Nearly a year has passed since I left for and returned from England, and I continually think about a few people I encountered: the angel at the palace in Edinburgh; the Swede in the bar in Edinburgh; the woman from Arkansas. Somehow, I guess, I will always think about them, just as I think about people I have not seen in decades: a few friends from boyhood; people I must have slighted; people who do not know their continued influence on me.
But, perhaps it's just plain sentimentality, and who needs that?
Friday, January 25, 2008
Homeward Bound
Where our intrepid traveler prepares to leave, then does
My last day in London, I start the day with coffee and croissant at Caffe' Nero not far from my B & B in Paddington. One more subway ride today, once more to Victoria Station from where I'll catch a train to Gatwick, and from there take a cab to my final (the seventh) hotel of my journey....
Then, at Starbucks in Victoria Station, I linger for awhile before boarding the train, not in a rush to leave but not reluctant to do so. I think that everyone should do something like this: a couple weeks alone and unencumbered save for the annoyance of a backpack... In 2 weeks I have had a substantial conversation with, what, one person?
Arrived in the small town of Horley without incident, and it is here I will spend my final night in England. I find my way to the center of the town after depositing my luggage at the B & B, and once again find a coffee shop from which I can look through the large windows and watch people come and go. Walking again, I buy a sandwich at a grocery store and sit on a park bench near the middle of town, and I am comfortable with ending the trip like this: quiet, relaxed, unhurried. On the way back to the hotel later, I turn left and turn right and generally circle about the town before finding a secluded pathway that cuts from one neighborhood to another and ends a few hundred hards from the B & B. It is nice to find such pathways and to bet that they will end in good places....
Successful take-offs are always good, and I leave England behind on April 3, 2007, one day before my birthday, one day before the start of another decade. Approaching Dallas, where I will wait for 3 hours before catching the flight home, we fly through and then descend into beautiful thunderheads. The weather closes in not long after we land, and I can see the clouds and rain push into the airport. The monitors show the story: nothing's landing, nothing's taking off. I call home to let my wife know I will be delayed, and then I sit and think of the woman who sat next to me from Gatwick to Dallas.
She was returning from the Isle of Man and visiting her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson. She is returning to Ft. Smith, Arkansas, where she lives with her husband, her dog, and her cat. She and her husband both are retired military; she tells me of her cat, which, among other things, has carried into the house a bat and a baby copperhead. The dog and the cat explore together, she says.
Funny how you know things, though, maybe more funny how you know them too late. After she tells me about her pets, I ask her how many children she has. I regret it instantly. "I have two," she says, "but until recently I had three."
Yes, of course. I somehow knew this, and it was not funny.
She says that she has only now arrived at a point where she can say this without crying, and I do not know what to say. I tell her of a friend of mine, an artist, whose son was killed in a car wreck near Elko, Nevada, on a trip home to see her. Now, she has only one son. I tell the woman from Arkansas that my friend, too, finally reached a point where when people asked her how many children she has, she says "I have one son."
I don't, though, think my seatmate was comforted....
My wait is brief compared to other people who wait for the storm to move through, and at least my plane did not originate somewhere else. I keep checking the monitors, and my 90-minute delay is a third of what others face. I also check the flight scheduled to leave for Ft. Smith, Arkansas right before I board my plane: the woman's flight will be 4 hours late leaving Dallas. As we take off, I think of her and if she is not just alone but lonely now, that loneliness deepened by the exhaustion from the flight and the frustration from the delay. I find I wish I had said something more to her, found a way to help her feel better. And I think of her cat bringing her gifts, as poisonous as they might be.
My last day in London, I start the day with coffee and croissant at Caffe' Nero not far from my B & B in Paddington. One more subway ride today, once more to Victoria Station from where I'll catch a train to Gatwick, and from there take a cab to my final (the seventh) hotel of my journey....
Then, at Starbucks in Victoria Station, I linger for awhile before boarding the train, not in a rush to leave but not reluctant to do so. I think that everyone should do something like this: a couple weeks alone and unencumbered save for the annoyance of a backpack... In 2 weeks I have had a substantial conversation with, what, one person?
Arrived in the small town of Horley without incident, and it is here I will spend my final night in England. I find my way to the center of the town after depositing my luggage at the B & B, and once again find a coffee shop from which I can look through the large windows and watch people come and go. Walking again, I buy a sandwich at a grocery store and sit on a park bench near the middle of town, and I am comfortable with ending the trip like this: quiet, relaxed, unhurried. On the way back to the hotel later, I turn left and turn right and generally circle about the town before finding a secluded pathway that cuts from one neighborhood to another and ends a few hundred hards from the B & B. It is nice to find such pathways and to bet that they will end in good places....
Successful take-offs are always good, and I leave England behind on April 3, 2007, one day before my birthday, one day before the start of another decade. Approaching Dallas, where I will wait for 3 hours before catching the flight home, we fly through and then descend into beautiful thunderheads. The weather closes in not long after we land, and I can see the clouds and rain push into the airport. The monitors show the story: nothing's landing, nothing's taking off. I call home to let my wife know I will be delayed, and then I sit and think of the woman who sat next to me from Gatwick to Dallas.
She was returning from the Isle of Man and visiting her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson. She is returning to Ft. Smith, Arkansas, where she lives with her husband, her dog, and her cat. She and her husband both are retired military; she tells me of her cat, which, among other things, has carried into the house a bat and a baby copperhead. The dog and the cat explore together, she says.
Funny how you know things, though, maybe more funny how you know them too late. After she tells me about her pets, I ask her how many children she has. I regret it instantly. "I have two," she says, "but until recently I had three."
Yes, of course. I somehow knew this, and it was not funny.
She says that she has only now arrived at a point where she can say this without crying, and I do not know what to say. I tell her of a friend of mine, an artist, whose son was killed in a car wreck near Elko, Nevada, on a trip home to see her. Now, she has only one son. I tell the woman from Arkansas that my friend, too, finally reached a point where when people asked her how many children she has, she says "I have one son."
I don't, though, think my seatmate was comforted....
My wait is brief compared to other people who wait for the storm to move through, and at least my plane did not originate somewhere else. I keep checking the monitors, and my 90-minute delay is a third of what others face. I also check the flight scheduled to leave for Ft. Smith, Arkansas right before I board my plane: the woman's flight will be 4 hours late leaving Dallas. As we take off, I think of her and if she is not just alone but lonely now, that loneliness deepened by the exhaustion from the flight and the frustration from the delay. I find I wish I had said something more to her, found a way to help her feel better. And I think of her cat bringing her gifts, as poisonous as they might be.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Queen Does Not Ask Me to Tea
The almost-final day
This has got to end: travelogues are not my genre (yes, I know: what is?), and I am eager to move on, to find a way to better follow Kominski's insight....
My final day in London, and I am off to a slow start: checking out of one hotel and into another. As I pack, I wonder about the things I've missed these last 2 weeks, but I am also content with what I have seen. I have, in fact, been astonishingly astonished every day.... Took the train to Victoria Station and walked to Buckingham Palace--what a bizarre sight! Hundreds of people were pushed against the Palace fence, all of them apparently hoping to catch a glimpse of something or someone. I am reminded of how people at zoos stare at the large cats and then collectively ooh and ahh when a tiger, say, licks its paw.
I wonder what the Queen thinks when she stares out a window. And the guards: do they stare back at everyone and wonder just what we're doing? Here are some of the people, some of the time: at the gates, away from the gates.
Still on foot, I try to navigate to Harrod's, though I find some difficulty in tracing my way across the map. Harrod's is, simply, a hoot: crowded and intense. Those people who are not at the Palace must be here. I do not know the official name of the area, but the architecture in this neighborhood differs greatly from Paddington--much more stone here.
I also visit a couple of museums, including the Albert and Victoria, which has some wonderful sculpture. Returning to my room by train, I rest for awhile in the advent of a slight head cold. Then, I make my way back to Hyde Park to enjoy a leisurely hike through the crowds. I walk by Kennsington Palace and discover Albert Hall (below)not long before I begin to feel somewhat feverish. I cannot, however, stop, for this is London, and London is in England, and I have not been here. I walk counter-clockwise back to where I entered the park on my first day.
