldn't answer our questions. (The guide at Cambridge had set the bar REALLY high because he knew every story, myth, nook and cranny of the city and school.) Or maybe it was because I was burned out by that point, both with the day-trip and my travels in general.
Oxford is a gorgeous city. Much like Cambridge, the town and the campus of the University are fused together. And like Cambridge, bikes lined the streets and people played cricket and football in any open, grassy area. The buildings were beautiful and the town was charming. Yet, I was underwhelmed with my experience. It could have been for any number of reasons. I'm glad that I saw the city and got to snap some nice pictures, but in the battle of Oxford vs. Cambridge, Cambridge kicked Oxford's ass a hundred times over.
Oxford is a gorgeous city. Much like Cambridge, the town and the campus of the University are fused together. And like Cambridge, bikes lined the streets and people played cricket and football in any open, grassy area. The buildings were beautiful and the town was charming. Yet, I was underwhelmed with my experience. It could have been for any number of reasons. I'm glad that I saw the city and got to snap some nice pictures, but in the battle of Oxford vs. Cambridge, Cambridge kicked Oxford's ass a hundred times over.
Stonehenge
Mythical and beautiful, the stones of Stonehenge stood before me. All I could do was gape. I could barely believe that I was here, in front of such a famous monument. I had stayed in a palace, cavorted through a couple of castles and seen countless cathedrals and historical landmarks in the past couple of weeks, yet some oddly arranged stones--that's what left me at a loss for words.
The sheer stature of the stones stunned me. They were larger than I imagined they would be. And I could be so close to them! I didn't think I'd get closer than a few hundred yards from them, yet at times the path was so close I felt that I could allllllmost touch one if I leaned over the rope.
While gazing at the stones I listened to the audio tour, amused. It told the history, most of which I don't remember, except that the stones and land date back over to 3000 BC. What I do remember are the myths and legends associated with Stonehenge. Nobody knows why the stones are here or arranged as they are. Instead there are numerous theories and stories behind the mytical rocks. One legend tells the tale of Merlin the Wizard who was ordered to retrieve the rocks from Ireland. Another story states that the stones are actually giants who were dancing in the field, celebrating, but they were frozen into rock formations when the sun hit them. (I like this tale because if you look at the rocks, they do look like they could be giants dancing. It's charmingly whimsical.) Yet another myth claims that the stones were set up by Satan. An old Irish woman was owner of the large stones and Satan wanted them, so he disguised himself as an old man in possession of much gold and struck a bargain with her: she could have as much gold as she could count while he transported the stones. Of course she agreed, but before she could begin to count, the devil transformed back into himself and transferred the stones to England, leaving her with no gold and no stones.
I loved hearing all of the stories about this magical place. I'm actually glad that it's a mystery because then it can be whatever people want it to be instead of it just being one concrete thing. It can be whatever it wants to whomever decides it is. If people want it to be an altar to worship the sun, it's that. If some believe it's the resting place for medieval kings, it could be that. If it's just a place of inspiration and reflection, then so it is. Things aren't always one way or another. Seeing Stonehenge and hearing the stories behind it's creation and beliefs have solidified that fact for me.
The sheer stature of the stones stunned me. They were larger than I imagined they would be. And I could be so close to them! I didn't think I'd get closer than a few hundred yards from them, yet at times the path was so close I felt that I could allllllmost touch one if I leaned over the rope.
While gazing at the stones I listened to the audio tour, amused. It told the history, most of which I don't remember, except that the stones and land date back over to 3000 BC. What I do remember are the myths and legends associated with Stonehenge. Nobody knows why the stones are here or arranged as they are. Instead there are numerous theories and stories behind the mytical rocks. One legend tells the tale of Merlin the Wizard who was ordered to retrieve the rocks from Ireland. Another story states that the stones are actually giants who were dancing in the field, celebrating, but they were frozen into rock formations when the sun hit them. (I like this tale because if you look at the rocks, they do look like they could be giants dancing. It's charmingly whimsical.) Yet another myth claims that the stones were set up by Satan. An old Irish woman was owner of the large stones and Satan wanted them, so he disguised himself as an old man in possession of much gold and struck a bargain with her: she could have as much gold as she could count while he transported the stones. Of course she agreed, but before she could begin to count, the devil transformed back into himself and transferred the stones to England, leaving her with no gold and no stones.
I loved hearing all of the stories about this magical place. I'm actually glad that it's a mystery because then it can be whatever people want it to be instead of it just being one concrete thing. It can be whatever it wants to whomever decides it is. If people want it to be an altar to worship the sun, it's that. If some believe it's the resting place for medieval kings, it could be that. If it's just a place of inspiration and reflection, then so it is. Things aren't always one way or another. Seeing Stonehenge and hearing the stories behind it's creation and beliefs have solidified that fact for me.
