Today I arrived in London for my stay of a few days, until I move to Paris on the 22nd. In the interim, I’ve got a two page to-do list that is probably too ambitious, but I’ll try to complete as much as I can as cheaply as I can.
Keeping the “cheap” directive in mind, today I made sure to: walk an unreasonable distance lugging a heavy backpack behind me and go up to tourist stands, look at their maps and then replace them. Is this latter action somewhat chintzy? Yes. Do I care? No. Because I have a higher goal in mind, the goal of enlightening myself, and the ends justify the means and all that jazz. So what were the ends?
The ends were no less than seeing what I felt, before I visited, were important symbolic institutions of any modern democracy: Speaker’s Corner, for its free speech implications; Harrods, for its consumerism implications; Buckingham Palace, for its celebrity implications; Victoria & Albert Museum, because it was really close to the aforementioned things (convenience is an important issue in our modern information saturated culture…I think.)
After checking into my youth hostel in Bayswater, a neighborhood that appears to give “quiet” a rock-n-rollin’ reputation, I walked towards Hyde Park. I wanted to go for a few reasons: first, it was close; second, it was the biggest and most famous park in London; third, it had the Speaker’s Corner. The Speaker’s Corner is a corner of Hyde Park devoted to free speech; any old speaker is allowed to get up on his soapbox and inform his fellow man about the important issues of the day (or rant incoherently). Needless to say, I found the idea of listening entertaining; the idea of actually participating myself seemed incalculably egotistical and yet appealing.
So I set out through Hyde Park. Someone expecting a typical park on the French or New York model will be disappointed. It features unmanicured meadows with occasional trees. The main appeal of the park appears to be the many nooks and crannies contained therein for lounging, and the many paved paths for running. Indeed, everyone I saw seemed to be doing one or the other. In comparison to Central Park, which is more aesthetically appealing, Hyde Park strikes me as more utilitarian, except for certain random monuments and building. The Italian Gardens struck me as particularly beautiful, as one could see many swans and storks and geese and, of course, pigeons. The pigeons in London are aggressive, but the ones of Hyde Park are particularly large and ornery.
In due time, I made it to the Speaker’s Corner. This was made difficult by the insufficient signage and marking of the map, but eventually (it is a corner after all) I made it. At first I had thought I had missed it. There were many people sitting in lawn chairs, all arranged towards the west, but where were the speakers? There were none! There were only lounging people and a lame café in a rotunda that said Speaker’s Corner. My thesis going into it was that it would be immensely popular; the tolerance and even encouragement among our culture for making an ass of yourself is at an all-time high (see: reality television), so why would people be hesitant to speak in a freaking park?
No chance for fame, of course, is the reason. Too bad. It sounded like such a place of public democracy at its best and low humor at its worst that I had very high expectations. This is probably why I was disappointed.
In retrospect, this is not that surprising; what is the public debate today? This is a somewhat trite point, but I see news caring about what hair cut John Edwards gets rather than his health care proposal and about Hillary’s cleavage more than her Iraq War position, and I get very frustrated. Nor is this merely a problem with elite media. The lack of public debate is worrying amongst my friends also. Our problem is different than the media’s. We avoid the subject rather than treating it unseriously. We do this because we are afraid of offending. We avoid offending religious beliefs, abortion beliefs, beliefs concerning races, beliefs concerning the sexes, and so on and so forth. Of course, we probably should be offending, offending with a purpose. Because the issues that are sensitive are the most important ones, and avoiding discussing them is to avoid progress.
This rant done, I can continue on to Harrods, passing by some more interesting parkland. Harrods is located in Chelsea, and is a gigantic department store that screams luxury. I know this because they told me. They told me every several feet. They told me it lasts forever, “Luxury is Timeless.” But I am getting ahead of myself. First, lunch.
I stopped into a café off Basil Street that caught my eye for no good reason. It was called Arco Bar. It was a small café and moderately full and had the BBC on in the background. It had a great deli display. I ordered a sandwich. I was immediately surprised to find out that there was no difference between the take-away and sit-down prices; nearly every other place in London that I’ve been to has had a cheaper price for take-away (read: cheap places! although this place was quite affordable also). The waiter had a manner that I’ve taken a while to try to find the right words for; I’ve settled on ‘ironically servile’. An example from the end of the meal: while paying him, I dropped a five-pence piece, the small buggers of English coins (they are about the size of my ring fingernail, and I have small hands). Both he and I stooped for it, and he said, “oh no, I insist” as he came out from behind the counter. Then he winked for the benefit of two other customers.
Rewind back to the beginning of the meal. I realized something was up with the neighborhood when people started to come in. Apparently I had beaten some sort of rush. But, every two seconds or so, another businessman or random fop comes in. And everyone was dressed fashionably; the suits were pinstriped or window-paned, the shirts were in pink or powder blue or striped, and the shoes were fashioned from the pelts of dead reptiles. Black was a major component of everyone’s dress. Also, everyone was attractive. In other words, poor old me in ratty sneakers (but comfortable for walking!) and jeans and shirt combination stuck old like an Amish at a dance club, especially when it became clear that many of these people were regulars (oh, you’ll have the usual? Etc.).
The district that Harrods is in, is that kind of district. It’s surrounded by other high couture type places (or at least what I presume are high couture places; I don’t know a thing about them). But I knew Harrods was close because since Hyde Park, I’d been seeing people walk around with Harrods bags.
Then I found it, the massive thing. The exterior is domed and towered and constructed out of huge brown stones. You know when you’re in the area, especially since Harrods Estates and the Harrods grocery store are nearby.