By the time I return to my room, my feet and legs are very tired, and I am very tired. After cleaning up a bit, I walk to a small cafe', one with metal tables and plastic chairs, and a couple of guys working a grill, and I eat a greasy bacon burger and some fries--the type of food I have avoided for decades but which now is the best I have ever eaten. I trudge back to my room with the burger in my gut, and I watch the alley outside my room grow darker.
This has got to end: travelogues are not my genre (yes, I know: what is?), and I am eager to move on, to find a way to better follow Kominski's insight....
My final day in London, and I am off to a slow start: checking out of one hotel and into another. As I pack, I wonder about the things I've missed these last 2 weeks, but I am also content with what I have seen. I have, in fact, been astonishingly astonished every day.... Took the train to Victoria Station and walked to Buckingham Palace--what a bizarre sight! Hundreds of people were pushed against the Palace fence, all of them apparently hoping to catch a glimpse of something or someone. I am reminded of how people at zoos stare at the large cats and then collectively ooh and ahh when a tiger, say, licks its paw.
I wonder what the Queen thinks when she stares out a window. And the guards: do they stare back at everyone and wonder just what we're doing? Here are some of the people, some of the time: at the gates, away from the gates.
Still on foot, I try to navigate to Harrod's, though I find some difficulty in tracing my way across the map. Harrod's is, simply, a hoot: crowded and intense. Those people who are not at the Palace must be here. I do not know the official name of the area, but the architecture in this neighborhood differs greatly from Paddington--much more stone here.
I also visit a couple of museums, including the Albert and Victoria, which has some wonderful sculpture. Returning to my room by train, I rest for awhile in the advent of a slight head cold. Then, I make my way back to Hyde Park to enjoy a leisurely hike through the crowds. I walk by Kennsington Palace and discover Albert Hall (below)not long before I begin to feel somewhat feverish. I cannot, however, stop, for this is London, and London is in England, and I have not been here. I walk counter-clockwise back to where I entered the park on my first day.
By the time I return to my room, my feet and legs are very tired, and I am very tired. After cleaning up a bit, I walk to a small cafe', one with metal tables and plastic chairs, and a couple of guys working a grill, and I eat a greasy bacon burger and some fries--the type of food I have avoided for decades but which now is the best I have ever eaten. I trudge back to my room with the burger in my gut, and I watch the alley outside my room grow darker.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
"Look, Kids, Big Ben!"
We begin to wind down.
Leaving Dover, and the sun has finally come out, which is a nice change after being drizzled on for most of the day yesterday. I leave with an odd sense of sadness, something I also experienced when leaving both York and Edinburgh.
Then again, I have always felt sad about leaving places, even when I left the ship in Yokosuka, Japan, after being on board for over 2 years: I sat on the pier waiting for a bus to take me to Tokyo and the flight home, and I felt as lonely as I did the day I first arrived.
On the train to London, I think that I am not sure of what I'll do for the next 2 days: Westminster Cathedral is still on my list. I do hope for warm weather, for I'm sick and tired of wearing long sleeves and jackets... Victoria Station is extremely crowded when I disembark on this Saturday afternoon; people are going everywhere they can. I am quite pleased that I can get to my hotel via the Underground and do not have to walk across Hyde Park again.
My room at the Dylan is not bad, as it shouldn't be for the price of 65 pounds, the most expensive room of the trip, double what I paid in Dover and York. After unpacking yet again, I head to Covent Garden once more. Walking without design, I come upon Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, which I visit for awhile. Trafalgar Square looks like this:
Then, seeing Big Ben in the distance, I head toward it and discover for Parliament and Westminster Cathedral. I am too late to enter the Cathedral, however, so it will have to wait until I return. I do get to hear Big Ben chime about 5 minutes after this picture is taken, which is a nice treat:
I had purchased an "Irish"-style cap in Covent Garden, and as I was walking along near Big Bend, a gust of wind took possession of the cap and dropped it behind a stone wall in front of an official-looking building. Surveying the number of surveillance cameras around me, I decide not to simply scale the wall but to ask a guard at the building parking lot if I'll get shot if I retrieve my cap. He tells me to go ahead, and I feel like the stupid tourist that I am. He watched me closely, of course.
Behind the Cathedral I find the Thames, and I am treated to this somewhat absurd view:
I don't know--I just don't see how something so Disneylandesque should be there. Especially when there is something like this nearby (Westminster):
Or like this (Parliament):
Returning to Trafalgar Square, I am stopped by a French couple and their map, and they ask me if I can help them read their map and get oriented--I don't know if I help much, but they pretend that I have. Back at Covent Garden, I eat a hot pasty for dinner, then ride the train back to Paddington, picking up a bottle of Pinot Grigio before returning to my room.
I am tired and fall asleep while watching one of the 4 television channels. Tomorrow is my final day in London.
Leaving Dover, and the sun has finally come out, which is a nice change after being drizzled on for most of the day yesterday. I leave with an odd sense of sadness, something I also experienced when leaving both York and Edinburgh.
Then again, I have always felt sad about leaving places, even when I left the ship in Yokosuka, Japan, after being on board for over 2 years: I sat on the pier waiting for a bus to take me to Tokyo and the flight home, and I felt as lonely as I did the day I first arrived.
On the train to London, I think that I am not sure of what I'll do for the next 2 days: Westminster Cathedral is still on my list. I do hope for warm weather, for I'm sick and tired of wearing long sleeves and jackets... Victoria Station is extremely crowded when I disembark on this Saturday afternoon; people are going everywhere they can. I am quite pleased that I can get to my hotel via the Underground and do not have to walk across Hyde Park again.
My room at the Dylan is not bad, as it shouldn't be for the price of 65 pounds, the most expensive room of the trip, double what I paid in Dover and York. After unpacking yet again, I head to Covent Garden once more. Walking without design, I come upon Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, which I visit for awhile. Trafalgar Square looks like this:
Then, seeing Big Ben in the distance, I head toward it and discover for Parliament and Westminster Cathedral. I am too late to enter the Cathedral, however, so it will have to wait until I return. I do get to hear Big Ben chime about 5 minutes after this picture is taken, which is a nice treat:
I had purchased an "Irish"-style cap in Covent Garden, and as I was walking along near Big Bend, a gust of wind took possession of the cap and dropped it behind a stone wall in front of an official-looking building. Surveying the number of surveillance cameras around me, I decide not to simply scale the wall but to ask a guard at the building parking lot if I'll get shot if I retrieve my cap. He tells me to go ahead, and I feel like the stupid tourist that I am. He watched me closely, of course.
Behind the Cathedral I find the Thames, and I am treated to this somewhat absurd view:
I don't know--I just don't see how something so Disneylandesque should be there. Especially when there is something like this nearby (Westminster):
Or like this (Parliament):
Returning to Trafalgar Square, I am stopped by a French couple and their map, and they ask me if I can help them read their map and get oriented--I don't know if I help much, but they pretend that I have. Back at Covent Garden, I eat a hot pasty for dinner, then ride the train back to Paddington, picking up a bottle of Pinot Grigio before returning to my room.
I am tired and fall asleep while watching one of the 4 television channels. Tomorrow is my final day in London.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
A Canterbury Tale
On the road to Canterbury
The train ride from Dover to Canterbury is direct and quick, but when I get to Canterbury itself, I have no idea of where to go. But, just as in Dover when I'd headed in the direction of what I assumed was a castle, I walk toward where I think I have seen a cathedral's spires. I find that my path is along the old city wall, which brings memories of York. Again, I walk through mist and am glad for my raincoat.
The cathedral is well worth the price of admission, and I further recognize how stupid I was to skip the cathedral in York because of the cost. Perhaps my scant knowledge of Canterbury's history is what sways me. Thomas Beckett was slain here, and the spot is marked with an understated subtleness that fits a cathedral. The Black Prince is entombed here, as are assorted archbishops. A distraction here is the large group of school kids--maybe the same French kids I saw in the Dickens museum--taking pictures with their cell phones as they chatter and squeal. If they would look down, they would see how gray stone has been worn smooth by pilgrims and supplicants.
Amazing: stone this hard worn smooth by countless people moving on soft feet or even their knees.
I spend a good amount of time in the cathedral, and I pause at a small shrine to martyrs--a touching display surrounded by small candles that visitors have ignited. I also walk around the cathedral grounds, which are extensive and include the ruins of an ancient church, then head toward the city center that reminds me of York in its layout. During a lunch of fish & chips and beer, I ponder my travels so far and think that if I return, I would like to return to Canterbury. Dover? I probably would not go there again--other than castle there, I did not see much of interest.
