Collective Subconscious & Cultural Observations

The time has come for more cultural observations. Being in England sparked some new trains of thought. It's a strange thing to be American, studying abroad in Germany, but vacationing in an almost-American-culture like England.

The following are not ranked in any particular order, and bear in mind, they are only my experiences. We are a part of all that we have met. . . .

(1) The reason I titled my last post "Where the Collective Subconscious Dreams in English" is because I was struck so much by the plethora of advertisments all over London for theaters, movies, books, etc. I suppose I see this to some degree in Munich, but not to the extent I saw it in London. With the gray weather always overhead, they must dream...

(2) I have seen dogs pee in U-Bahn stations. For some reason, leashing is not that popular here in Munich. It bothers me a little. I will say that the dogs are very well-trained, and ignore pretty much everyone except for their owner, but I'm afraid they're going to start attacking small children and I will be forced by good conscience to intervene.

(4) Transportation. London's Tube station seems to have been built for a much smaller population than it has at present. By contrast, the U-Bahn system is quite roomy and comfortable, especially if you, like me, have claustrophobic tendencies. Also, cycling doesn't seem to be that common in London, due to small streets, no doubt. There exist parts of Munich where one can almost certainly be killed by a cyclist. Not owning a Fahrrad myself, I can't comment as to their experience, and I imagine they feel quite vulnerable and that vulnerability is the cause of their bitterness toward the non-cycling world--but they are very frightening. Step one toe into their zone and they will screech at you like harpies.

(5) One becomes very desensitized to sexuality over here on the Continent. I have to say, my body image has never been so good. For one, you have to walk an inordinate amount. Not having a car, you are your own driver, passenger, holder of drinks and food, and trunk/sherpa. This keeps you in tip-top form, if it doesn't leave you with bruised feet. Then, nudity is regarded almost as an art form here, and there just comes a time when you've seen enough naked men in the Englischer Garten that it just ceases to faze you so much.

(6) It's much easier to fit into the London scene clothes-wise. In London, anything goes. Europeans tend to dress up much, much more. Grown ones, anyway. Teenagers seem obsessed with wearing Converse All-Stars; I have never seen so many of these shoes in my life. College students wear an Adidas-like court shoe, then grown-ups wear nice shoes all the time. (As a former worker in the footwear industry, I'm sensitive to these things.)

(7) When we were in London on Friday going toward Westminister Abbey, there was a huge protest opposite Westminister Abbey. Sarah, Ashlee, and Rebecca were about to cross the street against the light, which is a huge no-no in Munich. I was a bit worried because there were policemen crossing against us, and I didn't want to be ticketed for jaywalking. Then I realized that there was a huge, five-day hunger strike / protest going on not 20 yards away, and the police were probably much more concerned about that than about my potential jaywalking. Oddly, a feeling of relief went through me. I no longer felt like potential line-crosser criminal. Munich's crime rate is pathetically low--as a result, this means that every tiny little infraction becomes magnified 10,000X. I have seen a policeman ticketing a lady with her little 20's style basket-and-bicycle. Automobiles attempting to cross into pedestrian zones while their light is green don't get shouts like they would in NYC, they are instead subjected to the Societal Shaming Glare of Death.

(8) I went into WHSmith Books at Heathrow to seize my last opportunity to browse through English-language books. I adore being in bookstores in general, but it's frustrating when I'm at Hugendubel and the books could be in Chinese for all the good it does me. (Side note: at Hugendubel, they make huge reading areas in the middle, and the cushions snake alongside the center in a somewhat-circular like fashion. This seems to recreate the experience of being on the U-Bahn / tram / bus. Why on earth would anyone do that? Maybe it's to prevent people from stuffing books into their bags in dark corners, but geez. This is a big city, and people are always surrounded by other people all the time--at work, going to / from work, at play, etc. Why can't they just make nice cosy corners like we do in the U.S. ?) So I was browsing around (and the two British-Indian women working there were chatting about Henry VIII and his wives--I love England) and saw Moby Dick by Herman Meville. In high school, I had attempted to read this book, but had gotten bored with it. But I always believe sometimes one isn't ready to read a book until one's had the experience to appreciate it. I realized that now I was ready, since I had enough distance from America to appreciate it as a culture on its own.

