Our power must have gone off yesterday. The two electric clocks we have in the house were inexplicably set to zero in the afternoon. And that got me to thinking about time. Well, that and the shock that June is almost upon us (where did April and May go?). And the real live cuckoo bird who is nesting somewhere in the neighborhood and sounding for all of the world like my clock, but “going off” at random times. And the son who appears to grow by inches on any given night. And the beloved dog and best friend who passed away last week.
Time engulfs us and confounds us. We decorate our towers and homes with it, wear it on our wrists, celebrate its high holy days, and mourn its passing. Time heals all wounds, but steals all souls. And if we respect it and appreciate all the fine gifts the years bring us, we still fear it. We don’t understand it at all.
So, today, I offer a few photos and let time speak for itself.
Giant Cuckoo Clock on the Rhine River in Germany–looking out on new shops and very old castles.
Victoria Clock Tower, which stood by our house in Ripon, England. On a personal level, a very special reminder of 4 great years in our lives.
The fabulous Corpus Clock in Cambridge, England–revealing less of itself in the gleaming sun and more of a reflection of King’s College…because, after all, time is a canvas for the things of life.
Siena, Italy–Town Hall and Clock Tower standing tall over the historic piazza.
South Gate Clock, Chester, England– is it a coincidence that clocks so often mark thresholds like this?
An 1820 Longcase clock from Leyburn, England stands sentry at our door.The Best Friend we loved and lost. At 15 years old, she had lived a long dog life . . . but not nearly long enough for those who loved her.
The past came alive at a history fair at Fountains Abbey, Yorkshire. And why is it that little boys always want to grow up to be soldiers?
Having fun with the past at Tweetsie Railroad in NC many years ago.
And so, time marches on. . .
They are young one day, and all grown up the next.
*”Had we but world enough, and time” is the first line of Andrew Marvel’s poem “To His Coy Mistress”
Alternately entitled: One way we foreigners perfect the art of faux pas
It is so very easy, when you are in another country trying to abide by other customs, eat other food, and speak another language, to blunder time and again. Just ask Mark Twain and JFK. Kennedy made his famous “Ich bin ein Berliner” speech in West Berlin not long after the Soviets put up the wall. It was a moment of solidarity…or possibly a moment of hilarity, depending on whom you ask. “Ich bin ein Berliner”–does that translate as “I am a Berliner” or “I am a jelly donought”? It almost doesn’t matter whether we’re looking at a dreadful gaffe or a faux faux pas–an urban legend–it makes a point. (If you aren’t familiar with the speech and the controversy, see the links at the end of this post*)
When you are abroad, even in a country where you think you speak the same language as the locals, you don’t speak the same language as the locals. You WILL embarrass yourself again and again. Get used to it. Mark Twain knew this, and you will too after only a few short days in country. The sage Mr. Twain said it best: “The gentle reader will never, never know what a consummate ass he can become until he goes abroad. I speak now, of course, in the supposition that the gentle reader has not been abroad, and therefore is not already a consummate ass.” ― Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad
There are approximately 8,992 ways that you travelers might embarrass yourselves (and those around you) in any given moment, but I’ll cover just a few examples.
“Bloody Hell!” What a quaint British phrase that is. It’s cursing without actually cursing. It’s Ron Weasley’s favorite catch phrase, for Pete’s sake–what’s not charming about that? Well, yeah. Says you. Turns out Ron Weasley had a serious potty mouth. “Bloody Hell” is some bad stuff. Do not say it unless you really mean it. And please do not say it to your elderly neighbor under any circumstance. I speak from experience.
Also, if you are an American traveling in the UK, do not use the word “fanny” to refer to your bottom…it does not. Let’s just leave it at that.