I went inside. I was struck. This place overwhelms you in particles, not waves. This is a place that caters to every possible variety of opulence. There’s hipster opulence, kitschy opulence, IKEA-style opulence, old/nobility opulence, and the rest. There is an option for “Personal Shopping,” which I never found out what that entailed, but I presume it means that you get your own personal shopping attendant. They have a sign up reminding customers to book a time to meet the Harrods Santa Claus. There is an Egyptian Room, with fake mummies and sphinxes and the rest. There is gold and silver in abundance. The surest sign that Harrods is rich: their bathrooms have two attendants AND they give away water. Finding a water fountain in England is roughly equivalent to a good Clippers season—you know it’s happened in the past, rather recently in fact, but you’re convinced it’s an aberration. Every sales attendant is dressed up in black and highly attractive. They are located, for your convenience, every three feet. This is the type of store that plays the James Bond theme from Casino Royale in one room, “It’s Raining Men” in another adjoining room, “Killing Me Softly With His Song” in a foreign language in a third, and a downtempo “The Impossible Dream” in a fourth. The last was particularly galling song to hear, given the juxtaposition between a poor, idealistic, deluded knight and a ten thousand pound Chippendale (I think).
Harrods is a cathedral of consumerism, basically. Architecturally massive and with every possible taste in clothes and luxury items represented, you could, if you were rich, have your life outfitted with Harrods. Which I suppose is the point of a department store. They also take great pains to remind you about their awesomeness: there are signs every few feet proclaiming that “Luxury is Timeless.” I gather this is the theme for the season.
I guess my point is that I’m unsure whether they’re being ironic or not. Probably not. In fact, of course not. But I found it simultaneously awe-inspiring and deeply hilarious. The people who shop here really need the reassurance that this is very, very luxurious and of the completeness of that vision. Even if you don’t need a piano, the knowledge that you could get a piano makes your purchase of a dress shirt that much more comfortable (whomever’s got the vision knows what’s best). And, for the deeply insecure, there’s that personal attendant to put something together for you. Or it could just be an overgrown department store.
Did I mention there’s an entire room devoted to chocolate? There is. Is it glorious? Yes. Did I get a dark chocolate cookie for seventy pence? Yes. Was I on the verge of being entirely favorable to Harrods? Yes. Then I saw the “Room of Luxury.” Or the sign, at least. I would be lying if I didn’t say I wasn’t intrigued. What’s in the room of luxury, given that everything here is much better than you could possibly want? I had visions of gigantic golden sculptures (joke one: a giant golden dick being beaten off by a giant golden hand, from which molten pearls spew. Don’t pretend that wouldn’t impress you.) Or of teams of servants outfitted in matching uniforms. Or dinosaur eggs that you could scramble (As Dave Chappelle says, the most balla thing of all!). So, of course, the Room of Luxury contained handbags. Lots and lots of handbags. I won’t deny that I was highly disappointed.
That constituted my Harrods experience. I then noticed, entirely by chance, that the Victoria & Albert Museum was in the area. I walked over there, passing by a number of embassies/consulates. Interesting tidbit: all of them were unguarded, save one. A large Metropolitan Police guard was posted outside of the Turkish embassy. Guess Britain, like continental Europe, is none too friendly towards the Turks…or it’s just a massive coincidence that Turkey needs to publicly proclaim it has a guard.
Victoria & Albert Museum is quite boring from the outside. It resembles some older hospitals in London. Large, made out of red brick, arches, the like; the exterior feels as if the architect took elements from every other building and called it a day. The lobby, straight out of a high school lobby, confirmed my suspicions that this museum was not worth my time.
But the museum quickly redeemed itself, first with its sculptures and then with its general interiors. First, the museum is framed around a central black pool that is quite lovely. Second, the sculptures are excellent. Featuring a number of Rodins that I’d never seen before, as well as some others that were quite excellent, I quickly became interested. Exhibit-wise, the museum contains a number of funky exhibits, including a fashion exhibit (devoted mostly to women’s clothes, and for good reason: men’s clothes are generally not as interesting) and several design exhibits. But the real star of the museum is the interiors. In several rooms, the ceiling is incredibly high, with beautiful columns. The Raphael exhibit took particular advantage of the high ceilings.
The downside were the paintings and the British art sections. The paintings were highly boring and predominantly neoclassical (to me, this is the same thing). There was one famous Degas, the one with the guys watching the play, but that was the sole interesting painting. The British art proved the point that the British were better at buying and stealing art than making it. Overall, a good museum, but not as amazing as the little of the Tate Modern and British Museum that I’ve seen.
That leaves Buckingham Palace. I only gawked at the outside. Thirteen pounds fifty is far too much. I can tell you that it is quite large and well-fortified.
*****
Miscalleny:
NUMBER OF AMERICAN COLLEGE SHIRTS SEEN:
Cal: 3 (Hiss!)
Harvard: 1 (by a dude in flip-flops in that café I visited for lunch; his presence was a relief, for it meant that I wasn’t the worst-dressed customer)
LUXURY CAR COUNT
Bentley: 3
Rolls-Royce: 2
Mercedes & BMW: Too Many to Count
A few things:
A coach from York said, “You’re Welcome” on the outside. Isn’t that presumptuous?...I saw a soccer practice in Hyde Park today. The coaches had camo pants and were English. This was strange to me, because it appears to me that Irish tourists in England love camo pants…A large number of mannequins in a department store near Harrods are dressed in women’s clothes and yet have Adam’s apples and abnormally strong jaws…A man asked what an “aria” was…I have heard “Stronger” on the radio about ten times today, and I can’t say I disapprove…
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