Ch-Cha-Changing (Of the Guard)
Because I hadn't seen enough of the U.K. in the past couple of weeks, I opted to do a day-tour to various areas around London via tour bus. I found out about it through some Bowling Green people, so Becky and I signed up when we found out we'd get to see Windsor, Stonehenge and Oxford.
Our first stop on the day tour was at Windsor. I thought this royal city was a good distance from London, so I was surprised when maybe fifteen minutes out of London our bus rumbled to a stop and we were receiving instructions from our tour guide to be back on the bus by noon.
We arrived around 10 a.m. to the small city and quickly learned that the changing of the guard ceremony would proceed at promptly 11 a.m. Perfect! I'd always missed the guard changing at Buckingham Palace, so this would at least make up for it a little bit.
To kill time Becky and I wandered around some gift shoppes. In one, an elderly man questioned my views on American politics.
Cranky old man: So! Who's going to be your next president?
Me: Haha! That's yet to be seen! At least it won't be Bush! Yay!
Cranky: Well, no kidding. (He got crankier with that.) He's out of office. What I'm ASKING is WHO will be elected next.
Me: Well. I. Don't. Know. Elections aren't for another half year. Anyone will be better than Bush, so I don't really care.
Cranky: You Americans are all the same. You clearly know nothing.
Me: No, I don't and I'm ok with that. But I do know that I don't have to spend money in your store.
To note, he was the first cranky person I'd met the entire time I was in England. But really--who insults people who could be giving him money? That's just bad business.
As Becky pulled me out of Cranky's shoppe, we saw that people were already lining up to watch the changing of the guard. We found a great sidewalk spot near the entrance of Windsor Castle, where we were told the guard would be entering through. As we stood there waiting patiently, a police officer approached us. I immediately became nervous. Oh my god! I'm going to get in trouble for insulting Cranky Shoppe Owner! I don't want to cause an international scandal! Gaah!
I put on my best, most charming smile as he approached while silently praying that I wouldn't be escorted away in handcuffs in mere minutes. The sun glinted off his police helmet as he opened his mouth to talk to us. "The Guard will be coming soon and you're very close to their entrance. Do not go past the sidewalk or the bobbies. Do not try to follow them into the castle and do not try to get close to them." I began giggling, relieved that I wasn't about to be arrested. The officer glared at me. "This is no laughing matter. We are quite serious about the Queen's security." I shut up immediately and promised him we'd be on our best behavior--for the Queen's sake.
He walked away, but I noticed that his post somehow magically was closer to where we were standing than it was before he approached us. It was no matter, though, because soon I heard staccato drum beats and horns blaring a march. Eee! A parade!
It was no parade, though. It was the Royal Band, the prelude to the Guards, marching up to the Castle entrance, high stepping while playing an ornate, fast-tempod march. They were led by a man who twirled a glinting, large baton in a regal manner while high-stepping. I was entranced by his skill and ability to lead the band while twirling such a large object.
Following the Band was the Royal Guard. Rows upon rows of guardsmen and women marched in perfect step with their weapons. Eyes were cast forward and each of them wore a look of serious pride. The uniforms were immaculately pressed and their boots shined in the late morning sun as they marched through the Castle gates. Just as quickly as the Band had appeared, the changing of the guard was over. I was a little sad. I wanted to see the band again! Or have some sort of flamboyant ending!
I shouldn't have been disappointed, though. I hadn't even expected a band. Hell, all I thought would occur was a few men marching with guns. Compared to my original expectations, this was like getting a banana split when all I thought I'd get was an Icee.
I was honored that I got to experience the Changing of the Guard. This was a tradition that had been ongoing since...God knows when. Many generations, I'm sure. This was something that was ingrained into the country's history; it was a part of who the British are and were. It signifies how far they've come and where they've come from and where they're going. It's their past, present and future. It made me think about traditions at home, both in my personal and professional life. There are some things that I do that are ingrained into me and are a part of my identity: Christmas traditions with my family, reunions with college friends, even the prepping I do for papers and projects. These are all small, but important parts of my identity. These are things that are important to me. Each person has things that are a part of who they are, traditions and routines that define parts of them and help them equal a whole person. Perhaps these are the things we should learn about each other and those we strive to help in order to make deeper connections and become better student affairs professionals. And perhaps we should focus on traditions within our institutions and field in order to bring people together and form stronger bonds. Imagine what we could do if we took those extra steps and not only learned these tiny but important details about each other, but helped to define those parts of people as well. And why can't we? What's stopping us? I believe that by witnessing the simple, yet grand tradition in Windsor, my outlook on Student Affairs and what I can do has been altered.