Another word that becomes awkward in England: “pants.” If you spill beer on yourself in the pub, whatever you do, do not loudly proclaim that your pants are dirty. Maybe you get the point already, but let me illustrate the problem. My son was young when we lived in Yorkshire; young and growing like a weed. I bought him some new school uniforms that he outgrew after just a wearing or two. The pants were nearly perfect (which is the first strange thing about this story, as my son can wear the knees out of pants in 30 seconds flat–I should have known at this point that fate was conspiring to trick me in some way).
What do you do with nearly perfect pants? You give them to a friend who can use them. It’s a kind gesture, right?
It is, but, bloody hell, mate, you are likely to get it all wrong if you don’t speak the language.
Here’s my story: I walk onto the school playground at pick up time with a bag of nearly perfect pants in hand. I approach a friend whose son is Will’s age, and I offer her the pants. Her response: an odd stare at me. (Is there something on my face?)
So I explain, “The pants have only been worn a few times, they’re still very nice. It would be a shame for someone not to get good use out of them.” This elicits a slight recoil from my friend. (Did I eat garlic for lunch? No, I don’t think so.)
“They’re not at all worn out. I’m pretty sure they’d fit Lewis. You really ought to take them,” I say, as I begin to hand the bag her direction. A look of horror absolutely engulfs her face. “I’ve washed them,” I say.
And then it occurs to me that “pants” are undies in the UK. “Oh, no, no, no,” my voice rises and my arms wave (swinging the parcel of pants wildly), “I’m so sorry. They are trousers!! TROUSERS!!”
I say it too loudly. . .people are beginning to stare. My friend still looks rattled, but she accepts the bag with a wry smile on her face.
I’ve a feeling that she dropped the bag, unopened, into the bin as soon at she got home. Oh…no, wait…I mean the trashcan.
We were in London Wednesday to Sunday, but the epicenter of the trip was Thursday. That was the day we had tickets to London Fashion Week festivities and the Amanda Wakeley catwalk.
We woke to a chilly, rainy day in London. The sort of day that is perfect for an indoor fashion show, but not perfect for looking your best when you show up at the gates of the show. We primped and twirled in front of the mirrors at our hotel until we felt pretty good about ourselves, but the wind and rain on the streets of London did us no favors. Of all people in the world, the Brits should have a word that means “cute but sodden.” That was us.
Luckily, there were no bouncers at the gates of Somerset House with the mission of separating the stylish from the sodden, so we made our way in to the festivities. The courtyard of Somerset House was set with large tents–housing the catwalk shows and a small shopping area. Parts of the interior of Somerset House were set up with other vendors for the “Shop the Catwalk” experience. The spread of bags, accessories, and clothes were impressive (and more egalitarian than you might think: while most shops were very pricey, there were a few offerings in line with every budget). It was quite a spectacle, with the beauty of Somerset House itself, and its grand hallways and staircases, providing an exquisite backdrop.
We arrived about 11 am and the Amanda Wakeley catwalk show didn’t start until mid afternoon, so we shopped the vendors who were set up in Somerset House, and then visited the gallery for a photography exhibit featuring the work of Guy Bourdain
Bourdain’s photography–featured largely in French Vogue in the 70’s and 80’s, and for shoe company Charles Jourdan– was fun, edgy, and occasionally unsettling.
Early in his career, Bourdain worked with the artist Man Ray, and the surrealist’s sensibility is always apparent in his photography. Our favorite series of photographs depicted disembodied legs (calves in exquisite shoes–mannequin’s legs) on the streets of London–hailing cabs or waiting for the Tube, etc. It was a great exhibit, and a fitting show to pair up with the LFW activities. Many of the photos struck a certain tone that I think of as Warholesque– very late 70’s pop-surreal-tongue-in-cheek. All the sass, glamour, and playfulness of high fashion . . . with a little edge, a little menace, the threat of emptiness at the heart of it all.