I am eager for London again, and I am perhaps a bit trip-weary. I have moved in one way or another for over a week, and I think I need a rest.
The train ride from Dover to Canterbury is direct and quick, but when I get to Canterbury itself, I have no idea of where to go. But, just as in Dover when I'd headed in the direction of what I assumed was a castle, I walk toward where I think I have seen a cathedral's spires. I find that my path is along the old city wall, which brings memories of York. Again, I walk through mist and am glad for my raincoat.
The cathedral is well worth the price of admission, and I further recognize how stupid I was to skip the cathedral in York because of the cost. Perhaps my scant knowledge of Canterbury's history is what sways me. Thomas Beckett was slain here, and the spot is marked with an understated subtleness that fits a cathedral. The Black Prince is entombed here, as are assorted archbishops. A distraction here is the large group of school kids--maybe the same French kids I saw in the Dickens museum--taking pictures with their cell phones as they chatter and squeal. If they would look down, they would see how gray stone has been worn smooth by pilgrims and supplicants.
Amazing: stone this hard worn smooth by countless people moving on soft feet or even their knees.
I spend a good amount of time in the cathedral, and I pause at a small shrine to martyrs--a touching display surrounded by small candles that visitors have ignited. I also walk around the cathedral grounds, which are extensive and include the ruins of an ancient church, then head toward the city center that reminds me of York in its layout. During a lunch of fish & chips and beer, I ponder my travels so far and think that if I return, I would like to return to Canterbury. Dover? I probably would not go there again--other than castle there, I did not see much of interest.
I am eager for London again, and I am perhaps a bit trip-weary. I have moved in one way or another for over a week, and I think I need a rest.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Interlude
For Alice: January 14, 1934 - March 20, 1993
Last week, I heard a commenter on National Public Radio note the number of blogs created each day, that the only people who read most blogs are the writers and their mothers.
Happy birthday, Mom.
Last week, I heard a commenter on National Public Radio note the number of blogs created each day, that the only people who read most blogs are the writers and their mothers.
Happy birthday, Mom.
To Dover, to Dover
We change places yet again.
Now on my way to Dover aboard a train that splits--half goes one way at some point, half goes another. With five nights remaining before I head home, I am even more weary of this damn luggage, of filling it up and emptying it out.... For the most part, from what I've seen from trains, the majority of people here reside in row houses, not detached homes. But, perhaps it is no different here than in areas near American cities. The landscape along this route is green hills; the trees are leafless, and true spring appears to be a few weeks away. In Edinburgh, people commented on the blooming daffodils, and the owner of the B & B said that the climate has changed so much over the years, she can no longer predict when the weather will be "good."
Though the Dover train station is small, I was a bit lost, or at least disoriented, when I got off the train. I also found that I did not have a map of the city, so after checking things outside, I sat down in the station's cafe' and soothed myself with a cup of coffee. Later, after a few wrong turns and working from a mental map created from countless glances of maps of Dover available on the Internet, I made the correct turn and found the B & B. And, as I had gathered from looking at those same maps, it is on one of the busiest streets in the city. Still, the price is right and the room is nice enough: a bed, a sink, and extra chair, a window that opens. The bathroom and shower are down the hall.
Though the day was gray, I decided to hike to where, from near the train station, I thought I had seen the outline of a castle high above the city. Unencumbered by my heavy pack, walking is much easier, and I finally work my way through town, find signs that point toward the castle, and ascend a couple of steep streets and a very long sidewalk. Wet from sweat and mist, I located the ticket booth where a very nice woman gave me a discount on my admission because of the late hour. The castle itself impressed me more than the one in Edinburgh had: less touristy, less commercial, someone more "genuine." Much of my stroll around the castle grounds was in the rain, but that was truly just fine. The sun emerged just as I left the castle and headed back toward town. I stopped at one point to look out over the English Channel, and I thought of the history there, the invasions and assaults that started across the water. From what I have read, Dover itself was nearly flattened during German bombings in WWII.
I have considered crossing the channel tomorrow to visit Calais, France, but instead decide to head toward Canterbury to see how much more wet I can get in the rain that is forecast for the region.
Now on my way to Dover aboard a train that splits--half goes one way at some point, half goes another. With five nights remaining before I head home, I am even more weary of this damn luggage, of filling it up and emptying it out.... For the most part, from what I've seen from trains, the majority of people here reside in row houses, not detached homes. But, perhaps it is no different here than in areas near American cities. The landscape along this route is green hills; the trees are leafless, and true spring appears to be a few weeks away. In Edinburgh, people commented on the blooming daffodils, and the owner of the B & B said that the climate has changed so much over the years, she can no longer predict when the weather will be "good."
Though the Dover train station is small, I was a bit lost, or at least disoriented, when I got off the train. I also found that I did not have a map of the city, so after checking things outside, I sat down in the station's cafe' and soothed myself with a cup of coffee. Later, after a few wrong turns and working from a mental map created from countless glances of maps of Dover available on the Internet, I made the correct turn and found the B & B. And, as I had gathered from looking at those same maps, it is on one of the busiest streets in the city. Still, the price is right and the room is nice enough: a bed, a sink, and extra chair, a window that opens. The bathroom and shower are down the hall.
Though the day was gray, I decided to hike to where, from near the train station, I thought I had seen the outline of a castle high above the city. Unencumbered by my heavy pack, walking is much easier, and I finally work my way through town, find signs that point toward the castle, and ascend a couple of steep streets and a very long sidewalk. Wet from sweat and mist, I located the ticket booth where a very nice woman gave me a discount on my admission because of the late hour. The castle itself impressed me more than the one in Edinburgh had: less touristy, less commercial, someone more "genuine." Much of my stroll around the castle grounds was in the rain, but that was truly just fine. The sun emerged just as I left the castle and headed back toward town. I stopped at one point to look out over the English Channel, and I thought of the history there, the invasions and assaults that started across the water. From what I have read, Dover itself was nearly flattened during German bombings in WWII.
I have considered crossing the channel tomorrow to visit Calais, France, but instead decide to head toward Canterbury to see how much more wet I can get in the rain that is forecast for the region.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
London Calling
Minding the gap again.
Perhaps because I am only now beginning to feel somewhat comfortable in Edinburgh, I am sad that this is my last day here. But, I am also eager for London, where I will stay for one night before dropping down to Dover for 2 nights.
On the train from Edinburgh.... The previous 4 days have passed quickly, and I am trying hard to not regret doing one thing or another. If I return, I would like to travel north just to see more of the country, or perhaps make a trip to Glasgow.... The train's route follows part of the coast, which reminds me of the California coastline north of Bodega Bay: this is a place where a man could stop to rest and never start again. Each day of travel has helped my confidence as far as getting from one place to another, and I hope the entire journey will help me become less fearful of the world beyond. If nothing else, I have become proficient at packing my bags and moving from one place to another. Partway into the ride my watch stops working, and I am left to rely on my iPod for the correct time. At some point, however, the digital Timex is reborn. I can't help wondering if I've missed something....
Then, in London that day.... After arriving at Kings Cross station, I walk to the Fairway Inn, and I am instantly glad I will spend only a single night here. The neighborhood--and the people sitting on a doorstep across the street--could be improved. I return to the Paddington area to ferret out rooms for the 2 nights I'll be in London after returning from Dover, but I find that rooms are scarce for one of those nights, which will be a Saturday. Fortunately (or not, perhaps) I find a room for one night in the Glendale Hyde Park, where I spent my first 2 nights in London. The woman working the counter remembers me, and she says that while she has no rooms for my second night, she can recommend somplace down the street: The Dylan House.
"The what?" I say.
"The Dylan."
Of course.
At the Dylan House, Tony, an old, heavyset man, manages The Dylan. When I tell him I am spending that night near Kings Cross, he provides some history. "It's not as bad as it used to be. People don't get stuck with a knife as often now."
Oh.
Tony has more: "Most of those B & Bs should have red lights outside."
Thanks, Tony.
I return to a restaurant I visited on the second night of my trip to enjoy dinner and once again have a glass of Pinot Grigio, a wine I discovered during my first dinner here. I think that while I don't feel I've seen much of London, I am quite comfortable in the Paddington area.... Tomorrow, though, I will catch a 10:30 train to Dover, which means I have to get to Victoria Station early enough to figure out just how to find the Dover train....