Thank you, British tradition, for helping me to look at things a little differently. Thank you for the inspiration.
Our first stop on the day tour was at Windsor. I thought this royal city was a good distance from London, so I was surprised when maybe fifteen minutes out of London our bus rumbled to a stop and we were receiving instructions from our tour guide to be back on the bus by noon.
We arrived around 10 a.m. to the small city and quickly learned that the changing of the guard ceremony would proceed at promptly 11 a.m. Perfect! I'd always missed the guard changing at Buckingham Palace, so this would at least make up for it a little bit.
To kill time Becky and I wandered around some gift shoppes. In one, an elderly man questioned my views on American politics.
Cranky old man: So! Who's going to be your next president?
Me: Haha! That's yet to be seen! At least it won't be Bush! Yay!
Cranky: Well, no kidding. (He got crankier with that.) He's out of office. What I'm ASKING is WHO will be elected next.
Me: Well. I. Don't. Know. Elections aren't for another half year. Anyone will be better than Bush, so I don't really care.
Cranky: You Americans are all the same. You clearly know nothing.
Me: No, I don't and I'm ok with that. But I do know that I don't have to spend money in your store.
To note, he was the first cranky person I'd met the entire time I was in England. But really--who insults people who could be giving him money? That's just bad business.
As Becky pulled me out of Cranky's shoppe, we saw that people were already lining up to watch the changing of the guard. We found a great sidewalk spot near the entrance of Windsor Castle, where we were told the guard would be entering through. As we stood there waiting patiently, a police officer approached us. I immediately became nervous. Oh my god! I'm going to get in trouble for insulting Cranky Shoppe Owner! I don't want to cause an international scandal! Gaah!
I put on my best, most charming smile as he approached while silently praying that I wouldn't be escorted away in handcuffs in mere minutes. The sun glinted off his police helmet as he opened his mouth to talk to us. "The Guard will be coming soon and you're very close to their entrance. Do not go past the sidewalk or the bobbies. Do not try to follow them into the castle and do not try to get close to them." I began giggling, relieved that I wasn't about to be arrested. The officer glared at me. "This is no laughing matter. We are quite serious about the Queen's security." I shut up immediately and promised him we'd be on our best behavior--for the Queen's sake.
He walked away, but I noticed that his post somehow magically was closer to where we were standing than it was before he approached us. It was no matter, though, because soon I heard staccato drum beats and horns blaring a march. Eee! A parade!
It was no parade, though. It was the Royal Band, the prelude to the Guards, marching up to the Castle entrance, high stepping while playing an ornate, fast-tempod march. They were led by a man who twirled a glinting, large baton in a regal manner while high-stepping. I was entranced by his skill and ability to lead the band while twirling such a large object.
Following the Band was the Royal Guard. Rows upon rows of guardsmen and women marched in perfect step with their weapons. Eyes were cast forward and each of them wore a look of serious pride. The uniforms were immaculately pressed and their boots shined in the late morning sun as they marched through the Castle gates. Just as quickly as the Band had appeared, the changing of the guard was over. I was a little sad. I wanted to see the band again! Or have some sort of flamboyant ending!
I shouldn't have been disappointed, though. I hadn't even expected a band. Hell, all I thought would occur was a few men marching with guns. Compared to my original expectations, this was like getting a banana split when all I thought I'd get was an Icee.
I was honored that I got to experience the Changing of the Guard. This was a tradition that had been ongoing since...God knows when. Many generations, I'm sure. This was something that was ingrained into the country's history; it was a part of who the British are and were. It signifies how far they've come and where they've come from and where they're going. It's their past, present and future. It made me think about traditions at home, both in my personal and professional life. There are some things that I do that are ingrained into me and are a part of my identity: Christmas traditions with my family, reunions with college friends, even the prepping I do for papers and projects. These are all small, but important parts of my identity. These are things that are important to me. Each person has things that are a part of who they are, traditions and routines that define parts of them and help them equal a whole person. Perhaps these are the things we should learn about each other and those we strive to help in order to make deeper connections and become better student affairs professionals. And perhaps we should focus on traditions within our institutions and field in order to bring people together and form stronger bonds. Imagine what we could do if we took those extra steps and not only learned these tiny but important details about each other, but helped to define those parts of people as well. And why can't we? What's stopping us? I believe that by witnessing the simple, yet grand tradition in Windsor, my outlook on Student Affairs and what I can do has been altered.
Thank you, British tradition, for helping me to look at things a little differently. Thank you for the inspiration.