(9) I love speaking English. There's nothing like fluency, the information being seamlessly transmitted from aural / visual stimuli to instant understanding. There's this sign in Munich, called "ueber die man spricht. . ." and it roughly translates to "what people are talking about" but it literally translates to "about the things one speaks" which BOTHERS me to no end. I hate seeing it. I adore being in an Anglophone enviroment. I was at the platform in Marienplatz yesterday, and saw a group of three men only a little ways from me being introduced to each other, and thought I heard American English. They were laughing quite jovially and smiling, and I was like, "oh, yeah, they're Americans." Closer analysis confirmed my guess.

I do see why we Americans get the "You're all just like a big, happy dog" rap: we have a habit of not seeming to take anything too seriously--but I think, in fairness to us, that we do--whereas the Europeans take everything seriously. My average rate of smiling has gone down by 120%. I don't smile at baristas, students in the hall, no one. I occasionally copy the Europeans and will allow small children to elicit a tiny, tiny, no-teeth, smile. They just don't. San Antonio's a big city, but people smile there all the time, because it's just a friendly, open city. Europeans tend to view this as "fake" and "exhausting." It's interesting. No perspective is really wrong, just different. But seeing those guys, having just met, laughing like they'd been friends for years, was quite cheering. Fake? Or just projecting the reality that they hope will come?

(1o) Convenience. So few stores take credit cards, or even debit cards. Mammon is God. Why can't you buy your books at the cafe in Hugendubel? Noooo, that would interfere with The System, which mandates, like so many European things, that you stand in line with a huge group of people and Wait Your Turn.

"My country is all I know. . . .And the river opens for the righteous, and the river opens for the righteous." --Jackson Browne & Steven Van Zandt "I Am a Patriot"

Where the Collective Subconscious Dreams in English

On the brave and crazy wings of youth, they were flying around in the rain
And their feathers, once so fine, grew torn and tattered

In the end they traded their tired wings
For the resignation that living brings
And exchanged love's bright and fragile glow
For the glitter and the rouge
In a moment they were swept before the deluge

Let the music keep our spirits high
Let the buildings keep our children dry
Let creation reveal her secrets by and by
By and by
When the light that's lost within us
Reaches the sky
--"Before the Deluge," Jackson Browne (Is the man NOT a poet, visionary, speaker of human nature?!?!)

This past weekend, I journeyed off to London to visit dear friends Rebecca and Sarah who are studying abroad at Royal Holloway in Egham, a suburb of London. The occasion? Two tickets I purchased in a moment of utter spontaneity on a late library night last September, to see Jackson Browne at the Royal Albert Hall in London on April 12, 2009. I hadn't the foggiest clue how I was going to get to London then, but I was. Jackson Browne is 61 and getting older every minute, and anyone who knows me well knows the unswerving devotion I have toward him and all his music, a good portion of which I can recite by heart.

I flew out of a sunny-is-it-really-getting-warmer?-Munich on Thursday at Munich, and a couple hours later flew under the omnious grey clouds shrouding Heathrow and her environs. I cleared customs without incident (although the British guard was very prim: "What. Are. You. Doing, In. The. United. Kingdom?" "On holiday," I replied. "Where are you staying?" "With a friend in Egham." "The nationality of your friend?" "American," I said. "What is your friend doing in the United Kingdom?" "She's studying abroad at Royal Holloway," I replied, really unsure if I was going to get into the country at all, but determined to see Jackson. "Are you studying abroad in Germany, too, or do you just live there now?" "Yes, I'm studying abroad in Munich," I said. "And what are you studying?" "German?" I said in an unsure voice. Learning how not to make a fool of myself? ) Rebecca and Sarah had taken the one-hour bus ride from Egham to Heathrow just to meet me. I exited the terminal, went straight down to the Central Bus Station, where, at that exact moment, a red-haired girl and her curly-haired companion had just entered, looking a bit bewildered at the crowded room before them. I clutched my roller bag and went straight toward them, almost careening into Sarah.