The catwalk show was fabulous and Amanda Wakeley was very gracious when she came out (on crutches) to introduce her collection and discuss her thoughts on fashion. Her philosophy was simple and classic, and that was reflected in the all-white collection she introduced with the catwalk show. We enjoyed the show, but enjoyed our seats even more. That is–we sat on the second row, in good seats, but nothing of note . . . until two minutes before the show started. Then Caroline Rush, the CEO of the British Fashion Council, was escorted to the front row seat directly in front of us. My daughter went nuts. Just the day before, Kate had run down a list of cool celebrities she might see at LFW. The impressive Ms. Rush was on that list. I didn’t know who she was, so Kate Googled her and educated me. Yes, this was definitely Caroline Rush in front of us, cheering on Amanda Wakeley and enthusiastically applauding the show. As the show drew to a close, Katie tapped Ms. Rush on the shoulder and asked if she could take a photo with her. The answer was a very gracious yes, and as I snapped the photo the two of them chatted. They say you should never meet your idols, but if one of those idols is Caroline Rush, then you have no worries, you are in good hands.
Wakeley’s catwalk show had been elegant, impressive–but I was partially distracted from the clothes as I kept looking at the models and trying to figure out if this was 30 or 40 different women parading clothing in front of me, or just 15 or so who kept changing outfits. It disturbed me that I couldn’t tell. A few of the women had very distinct faces, but many of them looked so similar, and so blank. They were simply a blur of girls, indistinguishable as individuals. I’m sure that is, in part, by design– they stroll mannequin-esque, with blank stares. They are meant to be blank canvases for the clothes. But an afternoon of people watching and photography exhibits had my mind spinning on bigger questions of who we are and how we present ourselves through fashion–is it about beauty and comfort, is it about innovative art and form, is it about capitalism and consumerism, or is it about the masks we wear, or . . . or . . . is it not reductive?
Yes, they are blurry girls. By design, maybe. They could be you. You could be them.
We left Somerset House immediately after the catwalk–we had to turn it around quickly if we wanted to change clothes (and brace for more damp and cold as the sun fell) before we headed out to the West End to catch The Woman in Black at the Fortune Theater. It was a great show–the story was told by only 2 characters, who held the stage powerfully for over two hours. It was a very different experience from the spectacles we usually go to see–Oliver!, Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Les Mis, Mary Poppins–it wasn’t about the stagesets or the carnival, it was a different sort of storytelling, and we loved it.
By the time we actually sat down to dinner, in the midst of the blurry nightlife of the West End, it was 11 p.m. We were spent . . . but we were happy.
Umbrellas in the spiraling stairs of Somerset House.
Somerset House, venue for London Fashion Week, Feb. 2015
Maybe you’ve seen the headlines in fashion magazines, the svelte and stylish stars in tabloid print; maybe you’re a fashionista and you are in the know. Last week was London Fashion Week and festivities took place at Somerset House–a beautiful, neo-classical complex built in the 1700’s and nestled between the River Thames and the Strand (that major London thoroughfare that runs from Trafalgar Square through Fleet Street, home to British banking and legal offices). The first few days of London Fashion Week belong to industry insiders and celebrities, but the later part of the week is open to the rest of us. . . and that’s how my daughter and I ended up shopping the stalls and attending the Amanda Wakeley catwalk last Thursday.
It was my daughter’s idea. (I love to look good–and have a love of jackets that borders on fetish–but I also love to be comfortable. This means I vascillate between style-mama and sweatshirt slob. My daughter, however, is just coming to that age where style is the ultimate, and requisite, in self expression. )
So a couple of weeks ago, I got a call from her around lunch time. She’d just returned to school after two days of a nasty virus, so I answered the phone expecting to hear misery and fever on the other end of the receiver. Instead of fever, I got fervid. “Mom, London Fashion Week is in two weeks! Look it up, Google it! We need to go!” I wasn’t prepared for this and, lacking any other comeback, I said, “You know, that’s not much heads up, but I’ll give it a look.” My way of saying, I’m not ignoring your request–since you are so enthusiastic–but you know that’s just not going to happen. So, it turns out, the laugh was on me.
I did Google it, and it sounded kind of fun. Too bad we couldn’t go.