Perhaps My Most Important Date Ever
I needed time to myself. I could feel my muscles tensing and my brain screaming for freedom. I needed to be alone. After nearly two weeks spent with over two dozen girls, traveling, laughing, arguing, not sleeping, talking and processing WAY too much, I needed some time for myself. I could barely formulate a thought that started with the words "I think" or "I am" because I'd been around my travel-mates for so long. The solution was simple: I needed me-time.
Luckily the itinerary left an afternoon open for doing whatever we all wanted to do. And what I wanted was to explore another part of London all on my own. Though some doubts clouded my head about whether I should attempt to navigate one of the largest cities on the globe on my own, I quickly dismissed them. This wasn't about safety or doubt, this was about my sanity and grasping my sense of adventure.
I decided to see if I could find the theater where Hairspray was playing. West End theater productions are amazing and I knew I would kick myself if I didn't at least try to secure a ticket to the musical. When would I have another chance to see it? Probably never.
With that thought in mind I hopped on the tube and headed into the heart of the city. After getting jostled around in the crowd of rush hour commuters, I emerged from the underground excited and a little nervous. I was really doing this--I was taking on London on my own. Around me were theater marquees announcing the latest musicals and straight-from-Broadway plays. Newspaper sellers called out the days headlines. Gorgeous girls sashayed by in groups of three and four. Groups of schoolboys kicked soccer balls and heckled one another. I took in the scene for a minute while getting my barings.
I had to be pointed in the right direction by a newspaper seller with a thick cockney accent. I got the gist of his directions mainly because he was pointing. I followed his finger away from the crowd and hopefully towards the Shaftesbury theater. As I walked I got further from the chaos but began to doubt his directions. Though this was a lovely area of town it didn't feel like I was anywhere near the theater district anymore. Just as I was about to turn into a coffeeshop to get better directions I saw the neon-laden Hairspray marquee. I squealed as I scampered towards the box office.
I said a quick prayer before going in. "Please, baby Jesus, let them have a ticket left. All I need is one. Please?" After taking a deep breath I approached a friendly-looking ticket teller. "Do you have any tickets left for tonight, perchance?" I crossed my fingers as she gave me a smile. "You're in luck. I have an amazing ticket in the eighth row." I showed her my student i.d. She grinned at me. "Honey, you just got yourself an amazing deal." A sixty-pound ticket (roughtly $120) was soon in my hand for twenty pounds (about $40).
My date with myself got a whole lot better when I found my seat a little later--it was eighth row, center with an amazingly clear view of the stage. I arrived at the theater early because I was so excited about the show. Since I had nothing better to do I people-watched. A large group of middle school girls took up many of the rows in the back of the theater. Their laughter echoed throughout the small venue and made me smile as I thought about my friends in Chassell. The elderly couple to my right chatted about world events and their theories on what this show would really be about. When I stood in the queue for the loo I befriended the middle-aged ladies around me because they were equally excited to be seeing the show for the first time. We chatted about our love of musicals and travel. I told them about my travels from the mystical land of Michigan and they told me about their love of American culture.
After my new friends and I parted ways, the lights dimmed and the opening bars of "Good Morning, Baltimore" filled the theater. I got goosebumps on my arms as I witnessed Tracy Turnblad greeting the morning amid technicolor lights and backup dancers. The musical transported me to another world and had me laughing and singing along (only in my head, much to the relief of those around me, I'm sure) throughout the entire production. I identified with the optimistic heroine who wants to follow her heart and do what is right, no matter what those around her may think. The empowering theme, glorious production numbers and happy ending had me waltzing out of the theater with a smile on my face.
Walking back to the Tube Station, it hit me: in a way I WAS Tracy. Being in England, studying in the field that I loved and treating myself to this evening alone--all of these things were ways that I followed my heart. I was in London, I was doing what I wanted to be doing and I was taking a chance by exploring by myself despite some initial doubts and negativity. I was the heroine of my own story, even if I didn't realize it at the moment. As empowering as the message of the play was, coming to that realization made me feel even more proud of myself and happier with where I was, both location-wise and in my life.
It took nearly two weeks to secure some time to myself. But it was well worth it when I finally got the chance to explore, not only London, but myself as well. I find it funny that I had to travel abroad to reach this realization, but I don't think it could have happened without witnessing the city's beauty and another journey that is not so unlike my own in the end.
Luckily the itinerary left an afternoon open for doing whatever we all wanted to do. And what I wanted was to explore another part of London all on my own. Though some doubts clouded my head about whether I should attempt to navigate one of the largest cities on the globe on my own, I quickly dismissed them. This wasn't about safety or doubt, this was about my sanity and grasping my sense of adventure.
I decided to see if I could find the theater where Hairspray was playing. West End theater productions are amazing and I knew I would kick myself if I didn't at least try to secure a ticket to the musical. When would I have another chance to see it? Probably never.