We took the bus back to Egham, and decided to hang out in Egham for the evening, and we'd venture into London on Friday. Ashlee, another friend of ours studying abroad in Scotland, had been there since Monday, and was staying through Saturday. We had quite the time together, and Sarah and Rebecca were the most gracious of hosts. On Friday we all ventured into London, taking the 45-minute train directly from Egham to London Waterloo, and we went to the Good Friday service at Westminister Abbey, which was unbelievable. When the boys came forward in their red-and-white choir robes, tears escaped from my eyes. I couldn't believe I was hearing this all in person. After the service we wandered around London. Sarah has a small travelling gargoyle named Guy Fawkes, who she bought in York for her brother, and he appears in many of her photos. Ashlee thought it would be hysterical for Guy Fawkes and Sarah to pose in front of Parliament, so we did that. I had never seen the Millenium Bridge, so we walked over there and walked across it to walk around Shakespeare's recreated Globe theater, which is right next to the Tate Modern. I was endlessly impressed by the constant old-new-old-again nature of London: Tate Modern at the foot of the Millenium Bridge, across from the London Bridge, which led up to St. Paul's Cathedral, Tate Modern next to Globe, etc.

On Saturday, Ashlee and Sarah stayed in Egham (since Ashlee had to rearrange her travel plans much at the last minute) while Rebecca and I went into London again, and messed around the whole day. We went to Portobello Road, which was crowded but still a ton of fun. Rebecca's been on the lookout for a 19th-century book, so she took me to this lovely antiques bookstore off Portobello Road, and she finally found her prize: a beautiful blue crinkled Tenneyson from 1871 for 25 pounds. After that we wandered (well, moseyed with the crowd) toward the end of Portobello Road, where Rebecca spotted a nice, reasonably priced restaurant. They were offering pizza with black olives in a showcase and I knew it was Meant to Be (since that is My Pizza), so I took two slices and a chocolate shake (I require large amounts of chocolate to get me through) which I drank in two long gulps. Rebecca and I found a nice cozy couch next to an large open window (despite the drizzly, but not cold, weather) where we just sat, ate, and people-watched. It was quite nice and comfortable. After that we wandered around back toward our Tube Station, and took the Tube to Trafalgar Square, which was barricaded off all the way to Whitehall. We hypothise that this was due to a large protest going on front of Parliament, asking for intervention in the Sri Lankan civil war. I had collected a leaflet from someone passing them out on Friday, and I found it interesting that it supported the Tamil Tigers, a faction whom I have always heard linked with terrorism. I suppose it'll be difficult for anyone to really know. Anyway, they had a scheduled march on Saturday, and I think the police/barricades were there to prevent them from marching on Whitehall.

So we walked down Whitehall and took the resquite pictures in front of 10 Downing Street, home to Gordon Brown. We also wandered over to St. James' Park and Buckingham Palace. The Queen was not in residence. . . .

We took the train back to Egham and met up with Sarah for dinner out at The Monkey's Forehead, a pub down the street from the university. Ashlee was now safely off to Ireland. I had fish & chips and peas. Aaaaaa. English food >>>>> German food. Plus, it has the added benefit of being in my native language. We hung out Saturday night and had a very good time.

Sunday was The Day. Not only was it Easter, it was The Jackson Browne Concert, the very idea which had sustained me in many a dark hour. Rebecca had a Skype date with her parents and Sarah a lunch with a friend, so we opted to attend an earlier Matins service at St. Paul's Cathedral. We did that, and it was really lovely, although nothing quite like the Good Friday service at Westminister. After that, we all journeyed back to Egham (Sarah to Staines, a stop before Egham), and recouped for a bit. Rebecca had kindly lent me a book of hers, The Time Traveller's Wife, which might explain my headiness the whole weekend. When I get involved in plot, I'm still there until it's all been resolved. It's very good (sad, though), well-written, so there you go.