Could we?
I logged on to RyanAir.com–an Irish airline known for (usually) cheap tickets when you travel within Europe. Imagine my shock when I saw that we could book tickets on our travel days for 20 Euro per person each way. For the next two hours, I skittered the sticky strands of the world wide web, and eventually extricated myself with airline tickets, London Fashion Week tickets, and reservations at reasonable, but extraordinarily well-located and well-appointed hotels in hand.
And theater tickets; every trip to London needs theater tickets.
So next thing you know, we were off to LFW!
We arrived Wednesday mid morning, after only 2 or 3 hours of sleep. (One way to catch a cheap flight is to fly at a God-forsaken hour. Ugh.) We weren’t due at Somerset House until Thursday, so we checked into our hotel near the Tower of London and jumped on the Tube (London’s rail) to head out to Kensington and make an afternoon out of Harrods Department Store and the Victoria and Albert Museum.
Harrods is a London landmark, and it lives up to its reputation. If I were plump with cash, I could have a really good time there. Sadly, I am not. The clothes were beautiful, but here’s how it works at Harrods: your daughter sees a fabulous swimsuit and pulls you that direction. You turn over the price tag and realize that it’s an $800 swimsuit (maybe more–I’m a little vague about exchange rate math), and next thing you know the chic shop girls are reviving you with smelling salts. And, yes, I suppose “shop girls” is outdated, but it seems to fit here, because Harrods isn’t just a store. No, Harrods is a theatrical production. It’s like a West End stage set, where everything glitters, and you turn a corner and –pow!–you’re in a different land. You move from the colorful, sparkly set of the jewelry department, to the finely choreographed fragrance floor with it’s fleet footed sales-people-spritzers, to gallery after gallery of magnificent women’s clothes, to a children’s section full of books and toys that is so visually perfect and orderly you will wonder if any REAL children have actually been in that space in the past 24 hours, to a food hall that is amazing. . .truly amazing.
However, not to be a downer, but the $5 strawberry I ate in the food hall–plump and juicy as it was–was really nothing special. I’m sure that’s the exception to the rule. At least, everything LOOKED amazing. And all the shoppers LOOKED amazing. It really was theater at its finest.
As the curtain came down on our afternoon at Harrods, however, I had a little trouble getting out the front door. More than a little. Alarms went off, security guards stepped forward. I handed over my purse and my tiny Harrods bag of macaroons. (I had no large Harrods bag filled with thousand dollar swimsuits.) I unzipped my coat, as the guard said, “It’s probably a clothing tag you never clipped.” Who knew? My year-old red ski jacket (which, note to self, is not a cool thing to wear when you shop at Harrods) had a tag on the inside that clearly said “clip after purchase.” It had escaped my attention. Had it said, “Clip after purchase, or you may be arrested exiting Harrods under the gaze of posh customers,” I suppose it might have registered.
So that was our interesting Harrod’s experience. Don’t let me dissuade you — it’s a lovely store. I’m just not sure I’ll be allowed back in.
So, on to the V&A Museum. The truth is, I wish that I could tell you more about the Victoria and Albert Museum. It is huge, and filled with fabulous things. Even the “lunchroom” is a grand production. But, honestly, Kate and I were the walking dead by the time we got there. We’d been up all night; we’d ridden the highs and lows of walking Kensington and shopping Harrods. We were enthralled by the V&A, but we were beat. We entered the museum wide-eyed, immediately sat down to some nibbles in the food wing, and hoped to refuel sufficiently.
Once back in the museum, we strolled the magnificent clothing galleries, enjoyed looking at silver and furniture, and then it all goes to a blur. We were both about to hit the mat, and we knew we were going down hard, so we grudgingly left the V&A, with so much still unseen, and headed back to our hotel. It was time to tuck in for the evening, eat dinner, and rest up for the next day, the main event–the London Fashion Week extravaganza.
Travels and Tomes: One Expat's Amblings and Ramblings 