With that thought in mind I hopped on the tube and headed into the heart of the city. After getting jostled around in the crowd of rush hour commuters, I emerged from the underground excited and a little nervous. I was really doing this--I was taking on London on my own. Around me were theater marquees announcing the latest musicals and straight-from-Broadway plays. Newspaper sellers called out the days headlines. Gorgeous girls sashayed by in groups of three and four. Groups of schoolboys kicked soccer balls and heckled one another. I took in the scene for a minute while getting my barings.
I had to be pointed in the right direction by a newspaper seller with a thick cockney accent. I got the gist of his directions mainly because he was pointing. I followed his finger away from the crowd and hopefully towards the Shaftesbury theater. As I walked I got further from the chaos but began to doubt his directions. Though this was a lovely area of town it didn't feel like I was anywhere near the theater district anymore. Just as I was about to turn into a coffeeshop to get better directions I saw the neon-laden Hairspray marquee. I squealed as I scampered towards the box office.
I said a quick prayer before going in. "Please, baby Jesus, let them have a ticket left. All I need is one. Please?" After taking a deep breath I approached a friendly-looking ticket teller. "Do you have any tickets left for tonight, perchance?" I crossed my fingers as she gave me a smile. "You're in luck. I have an amazing ticket in the eighth row." I showed her my student i.d. She grinned at me. "Honey, you just got yourself an amazing deal." A sixty-pound ticket (roughtly $120) was soon in my hand for twenty pounds (about $40).
My date with myself got a whole lot better when I found my seat a little later--it was eighth row, center with an amazingly clear view of the stage. I arrived at the theater early because I was so excited about the show. Since I had nothing better to do I people-watched. A large group of middle school girls took up many of the rows in the back of the theater. Their laughter echoed throughout the small venue and made me smile as I thought about my friends in Chassell. The elderly couple to my right chatted about world events and their theories on what this show would really be about. When I stood in the queue for the loo I befriended the middle-aged ladies around me because they were equally excited to be seeing the show for the first time. We chatted about our love of musicals and travel. I told them about my travels from the mystical land of Michigan and they told me about their love of American culture.
After my new friends and I parted ways, the lights dimmed and the opening bars of "Good Morning, Baltimore" filled the theater. I got goosebumps on my arms as I witnessed Tracy Turnblad greeting the morning amid technicolor lights and backup dancers. The musical transported me to another world and had me laughing and singing along (only in my head, much to the relief of those around me, I'm sure) throughout the entire production. I identified with the optimistic heroine who wants to follow her heart and do what is right, no matter what those around her may think. The empowering theme, glorious production numbers and happy ending had me waltzing out of the theater with a smile on my face.
Walking back to the Tube Station, it hit me: in a way I WAS Tracy. Being in England, studying in the field that I loved and treating myself to this evening alone--all of these things were ways that I followed my heart. I was in London, I was doing what I wanted to be doing and I was taking a chance by exploring by myself despite some initial doubts and negativity. I was the heroine of my own story, even if I didn't realize it at the moment. As empowering as the message of the play was, coming to that realization made me feel even more proud of myself and happier with where I was, both location-wise and in my life.
It took nearly two weeks to secure some time to myself. But it was well worth it when I finally got the chance to explore, not only London, but myself as well. I find it funny that I had to travel abroad to reach this realization, but I don't think it could have happened without witnessing the city's beauty and another journey that is not so unlike my own in the end.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Spamalot!!!
"I have tickets available for Monday evening. Interested?" The ticket teller peered at us through the window. I glanced at Becky and shrugged.
The original plan was to see a musical on Sunday, the night we got into London. What better way to herald our coming into one of the greatest cities in the world than by taking in a grand, production-number-laden musical? We couldn't think of a better way so we headed to Lesicester Square to secure tickets to one of the plays. Only we couldn't get tickets--Sunday night is a dark curtain night for London theater. Meaning our original plan was thwarted.
We were surrounded by ticketing agencies. The original plan was to buy tickets from TKTS but they only sold tickets the day of a show. However we weren't sure we'd be able to get back to get tickets on Monday afternoon. The ticketing booths all around us, however--they had tickets available to shows into the week. I was leary, though. I'd heard they were of ill reputation and that you could end up being bounced from the theater because the tickets might not be real.
Becky rationalized the whole thing. "This one looks reputable. It's not like it's a cardboard box in an alley--there's lots of posters. And look! The guy selling the tickets has a computer and it's in a building. It can't be a bad place, right?" Begrudgingly, I let her lead me into the ticket place. We asked for tickets for Monday night.
"I have great seats for Spamalot." Score! That was one of the plays we wanted to see! A play about Britains! In Britain! By Monty Python Yes! I was still a little leary of the whole operation., though.