The next morning I am served a bland breakfast by a woman who is as uninterested in my American accent as I am in her Eastern European voice. The day is overcast and rainy, and the train to Victoria Station is extremely crowded, reminding me of the trains in Japan. I am wearing my fleece jacket and am hot from carrying my luggage to train. The man who stands beside me is wearing a nice suit, oblivious to 2 beads of sweat that drip off my wrist and onto his shoulder. In Victoria Station, I rest at a table outside a coffee shop. I drink coffee and watch the people and pigeons, and every now and then I check the overhead display to see on which track my train will stop.
I have figured out how to get to Dover, and I am waiting to go there.
Perhaps because I am only now beginning to feel somewhat comfortable in Edinburgh, I am sad that this is my last day here. But, I am also eager for London, where I will stay for one night before dropping down to Dover for 2 nights.
On the train from Edinburgh.... The previous 4 days have passed quickly, and I am trying hard to not regret doing one thing or another. If I return, I would like to travel north just to see more of the country, or perhaps make a trip to Glasgow.... The train's route follows part of the coast, which reminds me of the California coastline north of Bodega Bay: this is a place where a man could stop to rest and never start again. Each day of travel has helped my confidence as far as getting from one place to another, and I hope the entire journey will help me become less fearful of the world beyond. If nothing else, I have become proficient at packing my bags and moving from one place to another. Partway into the ride my watch stops working, and I am left to rely on my iPod for the correct time. At some point, however, the digital Timex is reborn. I can't help wondering if I've missed something....
Then, in London that day.... After arriving at Kings Cross station, I walk to the Fairway Inn, and I am instantly glad I will spend only a single night here. The neighborhood--and the people sitting on a doorstep across the street--could be improved. I return to the Paddington area to ferret out rooms for the 2 nights I'll be in London after returning from Dover, but I find that rooms are scarce for one of those nights, which will be a Saturday. Fortunately (or not, perhaps) I find a room for one night in the Glendale Hyde Park, where I spent my first 2 nights in London. The woman working the counter remembers me, and she says that while she has no rooms for my second night, she can recommend somplace down the street: The Dylan House.
"The what?" I say.
"The Dylan."
Of course.
At the Dylan House, Tony, an old, heavyset man, manages The Dylan. When I tell him I am spending that night near Kings Cross, he provides some history. "It's not as bad as it used to be. People don't get stuck with a knife as often now."
Oh.
Tony has more: "Most of those B & Bs should have red lights outside."
Thanks, Tony.
I return to a restaurant I visited on the second night of my trip to enjoy dinner and once again have a glass of Pinot Grigio, a wine I discovered during my first dinner here. I think that while I don't feel I've seen much of London, I am quite comfortable in the Paddington area.... Tomorrow, though, I will catch a 10:30 train to Dover, which means I have to get to Victoria Station early enough to figure out just how to find the Dover train....
The next morning I am served a bland breakfast by a woman who is as uninterested in my American accent as I am in her Eastern European voice. The day is overcast and rainy, and the train to Victoria Station is extremely crowded, reminding me of the trains in Japan. I am wearing my fleece jacket and am hot from carrying my luggage to train. The man who stands beside me is wearing a nice suit, oblivious to 2 beads of sweat that drip off my wrist and onto his shoulder. In Victoria Station, I rest at a table outside a coffee shop. I drink coffee and watch the people and pigeons, and every now and then I check the overhead display to see on which track my train will stop.
I have figured out how to get to Dover, and I am waiting to go there.
Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Fifth
Where we linger further in Edinburgh whilst preparing to depart...and have yet another Dylan moment.
Another good, filling breakfast--and no computer problems to resolve. But, to start the day, we must return to Bob Dylan for a reference.... As I refilled my coffee cup, the B & B owner said, "You're like me: another cup of coffee. You know, like the Bob Dylan song?"
Walked around both New Town and Old Town throughout the day, starting with a hike in a light drizzle up and down hills and through parts of the city I've not seen. Each day I am here, I venture farther beyond th familiar, and I am less likely to consult my maps. Visited the Scottish Poetry Library and spent some time thumbing through a collection of both old and contemporary poets. Had lunch (excellent fish and chips, with beer) at the Bad Ass Cafe, which is down the street from both Filthy McNasty's and Dirty Dicks, names that are much more interesting than McDonald's.
I am not looking forward to tomorrow, when I've got to return to London, figure out how to get to Dover, and find a place to stay when I return to London after Dover. I am not, apparently (and obviously), adventurous enough to simply ad-lib everything as I travel; for if I were, I would not worry about where I'll stay.
While strolling about yet another cemetery today, this one adjacent to Princes Street and below the castle, I find a pathway that led through a park and then up the side of the hill on which the castle stands. I had seen the path from the castle, but had not given it much thought until coming across it here. It was a good, long hike up the side of the hill and to the Royal Mile, and I wondered how many people have made the same ascent over the centuries. Think of that: how unique we believe our journeys to be when they in truth are anything but.
For a couple of months before starting my trip, I would occasionally view a webcam focused on a spot on Edinburgh's Royal Mile. The camera would alternate between 2 views: one of the courtyard outside of St. Giles' Cathedral, the other of the street itself, including a garbage dumpster. I told my son that I would find that dumpster and that camera, which I finally did. From beside the dumpster, I looked up at the camera, and I suppose for a moment it was looking at me. Such cameras are everywhere I traveled--most are identified with signs such as "CATV"--and are used by one law enforcement entity or another to monitor what happens on the streets and sidewalks.
This same type of surveillance tool is becoming more common in the U.S. now, ostensibly for our own good, so that those charged with protecting us can tell us we are much safer if we are watched. In Sacramento, where I live, the Sheriff's department is gleeful that, in addition to cameras, unmaned drones will soon be hovering above us to fight crime. We are assured, however, that these drones will not patrol willy-nilly to watch us, but will be deployed only to those places where, say, a crime is in progress.
In the evening, I pack yet again, preparing for my walk to the train station tomorrow morning and the return to London. I feel safe in my hotel room, even though I am not being watched.
Another good, filling breakfast--and no computer problems to resolve. But, to start the day, we must return to Bob Dylan for a reference.... As I refilled my coffee cup, the B & B owner said, "You're like me: another cup of coffee. You know, like the Bob Dylan song?"
Walked around both New Town and Old Town throughout the day, starting with a hike in a light drizzle up and down hills and through parts of the city I've not seen. Each day I am here, I venture farther beyond th familiar, and I am less likely to consult my maps. Visited the Scottish Poetry Library and spent some time thumbing through a collection of both old and contemporary poets. Had lunch (excellent fish and chips, with beer) at the Bad Ass Cafe, which is down the street from both Filthy McNasty's and Dirty Dicks, names that are much more interesting than McDonald's.
I am not looking forward to tomorrow, when I've got to return to London, figure out how to get to Dover, and find a place to stay when I return to London after Dover. I am not, apparently (and obviously), adventurous enough to simply ad-lib everything as I travel; for if I were, I would not worry about where I'll stay.
While strolling about yet another cemetery today, this one adjacent to Princes Street and below the castle, I find a pathway that led through a park and then up the side of the hill on which the castle stands. I had seen the path from the castle, but had not given it much thought until coming across it here. It was a good, long hike up the side of the hill and to the Royal Mile, and I wondered how many people have made the same ascent over the centuries. Think of that: how unique we believe our journeys to be when they in truth are anything but.
For a couple of months before starting my trip, I would occasionally view a webcam focused on a spot on Edinburgh's Royal Mile. The camera would alternate between 2 views: one of the courtyard outside of St. Giles' Cathedral, the other of the street itself, including a garbage dumpster. I told my son that I would find that dumpster and that camera, which I finally did. From beside the dumpster, I looked up at the camera, and I suppose for a moment it was looking at me. Such cameras are everywhere I traveled--most are identified with signs such as "CATV"--and are used by one law enforcement entity or another to monitor what happens on the streets and sidewalks.
This same type of surveillance tool is becoming more common in the U.S. now, ostensibly for our own good, so that those charged with protecting us can tell us we are much safer if we are watched. In Sacramento, where I live, the Sheriff's department is gleeful that, in addition to cameras, unmaned drones will soon be hovering above us to fight crime. We are assured, however, that these drones will not patrol willy-nilly to watch us, but will be deployed only to those places where, say, a crime is in progress.