Around 4ish, Rebecca, Sarah, and I headed back to London. Sarah would join us for dinner and then head back to Egham, Rebecca and I would continue to the Jackson Browne Concert. We ended up eating at a very nice Pizza Hut off Trafalgar Square. Sarah went with us over to the Knightsbridge area, and then took the Tube from there back to Waterloo. Rebecca and I walked down Knightsbridge toward Royal Albert Hall. We loitered outside with the 50+ plus crowd, then at 7:15 easily went through the doors. I couldn't believe the beauty of the hall when I stepped in. I had A Moment. It's circular, red-velvet cushions, the lights from above casting a haze over the stage. . . .

At 8, the Jackson Browne Concert Began. He came out (insert my heart stuttering) and performed "Off to Wonderland" as his first song, and then "Doctor My Eyes" not long after that. When I heard him perform that song, I just couldn't believe it. He was there. In front of me. Singing the song that I had listened to on so many of those road trips of my soul. The concert was amazing. Just amazing. It was everything I'd imagined. I sat next to a British gentleman who took one look at me and said, "I've been listening to Jackson Browne longer than you've been alive." He apparently had been to Jackson Browne's first concert tour in the UK for his "Late for the Sky" release in 1975! At the end, he performed "The Pretender" and the crowd went into a rock-roll-wave shouting, "ARE YOU THERE? FOR THE PRETENDER? ARE YOU THERE--FOR THE PRETENDER? ARE YOU THERE--FOR THE PRETENDER?" At the end, he sang "Running on Empty" with the electric guitar and the crowd was now screaming "RUNNING ON EMPTY! RUNNING ON BLIND INTO THE SUN!"

Monday I toured Windsor by myself, to give Sarah and Rebecca some breathing room after entertaining guests for so long, and the weather finally cleared up--just when I needed it! Windsor was spectacular. Rebecca helped me plan the train schedule, which was really simple, and it was only about 20 minutes by train altogether to get to Windsor. On the way there, the conductor announced, "We're coming up to the castle; on the left side there's a very good view." I had been sitting on the right side, and was very grateful to him for announcing that. I moved over to the left side and couldn't believe it--it was the side of the castle, and jaw-dropping. My parents had bought a very interesting and informative "Windsor" BBC production, so I was a bit familiar with it, but it certainly did not prepare me for that sight. I couldn't take it all in! The train station was practically at the foot of the castle, so I decided to see Eton first, in the opposite direction. There's not much touring around Eton to be had, but I had to see it. After that I walked back toward Windsor and approached it from the side to get a look at the view from "The Long Walk," which was pretty crowded. Then I went back up to the entrance, got in line, bought my tickets and picked up my audio guide, and went into the castle. I decided to visit St. George's Chapel first, as the audio guide said that closed at 4PM, and it was 1ish. It was stunning--a bit smaller than I had expected, maybe. I saw the tombs of George VI and the late Queen Mother Elizabeth, as well as the stone that marked the vault of Henry VIII, Queen Jane, and the infant child of Queen Anne. Wow.

After that, I headed toward the State Apartments. They were all fantastic. There was a whole room full of Hans Holbein the Younger portraits--the famous portraits of Richard II, Thomas Howard, Sir Henry Guilford. . . . I couldn't believe my eyes. I honestly was not expecting that much artwork, for some reason! The Waterloo Chamber was hands-down my favorite room. It had been featured in the BBC "Windsor" production for the performance of "Les Miserables" put on in this room for the arrival of French president Jacques Chirac, and I remember the video footage of them taking these huge, precious Lawrence portraits down (portraits of everyone who helped defeat Napoleon). It was all beautiful. I also saw that original portrait of Elizabeth I at age 13, the portrait of young Edward. . . . My mother, years ago, had bought a comprehensive, glossy book called The Lives of the Kings and Queens of England, of which I had made a constant study when I wanted to know facts about their lives, and it seemed that over half the portraits I had seen so long ago in that book were here at Windsor. I remember walking into one room and seeing a portrait of George I astride his horse, and thinking, "Wow, that looks familiar," and realizing that this, before me, was the very original of the one I had seen in that book.

Windsor isn't to be missed. It was wonderful and the weather was perfect. And---the Queen's Standard was flying there!