"These are real tickets, right? We're not going to get kicked out of the theater after we've forked over money? These ARE real tickets, not fake thingys?" Becky looked at me like I was an idiot. I didn't care! I wasn't about to hand over hard-earned money if I wasn't going to get to see a show.
We were assured they were real and we left the box office, tickets safely secured in Becky's purse. (She's the more responsible one. If they were in my purse, they'd have likely fallen out and some random hobo would end up seeing the show.) I was still hesitant about our purchase. I'd read so much about shady ticket brokers--we were going to be escorted from the theater! I could just tell! Still, it wasn't like there was anything I could do about it, the tickets were bought. I rationalized that if anything, this would make a good story for the friends back home. Though I really just wanted to see the play.
On Monday, we found our way to the theater after a couple of wrong turns and an accidental discovery of Chinatown, which left me craving rangoons and egg drop soup. Cravings aside, I was still nervous as we handed the ticket-taker our tickets. He looked at them and then at us and smiled. "We closed the second balcony for this evening's performance. We'll have to relocate you."
Relocate us, my ass. We were about to be punished! Punished for buying tickets from an unauthorized source! They were looking for a big, burly bouncer weren't they?!?
I was looking for a man the size of a gorilla when we were hurried inside the theater towards another worker. He took our tickets and talked into his walkie talkie. We were SO busted. I gritted my teeth as he opened his mouth to speak to us, expecting to hear some nasty words.
"Since the balcony is closed, we've found you some great seats in the stalls. Eighth row. Towards the center."
Wait...what? Did we just get upgraded? From crappy balcony seats to front and center seats? Really? No mean, nasty lecture? Instead amazing seats? As the nice man escorted us to our new seats I got giddy. Yes! Nice seats! For us! Wheeee! Oh my gosh I bet I could see them spit or drool I was so close!
Becky and I squealed over our good fortune until we were hushed by the dimming lights and tuning up of the orchestra. Then we were transported to the 10th century and the plight of King Arthur's plight of finding the Holy Grail, Monty Python-style.
While I was expecting to laugh, I didn't think I would leave the theater with my sides aching. But they did and my throat hurting the laughing, too. It was that funny. I have a feeling the songs will be stuck in my head for days on end. It was clever, it was creative, it had dazzling production numbers, great costumes and well-developed characters. And the acting! Oh. My. God. The woman who played The Lady of the Lake had the most sultry, smoky, incredible voice I have ever heard live. It sent shivers rocketing up and down my spine. Every actor was incredible. It's true--the West End has acting that can easily take on Broadway's Best.
It was an amazing play and a great end to this parable: take a chance, even if you're unsure what the end result may be. You never know, sometimes you'll get rewarded in great ways. Like, eighth row center seats to an amazing musical.
The original plan was to see a musical on Sunday, the night we got into London. What better way to herald our coming into one of the greatest cities in the world than by taking in a grand, production-number-laden musical? We couldn't think of a better way so we headed to Lesicester Square to secure tickets to one of the plays. Only we couldn't get tickets--Sunday night is a dark curtain night for London theater. Meaning our original plan was thwarted.
We were surrounded by ticketing agencies. The original plan was to buy tickets from TKTS but they only sold tickets the day of a show. However we weren't sure we'd be able to get back to get tickets on Monday afternoon. The ticketing booths all around us, however--they had tickets available to shows into the week. I was leary, though. I'd heard they were of ill reputation and that you could end up being bounced from the theater because the tickets might not be real.
Becky rationalized the whole thing. "This one looks reputable. It's not like it's a cardboard box in an alley--there's lots of posters. And look! The guy selling the tickets has a computer and it's in a building. It can't be a bad place, right?" Begrudgingly, I let her lead me into the ticket place. We asked for tickets for Monday night.
"I have great seats for Spamalot." Score! That was one of the plays we wanted to see! A play about Britains! In Britain! By Monty Python Yes! I was still a little leary of the whole operation., though.
"These are real tickets, right? We're not going to get kicked out of the theater after we've forked over money? These ARE real tickets, not fake thingys?" Becky looked at me like I was an idiot. I didn't care! I wasn't about to hand over hard-earned money if I wasn't going to get to see a show.
We were assured they were real and we left the box office, tickets safely secured in Becky's purse. (She's the more responsible one. If they were in my purse, they'd have likely fallen out and some random hobo would end up seeing the show.) I was still hesitant about our purchase. I'd read so much about shady ticket brokers--we were going to be escorted from the theater! I could just tell! Still, it wasn't like there was anything I could do about it, the tickets were bought. I rationalized that if anything, this would make a good story for the friends back home. Though I really just wanted to see the play.