In the evening, I pack yet again, preparing for my walk to the train station tomorrow morning and the return to London. I feel safe in my hotel room, even though I am not being watched.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Reviewing the Reviewer: Part Three
Comments on a Review of A Book About the State of Reviewing Books
We don’t need this but here it is. I asked for it. You got it.
Wolcott vs. Pool vs. Reviews vs. Internet vs. jon.
http://www.tnr.com/politics/story.html?id=69e34cc4-6eb7-4c69-a5a7-24681dfac7c4
Wolcott makes me smile with lines like this:
“They tore the iridescent wings off Romantic poets for sport, and crouched in the hills like hyenas waiting for Hemingway to falter. Insidious by nature, they fluff up authors' reputations in order to fatten them up for the sacrificial kill: the young slain for failing to live up to their early promise, their distinguished elders dragged by their whiskers into the lair of the spider-queen, Michiko Kakutani, to be eaten. Even the most scrupulous and fair-minded reviewer is considered suspect, a discount knockoff of a real writer.”
Before we pop our corks, let’s get the glasses. Reviewing a book review about books about reviewing books was MY IDEA. I take full responsibility. But as you will see, there is no end in sight. Once we start down this road, we’re essentially fucked. Let me quote the great Frank Zappa:
“Most rock journalism is people who can't write, interviewing people who can't talk, for people who can't read.”
The same goes for books and those who write their reviews. The reviewers sometimes think they are artists who are above journalism. But bottom line they are writers. And some writers are no better and can behave even worse in public because they take themselves SERIOUSLY. They are men and women of LETTERS. They have drilled down to a granular level where they think they are the SALT. They think they are the SHIT. And they very well may be. Who knows? By definition I am a writer here because I have written this crap. And I may even be an artist. But only if my crap sells. You’ll have to skip ahead to the BONUS QUOTE at the end to find that out.
In fact, as a Certified Master of the Obvious, I see my work here is DONE. It’s a NO BRAINER. Let’s leave the way we came in. Before shit met fan. Previous to the serious. We’ll end with a quote and a comment because that’s the way we are now.
Here’s the great QUOTE and the lame COMMENT:
“The noise volume of this volubility explodes when Pool leaves the fenced-in confines of print and strays into the asteroid belt of Internet reviewing. Buffeted by the fraggy clusterfuck of hidden agendas, free-floating animosity, and arbitrary verdicts, she finds herself clutching her space helmet in the uncharted void.”
“As a serial book reviewer I enjoyed the piece. As a resident of the
Well jon, the word INTERNET was a keyword; perhaps a hint; maybe even an epiphany foregone. They obviously have computers in class-consciously backwards countries like the
Try www.urbandictionary.com. You will find another keyword hidden there like some bullshit DaVinci Code. It’s INEPT.
BONUS QUOTE
“Art is making something out of nothing and selling it.” –Frank Zappa
Merry Christmas to all. And to all a good fight.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Fourth
We encounter no more angels; we start planning ahead; we play castle keep.
Funny how insomnia can follow someone not only through a lifetime, but from one country to another. After a restless night and a substantial breakfast, I spend over an hour helping the B&B's owner figure out how to attach photographs to email, among other computer problems she has endured. I learn much about her, including the fact that she was once a cook aboard a merchant ship. An old man eating breakfast says his wife travels all the time, and she hates flying to/through the United States because her airport experience has included "being locked up in waiting rooms with armed guards." He seems not to believe me when I tell him I've never experienced anything like that. He also says that he's never really known his mother, who'd apparently abandoned him before settling in Phoenix after spending many years in Alaska.
Wanderings today include a visit to the Scottish Museum, which offers displays on the country's "geologic and societal evolution." The guillotine is especially interesting, though much smaller than I would have thought. I also wander, mostly by accident, into an old friars' graveyard in Old Town. Edinburgh is full of graveyards that are parts of the city rather than separated from it, something I've seen in places like Boston, MA, and Hartford, CT. Stepping through these cemeteries and touching the headstones reminds you of the impermanence of things, of people.
At some point in the afternoon I recognize that the previous night's restlessness was caused by mental preparation/ planning for the return to London, where I will spend one night before heading down to Dover. I have 2 nights in London for which I have no lodging reserved, so I'll have to take care of that as soon as I can.
I visit the castle today and am a bit disillusioned by the Disneyland-like quality of it all. I'm not sure of what I expected; perhaps I am more suited to castle ruins.
Funny how insomnia can follow someone not only through a lifetime, but from one country to another. After a restless night and a substantial breakfast, I spend over an hour helping the B&B's owner figure out how to attach photographs to email, among other computer problems she has endured. I learn much about her, including the fact that she was once a cook aboard a merchant ship. An old man eating breakfast says his wife travels all the time, and she hates flying to/through the United States because her airport experience has included "being locked up in waiting rooms with armed guards." He seems not to believe me when I tell him I've never experienced anything like that. He also says that he's never really known his mother, who'd apparently abandoned him before settling in Phoenix after spending many years in Alaska.
Wanderings today include a visit to the Scottish Museum, which offers displays on the country's "geologic and societal evolution." The guillotine is especially interesting, though much smaller than I would have thought. I also wander, mostly by accident, into an old friars' graveyard in Old Town. Edinburgh is full of graveyards that are parts of the city rather than separated from it, something I've seen in places like Boston, MA, and Hartford, CT. Stepping through these cemeteries and touching the headstones reminds you of the impermanence of things, of people.
At some point in the afternoon I recognize that the previous night's restlessness was caused by mental preparation/ planning for the return to London, where I will spend one night before heading down to Dover. I have 2 nights in London for which I have no lodging reserved, so I'll have to take care of that as soon as I can.
I visit the castle today and am a bit disillusioned by the Disneyland-like quality of it all. I'm not sure of what I expected; perhaps I am more suited to castle ruins.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Third
A basic continuation of Part, the Second. Here we leave the French angel behind; we settle down for a beer; we meet the Swede.
I leave at least the physical version of the angel behind and head up the Royal Mile, toward the castle, and drop into and out of various tourist shops, thinking all the while that what I see on the shelves is not unlike what I've seen in tourist shops in other places. Near St. Giles' Cathedral, which is a fine place if you are ever need a quiet place to rest, I pass a street musician who packs away his cell phone and begins strumming the opening guitar chords to Bob Dylan's "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." I know these chords because I have played them. I linger across the street waiting for the musician to sing, but when he doesn't, I turn right off the Royal Mile and find my way to Rose Street, in New Town (which, really, is simply less old than Old Town). More specifically, I find my way to a the Rose Street Brewery, just uphill from Princes Street, where I order a beer, sit down, and feel good to be off my feet for the first time in nearly 8 hours.
[Blog-entry interlude... I have often carried small notebooks on various travels. I have a few friends who do likewise (Tom, Shawn, and Lazlo, for example, though Lazlo generally carries scraps of paper onto which he records the genetic material for upcoming works of literary significance). I am not, however, one to bare said notebooks in public, just as I do not take my shirt off away from total darkness, and probably for the same reasons--embarrassment, a certain unwillingness to display too much information about myself. This certainly contributes to the lack of detail penned into my notebooks... On this late afternoon, however, I indeed had my notebook and pen on the table. End of interlude.]
As I sit with my beer while writing in my notebook, a short, stocky, brown-haired man walks into the bar. He, too, orders a beer, and he sits down at a nearby table, where he produces not only a notebook similar to my Moleskine, but a copy of Czeslaw Milosz's Roadside Dog, a book I not only own, but have read. My first reaction is to stow my pen and Moleskine, for I don't want to be the cliche' writer sitting over a notebook in a dark bar (even though I am). When I return from the bar with another beer, he walks over and asks if he can join me--he says that he has seen me writing, that we must have something in common.
He tells me he is Mark. I tell him who I am. He says he is Swedish, a university professor in Stockholm where he teaches comparative literature. I tell him I've seen what he is reading, that I've got a friend who's Polish and who likes Milosz. He says he is in Edinburgh for a seminar that somehow (I miss the exact title) combines Freud and "writing your life." Unable to get into the seminar, however, he has instead spent 3 days drinking. I tell him there are worse things.