On Monday, we found our way to the theater after a couple of wrong turns and an accidental discovery of Chinatown, which left me craving rangoons and egg drop soup. Cravings aside, I was still nervous as we handed the ticket-taker our tickets. He looked at them and then at us and smiled. "We closed the second balcony for this evening's performance. We'll have to relocate you."
Relocate us, my ass. We were about to be punished! Punished for buying tickets from an unauthorized source! They were looking for a big, burly bouncer weren't they?!?
I was looking for a man the size of a gorilla when we were hurried inside the theater towards another worker. He took our tickets and talked into his walkie talkie. We were SO busted. I gritted my teeth as he opened his mouth to speak to us, expecting to hear some nasty words.
"Since the balcony is closed, we've found you some great seats in the stalls. Eighth row. Towards the center."
Wait...what? Did we just get upgraded? From crappy balcony seats to front and center seats? Really? No mean, nasty lecture? Instead amazing seats? As the nice man escorted us to our new seats I got giddy. Yes! Nice seats! For us! Wheeee! Oh my gosh I bet I could see them spit or drool I was so close!
Becky and I squealed over our good fortune until we were hushed by the dimming lights and tuning up of the orchestra. Then we were transported to the 10th century and the plight of King Arthur's plight of finding the Holy Grail, Monty Python-style.
While I was expecting to laugh, I didn't think I would leave the theater with my sides aching. But they did and my throat hurting the laughing, too. It was that funny. I have a feeling the songs will be stuck in my head for days on end. It was clever, it was creative, it had dazzling production numbers, great costumes and well-developed characters. And the acting! Oh. My. God. The woman who played The Lady of the Lake had the most sultry, smoky, incredible voice I have ever heard live. It sent shivers rocketing up and down my spine. Every actor was incredible. It's true--the West End has acting that can easily take on Broadway's Best.
It was an amazing play and a great end to this parable: take a chance, even if you're unsure what the end result may be. You never know, sometimes you'll get rewarded in great ways. Like, eighth row center seats to an amazing musical.
High Tea, Feeling High
I've dreamt of doing a proper English high tea for many years. I used to hold tea parties with my Care Bears and My Little Ponies where I served tea (aka water) in plastic teacups and we conversed in very civilized British accents about the queen and jewelry.
Nearly twenty years after I served Funshine and Grumpy bears my special brand of tea, I found myself enjoying a true English experience in one of the most famous places in the world: Harrods. Becky and I chose the location because of it's prestige and the great reviews we had heard about their high tea.
When we arrived it was later in the afternoon, yet many people still packed the sunny, sundeck-like area, sipping tea and chattering. We were escorted to a table by a window, which showed us a view of the cloudy skies and rooftops of the Knightsbridge area of London. The menu was packed with many tea choices, which both delighted and scared me. Why, oh why wasn't I a tea connoisseur? There were mint teas, fruity teas, potent teas, spicey teas--something for every palette. I figured that since I was at such a prestigious place, I should try the Harrods Afternoon Tea. It couldn't disappoint, could it?
Becky and I decided to do tea and pastries, but there was a menu full of options. A full tea option consisted of tea, sandwiches, crumpets and pastries, but you could opt to have just tea or tea and one of those categories. Minutes after we placed our order, our waiter came back with a tray brimming with shining silver items. Each tea pot was brilliantly polished, as were the strainers, silverwear and saucers of milk. Each piece glinted in the afternoon sun and made for an enchanting scene. I was charmed.
Charm turned to delight when our server presented us with the platter of pastries. Each of the six tiny desserts was brightly colored and salivatingly gorgeous. The pink on the fruit eclairs was nearly neon. Plump pecans and nuts filled another shortcake-like bar. Slivers of cheesecake were adorned with white chocolate discs that boasted the name of the restaurant in gold writing. The display was stunning. As we looked on in delight the waiter winked at us, "we upgraded your dessert option. Enjoy, ladies!"
As my tea seeped and I mixed it with cream and sugar I gazed at the pastries. They looked too good to eat! This was art, not food! How could I eat art? I wouldn't dare! Becky would, though. She grabbed one of the bite-sized pieces and tentatively bit it. Her eyes immediately closed and I could tell she was transported to Food Heaven. "This is incredible! You have to try it."
A moral dilemma. How could I eat something so beautiful? I wanted to smuggle them home and schelak them and show them to every one of my friends and ask them: have you ever seen anything this gorgeous? Have you? As the war waged in my mind Becky stopped talking and simply made an "mmMMM" sound as she chewed. I could no longer resist. I grabbed the fruity bar closest to me and nibbled on it. My mouth filled with the taste of exotic fruits and chewy cookie. The mix of the two things was perfect. It was sweet but not overly so. I took another bite, my passport officially stamped to Food Heaven.