He has a family--wife, daughter, son--but he hates the idea of being part of a family, that he can't stand things like family dinners. He'd rather drink or read (neither of which are bad activities, I think), but he does enjoy being one-on-one with his children. He says his father is an alcoholic and is ill, and that his family has never been "happy." He also says he and his daughter will soon see Bob Dylan in Stockholm. That his favorite movie is The Last Waltz, which he has seen 20 times but is always saddened by it because it reminds him of "more innocent times."
His son is quite the musician but often plays too loudly. He likes Emily Dickinson. And he tells me his wife has left him twice during their 20-year marriage. "But she has also returned twice," I tell him, hoping this is a bright side. He tells me that his country once believed it was God's favorite, and he doesn't understand how people can vote for George Bush twice. (Our favorite word, apparently, is "twice.") He rambles a lot. He mumbles. He repeats things. He leaves to call his wife, for this is her birthday. He offers to buy me a beer, which I foolishly decline.
And then he is gone, and I am gone. I walk immediately to a nearby Internet cafe' where I type some of this story and send it to Kominksi because I know he'll appreciate the progression from "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" to the Dylan concert to The Last Waltz. On my way back to my hotel room, I stop at a grocery store to dinner: pita bread, some hummus, beer.
Now, 9 months later, I wonder if he was an angel, too, just a different kind.
I leave at least the physical version of the angel behind and head up the Royal Mile, toward the castle, and drop into and out of various tourist shops, thinking all the while that what I see on the shelves is not unlike what I've seen in tourist shops in other places. Near St. Giles' Cathedral, which is a fine place if you are ever need a quiet place to rest, I pass a street musician who packs away his cell phone and begins strumming the opening guitar chords to Bob Dylan's "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." I know these chords because I have played them. I linger across the street waiting for the musician to sing, but when he doesn't, I turn right off the Royal Mile and find my way to Rose Street, in New Town (which, really, is simply less old than Old Town). More specifically, I find my way to a the Rose Street Brewery, just uphill from Princes Street, where I order a beer, sit down, and feel good to be off my feet for the first time in nearly 8 hours.
[Blog-entry interlude... I have often carried small notebooks on various travels. I have a few friends who do likewise (Tom, Shawn, and Lazlo, for example, though Lazlo generally carries scraps of paper onto which he records the genetic material for upcoming works of literary significance). I am not, however, one to bare said notebooks in public, just as I do not take my shirt off away from total darkness, and probably for the same reasons--embarrassment, a certain unwillingness to display too much information about myself. This certainly contributes to the lack of detail penned into my notebooks... On this late afternoon, however, I indeed had my notebook and pen on the table. End of interlude.]
As I sit with my beer while writing in my notebook, a short, stocky, brown-haired man walks into the bar. He, too, orders a beer, and he sits down at a nearby table, where he produces not only a notebook similar to my Moleskine, but a copy of Czeslaw Milosz's Roadside Dog, a book I not only own, but have read. My first reaction is to stow my pen and Moleskine, for I don't want to be the cliche' writer sitting over a notebook in a dark bar (even though I am). When I return from the bar with another beer, he walks over and asks if he can join me--he says that he has seen me writing, that we must have something in common.
He tells me he is Mark. I tell him who I am. He says he is Swedish, a university professor in Stockholm where he teaches comparative literature. I tell him I've seen what he is reading, that I've got a friend who's Polish and who likes Milosz. He says he is in Edinburgh for a seminar that somehow (I miss the exact title) combines Freud and "writing your life." Unable to get into the seminar, however, he has instead spent 3 days drinking. I tell him there are worse things.
He has a family--wife, daughter, son--but he hates the idea of being part of a family, that he can't stand things like family dinners. He'd rather drink or read (neither of which are bad activities, I think), but he does enjoy being one-on-one with his children. He says his father is an alcoholic and is ill, and that his family has never been "happy." He also says he and his daughter will soon see Bob Dylan in Stockholm. That his favorite movie is The Last Waltz, which he has seen 20 times but is always saddened by it because it reminds him of "more innocent times."
His son is quite the musician but often plays too loudly. He likes Emily Dickinson. And he tells me his wife has left him twice during their 20-year marriage. "But she has also returned twice," I tell him, hoping this is a bright side. He tells me that his country once believed it was God's favorite, and he doesn't understand how people can vote for George Bush twice. (Our favorite word, apparently, is "twice.") He rambles a lot. He mumbles. He repeats things. He leaves to call his wife, for this is her birthday. He offers to buy me a beer, which I foolishly decline.
And then he is gone, and I am gone. I walk immediately to a nearby Internet cafe' where I type some of this story and send it to Kominksi because I know he'll appreciate the progression from "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" to the Dylan concert to The Last Waltz. On my way back to my hotel room, I stop at a grocery store to dinner: pita bread, some hummus, beer.
Now, 9 months later, I wonder if he was an angel, too, just a different kind.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Second
More interesting than Part, the First. Here we learn of Mary, Queen of Scots, see where Queen Elizabeth sleeps, and encounter a French angel.
I want to begin like this: First, let me say that I do not believe in angels, at least not the winged sort the Catholic family I knew as a boy framed into paintings and hung over the headboards in their bedrooms. But, because that is the first sentence of a short story I began many years ago, I cannot plagiarize myself for the sake of expedience. Also, because my second day in Edinburgh did not start that way, I will stay true to the meager and sketchy details scribed into my Moleskine.
Visited the Palace of Holyroodhouse, where the Queen of England sometimes stays. (Note: my sister would visit Edinburgh several months later, and she would be royally forbidden from visiting the Palace because Her Highness was actually there.) Spoke with Brian, a friendly guide, and he gave me a quick history of Scotland and Britain, as well as the religious history of the throne. Apparently, a Catholic cannot be king or queen of England. Wandering, I also wondered--just what does a queen do to occupy her time all day? In what is labeled as Queen Elizabeth's bedroom, the bed itself is enclosed in plexiglass, which makes me think that her true bedroom is somewhere else in the palace. I suspect that there are other, more modern rooms in the palace. I also see where Mary, Queen of Scots slept, as well as where David Rizzo, her personal secretary, was murdered.
Ah, yes: the angel.
As I left the palace, a young woman asked me to photograph her with the palace in the background. From her accent, I took her to be French. She was wearing, as I remember, a lightweight skirt, flat black shoes, and a blue denim jacket. (There must have been more--a blouse of some sort, and her legs were not bare). Her hair was long and blonde, and her cheekbones were naturally pink. She handed me her digital camera, and I took one photograph, then another, then asked her to check the images to see if they were suitable. She looked at the images. She smiled. She said this:
"The palace smiled nicely. That is all that matters."
That is a direct quote. I repeated it to myself. I stared at her and the palace. I would later write this in my notebook: "What a wonderful thing to say!" Such a statement, of course, indicates my high level of creativity and originality.
She thanked me, and I passed her again as we both lingered in the gift shop. She smiled so that her small nose rose slightly and her eyes shut lightly. She walked one way and I walked another, and I knew that no matter how I smiled in the future, I would forever know my smile was inferior.
Then, 15 minutes later as I sat in one of the Royal Mile Starbucks and consumed a coffee-and-cookie snack, I looked out the window and watched the angel walk up the street, her hands clasped behind her back, her white skirt and blonde hair brushed by the breeze, her face turned upward. If any person could be, she was joy. She also came into Starbucks, ordered coffee, passed by me and smiled her raised-nose smile, saying "hello."
I was happy with that. I am an old man, and such types of recognition and acknowledgment are gratifying. Then, when she was gone, I glanced outside and noticed a sign pointing to the Scottish Poetry Library--something I did not know exists but would plan to see the next day. I left Starbucks behind, turned uphill toward the castle, and walked into what was the beginning of a unique and odd experience.
I want to begin like this: First, let me say that I do not believe in angels, at least not the winged sort the Catholic family I knew as a boy framed into paintings and hung over the headboards in their bedrooms. But, because that is the first sentence of a short story I began many years ago, I cannot plagiarize myself for the sake of expedience. Also, because my second day in Edinburgh did not start that way, I will stay true to the meager and sketchy details scribed into my Moleskine.
Visited the Palace of Holyroodhouse, where the Queen of England sometimes stays. (Note: my sister would visit Edinburgh several months later, and she would be royally forbidden from visiting the Palace because Her Highness was actually there.) Spoke with Brian, a friendly guide, and he gave me a quick history of Scotland and Britain, as well as the religious history of the throne. Apparently, a Catholic cannot be king or queen of England. Wandering, I also wondered--just what does a queen do to occupy her time all day? In what is labeled as Queen Elizabeth's bedroom, the bed itself is enclosed in plexiglass, which makes me think that her true bedroom is somewhere else in the palace. I suspect that there are other, more modern rooms in the palace. I also see where Mary, Queen of Scots slept, as well as where David Rizzo, her personal secretary, was murdered.
Ah, yes: the angel.
As I left the palace, a young woman asked me to photograph her with the palace in the background. From her accent, I took her to be French. She was wearing, as I remember, a lightweight skirt, flat black shoes, and a blue denim jacket. (There must have been more--a blouse of some sort, and her legs were not bare). Her hair was long and blonde, and her cheekbones were naturally pink. She handed me her digital camera, and I took one photograph, then another, then asked her to check the images to see if they were suitable. She looked at the images. She smiled. She said this:
"The palace smiled nicely. That is all that matters."
That is a direct quote. I repeated it to myself. I stared at her and the palace. I would later write this in my notebook: "What a wonderful thing to say!" Such a statement, of course, indicates my high level of creativity and originality.
She thanked me, and I passed her again as we both lingered in the gift shop. She smiled so that her small nose rose slightly and her eyes shut lightly. She walked one way and I walked another, and I knew that no matter how I smiled in the future, I would forever know my smile was inferior.
Then, 15 minutes later as I sat in one of the Royal Mile Starbucks and consumed a coffee-and-cookie snack, I looked out the window and watched the angel walk up the street, her hands clasped behind her back, her white skirt and blonde hair brushed by the breeze, her face turned upward. If any person could be, she was joy. She also came into Starbucks, ordered coffee, passed by me and smiled her raised-nose smile, saying "hello."
I was happy with that. I am an old man, and such types of recognition and acknowledgment are gratifying. Then, when she was gone, I glanced outside and noticed a sign pointing to the Scottish Poetry Library--something I did not know exists but would plan to see the next day. I left Starbucks behind, turned uphill toward the castle, and walked into what was the beginning of a unique and odd experience.
Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the First
This is dull stuff. I spent 4 days in Edinburgh, and I enjoyed them all. There are, however, 2 experiences--both of which I find more interesting than the following drivel-- that will be part of a later post.
After a 2-hour train ride from York to Edinburgh, I exit Waverly Station and confront not only cosmopolitan bustle, but the shadow of a castle built on top of and into an extinct volcano. It's quite the view, as though I've somehow left Kansas for Oz.
Once I find my way out of the train station (not always a simple task), I seem to be better oriented than I was in either London or York, though this might be because I spent more time perusing maps of the city before arriving. The B&B is supposed to be about a half-hour walk away, and I schlep my pack past the Sir Walter Scott Monument, then up, over, and down a steep hill to the B&B, where the owner, Alasdair, shows up shortly after arrive and admonishes me for not letting her know when I would arrive. She will come to love me soon.
I leave my room quickly, eager to begin exploring without having to carry a heavy pack. I am in search of the Royal Mile, which is not far from Waverly Station, specifically the Writers' Museum, where.... Yes, again the Moleskine is empty of details, as though only part of me had been there.
End of day one. Finis. Just like that.
After a 2-hour train ride from York to Edinburgh, I exit Waverly Station and confront not only cosmopolitan bustle, but the shadow of a castle built on top of and into an extinct volcano. It's quite the view, as though I've somehow left Kansas for Oz.
Once I find my way out of the train station (not always a simple task), I seem to be better oriented than I was in either London or York, though this might be because I spent more time perusing maps of the city before arriving. The B&B is supposed to be about a half-hour walk away, and I schlep my pack past the Sir Walter Scott Monument, then up, over, and down a steep hill to the B&B, where the owner, Alasdair, shows up shortly after arrive and admonishes me for not letting her know when I would arrive. She will come to love me soon.
I leave my room quickly, eager to begin exploring without having to carry a heavy pack. I am in search of the Royal Mile, which is not far from Waverly Station, specifically the Writers' Museum, where.... Yes, again the Moleskine is empty of details, as though only part of me had been there.
End of day one. Finis. Just like that.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
The Newness of York
The 2-hour train-ride from London to York was comfortable and uneventful, and at York's train station I stepped into a damp grayness that reminded me of Oregon. As with my experience at Victoria Station, I was disoriented (or unoriented, maybe?), so I strolled through the gift shop and bought a city map. I had a reservation at the Clifton Bridge Guesthouse, though even with the map I was not sure of in which direction I should travel. I found my way to the city center, sitting at a table outside the Jorvik Center and drinking an overpriced cup of coffee purchased from a kiosk.
Still disoriented, however, I returned to the train station, then used it and the Jorvik Center as dual locations from which to figure out how to orient both the map and myself. (Could I have done this from my table outside the kiosk? Yes. And that approach makes complete sense now.) I also remembered something from the Guesthouse's website: a person could reach it by walking along the river, which turns out to be the Ouse, which lay between the train station and the Jorvik Center and which I'd already crossed twice.
At The Clifton Bridge, about a mile outside of the city center, Tony knew my name when I stepped in and said I had a room reserved--and he called me "mister." I liked that. He was friendly, told me a different way to get back to the City Center, let me know what time breakfast would be served, and told me to make sure I didn't leave without returning the room key. I assured him I would not.
After depositing my backpack, I headed toward the city not along the river but through "modern" York: and discovered W.H. Auden's birthplace along the way--didn't expect that. Also didn't expect to find an entrance to the City Center--an entrance as is passing through the city wall that surrounds the city. Here's what I found:
A city wall--one more thing that reinforced my belief that the joy of every journey is found as much in the unplanned and unexpected than in the outlined itinerary. So, I climbed the stone steps to the top of the stone wall, where at some point (there must have been a marker of some kind) I wrote in my notebook:
Wonderful....
The wall looks like this:
York itself was crowded with tourists, and I wrote that "the City Center itself is no more than an outdoor mall." True--but it was still England and not, oh, The Mall of America. And what, after all, should a city center be but the center of commerce? I found, of all things, a Starbucks, and I enjoyed a cup of coffee and a cookie there (more Starbucks in future posts), sitting down for the first time in nearly 7 hours. Through the front door I could see York Cathedral, which I admired from the outside because I refused to pay the entrance fee. (Note to readers: Some people admire my frugality; others are annoyed because I am cheap.)
The outside (free) part of the cathedral:
During my wanderings, I turned down a narrow walkway (I found that I discovered many things whenever I did this) and found an old church, which I greatly enjoyed and in which I lingered. Then, heading back to my B&B, I turned left down a quaint street and found the remnants of an old Norse Church--which I had passed by but not noticed in my trek from train station to B&B. In the dark, I sat in the park and watched some skateboarders, and again wondered at the age of things. Here's part of the Norse Church...
And another part:
And an old church (outside and inside) I stumbled upon by turning down a dark sidewalk....
After breakfast the next morning, I packed, checked out of my room, and walked back to the station to catch a train to Edinburgh, Scotland. The walk was perhaps half an hour, and I timed things to arrive at the station about 20 minutes before my train was scheduled to leave. Half way there, my backpack rubbing against my shoulders and pulling against my neck, I put my hand in my pocket and found.... my room key. Which left me with a choice: run back to the Clifton Bridge and turn in the key but possibly miss my train, or keep moving forward and mail the key back when I could.
Still disoriented, however, I returned to the train station, then used it and the Jorvik Center as dual locations from which to figure out how to orient both the map and myself. (Could I have done this from my table outside the kiosk? Yes. And that approach makes complete sense now.) I also remembered something from the Guesthouse's website: a person could reach it by walking along the river, which turns out to be the Ouse, which lay between the train station and the Jorvik Center and which I'd already crossed twice.
At The Clifton Bridge, about a mile outside of the city center, Tony knew my name when I stepped in and said I had a room reserved--and he called me "mister." I liked that. He was friendly, told me a different way to get back to the City Center, let me know what time breakfast would be served, and told me to make sure I didn't leave without returning the room key. I assured him I would not.