We spent a few minutes in bliss, taking in the flavors of our desserts. My tea cooled and I took my first sips. It was strong, but sweet. I was on the top floor of Harrods, sipping an amazing tea while the taste of a fruity dessert lingered on my lips. I was in London, one of the greatest places in the world with a good friend. We were enjoying great conversation and soaking in an enchanting atmosphere. I was in more than heaven. I was in love. In love with a moment. A moment that I know will linger in my memory as one of the best because at that one point in time everything aligned, everything was so simple, so uncomplicated, so enjoyable, so charming. This was the reason I traveled. This was the reason I sought out new opportunities and tried to live life to the fullest: so I could find nirvana, if only for a brief time. On that top floor, with that cup of tea and my good friend, I had that. I even purchased some of Harrod's tea so that when I sip it in my living room I can relive it over again. I didn't expect to find bliss when I set out for our tea date, I just wanted to check this off my life's to-do list. I am so delighted when these simple moments occur, though. They remind why I'm here and what I live to do, both personally and professsionally.
Nearly twenty years after I served Funshine and Grumpy bears my special brand of tea, I found myself enjoying a true English experience in one of the most famous places in the world: Harrods. Becky and I chose the location because of it's prestige and the great reviews we had heard about their high tea.
When we arrived it was later in the afternoon, yet many people still packed the sunny, sundeck-like area, sipping tea and chattering. We were escorted to a table by a window, which showed us a view of the cloudy skies and rooftops of the Knightsbridge area of London. The menu was packed with many tea choices, which both delighted and scared me. Why, oh why wasn't I a tea connoisseur? There were mint teas, fruity teas, potent teas, spicey teas--something for every palette. I figured that since I was at such a prestigious place, I should try the Harrods Afternoon Tea. It couldn't disappoint, could it?
Becky and I decided to do tea and pastries, but there was a menu full of options. A full tea option consisted of tea, sandwiches, crumpets and pastries, but you could opt to have just tea or tea and one of those categories. Minutes after we placed our order, our waiter came back with a tray brimming with shining silver items. Each tea pot was brilliantly polished, as were the strainers, silverwear and saucers of milk. Each piece glinted in the afternoon sun and made for an enchanting scene. I was charmed.
Charm turned to delight when our server presented us with the platter of pastries. Each of the six tiny desserts was brightly colored and salivatingly gorgeous. The pink on the fruit eclairs was nearly neon. Plump pecans and nuts filled another shortcake-like bar. Slivers of cheesecake were adorned with white chocolate discs that boasted the name of the restaurant in gold writing. The display was stunning. As we looked on in delight the waiter winked at us, "we upgraded your dessert option. Enjoy, ladies!"
As my tea seeped and I mixed it with cream and sugar I gazed at the pastries. They looked too good to eat! This was art, not food! How could I eat art? I wouldn't dare! Becky would, though. She grabbed one of the bite-sized pieces and tentatively bit it. Her eyes immediately closed and I could tell she was transported to Food Heaven. "This is incredible! You have to try it."
A moral dilemma. How could I eat something so beautiful? I wanted to smuggle them home and schelak them and show them to every one of my friends and ask them: have you ever seen anything this gorgeous? Have you? As the war waged in my mind Becky stopped talking and simply made an "mmMMM" sound as she chewed. I could no longer resist. I grabbed the fruity bar closest to me and nibbled on it. My mouth filled with the taste of exotic fruits and chewy cookie. The mix of the two things was perfect. It was sweet but not overly so. I took another bite, my passport officially stamped to Food Heaven.
We spent a few minutes in bliss, taking in the flavors of our desserts. My tea cooled and I took my first sips. It was strong, but sweet. I was on the top floor of Harrods, sipping an amazing tea while the taste of a fruity dessert lingered on my lips. I was in London, one of the greatest places in the world with a good friend. We were enjoying great conversation and soaking in an enchanting atmosphere. I was in more than heaven. I was in love. In love with a moment. A moment that I know will linger in my memory as one of the best because at that one point in time everything aligned, everything was so simple, so uncomplicated, so enjoyable, so charming. This was the reason I traveled. This was the reason I sought out new opportunities and tried to live life to the fullest: so I could find nirvana, if only for a brief time. On that top floor, with that cup of tea and my good friend, I had that. I even purchased some of Harrod's tea so that when I sip it in my living room I can relive it over again. I didn't expect to find bliss when I set out for our tea date, I just wanted to check this off my life's to-do list. I am so delighted when these simple moments occur, though. They remind why I'm here and what I live to do, both personally and professsionally.
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