After depositing my backpack, I headed toward the city not along the river but through "modern" York: and discovered W.H. Auden's birthplace along the way--didn't expect that. Also didn't expect to find an entrance to the City Center--an entrance as is passing through the city wall that surrounds the city. Here's what I found:
A city wall--one more thing that reinforced my belief that the joy of every journey is found as much in the unplanned and unexpected than in the outlined itinerary. So, I climbed the stone steps to the top of the stone wall, where at some point (there must have been a marker of some kind) I wrote in my notebook:
"In one section I find an even older remnant of a different wall constructed in about AD71, and the Romans left York around AD410."I stood there for a long time wondering at the age of things, at how stone steps along the wall had been worn to smoothness by centuries of footsteps. And I remember the light mist that seemed so perfect.... I also found a gift shop (still on the wall) that I browsed until a group of loud Americans stomped up a stretch of wooden steps, with one man of the group telling the telling the shop-worker that "Your weather sucks here."
Wonderful....
The wall looks like this:
York itself was crowded with tourists, and I wrote that "the City Center itself is no more than an outdoor mall." True--but it was still England and not, oh, The Mall of America. And what, after all, should a city center be but the center of commerce? I found, of all things, a Starbucks, and I enjoyed a cup of coffee and a cookie there (more Starbucks in future posts), sitting down for the first time in nearly 7 hours. Through the front door I could see York Cathedral, which I admired from the outside because I refused to pay the entrance fee. (Note to readers: Some people admire my frugality; others are annoyed because I am cheap.)
The outside (free) part of the cathedral:
During my wanderings, I turned down a narrow walkway (I found that I discovered many things whenever I did this) and found an old church, which I greatly enjoyed and in which I lingered. Then, heading back to my B&B, I turned left down a quaint street and found the remnants of an old Norse Church--which I had passed by but not noticed in my trek from train station to B&B. In the dark, I sat in the park and watched some skateboarders, and again wondered at the age of things. Here's part of the Norse Church...
And another part:
And an old church (outside and inside) I stumbled upon by turning down a dark sidewalk....
After breakfast the next morning, I packed, checked out of my room, and walked back to the station to catch a train to Edinburgh, Scotland. The walk was perhaps half an hour, and I timed things to arrive at the station about 20 minutes before my train was scheduled to leave. Half way there, my backpack rubbing against my shoulders and pulling against my neck, I put my hand in my pocket and found.... my room key. Which left me with a choice: run back to the Clifton Bridge and turn in the key but possibly miss my train, or keep moving forward and mail the key back when I could.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Snow Falling on Geezers
The first Moleskine entry for my second day in London is this: "Visited Charles Dickens' house (also a museum), which is a wonderful place for any writer." Yet another example of terrible note-taking: What in the hell happened before that visit?
I should have started like this:
The Dickens Museum is full of his personal relics: a drinking glass; a snuff box; a cribbage board; some of his clothing (he must have been a small man). There are photos of his children. Another item not in the Moleskine is that the museum was full of French schoolchildren who enjoyed running up and down the stairs or standing in front of the doorways so that I had to pass from one room to another with difficulty. One of their adult teachers was frustrated that the museum shop did not accept Euros; he then spent a good 10 minutes trying to get his credit cards accepted.
After leaving the museum, I wandered the neighborhood imagining Dickens doing the same, enjoying the the light drizzle the snow had become. I also took a picture of this pigeon:
Then, more by chance than intent, I found the British Library, where there are originals of the Magna Carta, works by Shakespeare and Mozart, hand-written lyrics by the Beatles.
Somehow, then, I ended up at Covent Market, where I visited St. Paul's Church and had a pasty for lunch. The last entry is this: "Then, later, I walk around near the Tower of London but refuse the entry fee. The place is impressive, as are the remnants of the Roman wall nearby." Here are pictures of the wall (left foreground) and the Tower (across the street).
That's it--incredibly incomplete, as if I had noticed no details of importance. What else is in the British Library? What's the significance of St. Paul's Church? WHAT WAS IN THE DAMNED PASTY?
I should have started like this:
I awoke early, showered, and walked out of my room and into the B&B's small and simple lobby where a couple of small tables were set up for breakfast, looked out the window and saw that it was snowing. Breakfast consisted of hard-boiled eggs, toast, coffee. I ate as much as I could since my plan was to spend as little money on food as possible. then, with my daypack slung over my shoulder, I stepped outside, took the snow as a good sign, and walked several blocks to Paddington Station where I would catch the Underground.Or maybe this:
I have stayed in hotel rooms in my life that were filthy, ugly, unsafe--pick an adjective. In Olongapo, Philippines, during martial law, I once spent a night in a room I could not leave between midnight and sunrise. All night a music-loop of about 20 songs played through a speaker in the ceiling, which was bad enough but made worse because one of the songs was Abba's "Dancing Queen." You listen to an Abba song all night long and see how you turn out in later years.... The room in which I slept last night is more of a cell than a bedroom, and while I can endure it, I would not bring my wife here: The bed is concave; the bathroom is the Yugo of bathrooms; the window faces an alley filled with trash and the brick wall of the building next door.But I didn't start either of those ways, so let's jump back to Dickens and his house, which looks like this:
The Dickens Museum is full of his personal relics: a drinking glass; a snuff box; a cribbage board; some of his clothing (he must have been a small man). There are photos of his children. Another item not in the Moleskine is that the museum was full of French schoolchildren who enjoyed running up and down the stairs or standing in front of the doorways so that I had to pass from one room to another with difficulty. One of their adult teachers was frustrated that the museum shop did not accept Euros; he then spent a good 10 minutes trying to get his credit cards accepted.
After leaving the museum, I wandered the neighborhood imagining Dickens doing the same, enjoying the the light drizzle the snow had become. I also took a picture of this pigeon:
Then, more by chance than intent, I found the British Library, where there are originals of the Magna Carta, works by Shakespeare and Mozart, hand-written lyrics by the Beatles.
Somehow, then, I ended up at Covent Market, where I visited St. Paul's Church and had a pasty for lunch. The last entry is this: "Then, later, I walk around near the Tower of London but refuse the entry fee. The place is impressive, as are the remnants of the Roman wall nearby." Here are pictures of the wall (left foreground) and the Tower (across the street).
That's it--incredibly incomplete, as if I had noticed no details of importance. What else is in the British Library? What's the significance of St. Paul's Church? WHAT WAS IN THE DAMNED PASTY?
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Reviewing the Reviewer: Part Two
Rather than Dan. Stronger than Stan. And Van the Man.
While ruminating deeply over the exquisite consistency of Santa Cristina Sangiovese and making friends with my radical sign [which is Capricorn/Pisces for you ladies] the deja vus of The Cold Room where I sit draw me here once again. I've also had lunch with my Colleague of Sorts who is doing fine pre-arranging the candy plot twists and sweet characters in his next confection and novel resurrection.
With new Moleskins in hand and a new favorite band, we lunched at the North Beach Coppola Cafe Zeotrope where you can still buy a copy of One From the Heart and consume Carbonara for late Saturday breakfast. He departed on the train that evening headed for The Big Valley reading a killer Germanic book of despair. You can review his long journey into blight on the literary location mashups soon to be provided with Google's Where You At, Ishmael? program on Facebook if you like.
Meanwhile staggering over to the point, let's get our theme on here because it's totally sick, dude. With grand aplomb, my researchers burst in with big chests heaving and thongs snapping this afternoon so excited about their find and rightly so. Bidding them a seat together on my ample beanbag chair at the foot of my desk, I asked them to explain rather than writhing together in bliss.
"POETRY COLLECTION! ECCO! Bukowski! The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993! 576 pages! 1.8 lbs! New York Times! Written by Harrison!"
Throw in a dinner with Jack Nicholson and Orson Welles as background material reading from The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand. Now watch the Legends of the Fall guy try to tackle the Dirty Old Man on his own turf in his own house. Though Jim's need to conveniently consult a seemingly serendipitous fictional Frenchman to explain his Celine shock and awe filled me with surprise making me surmise that his head's going bad perhaps worse than his eyes, I totally buy Jim's overall take and love his Milosz quote because these are my guys. It's mostly a question of style and baby they've got it.
The girls got bored, said they were thirsty, and immediately needed to watch America's Top Model, leaving me with the parting words: "Shut up, Daddio! Read it you creep! Analyze in your sleep!" So follow their advice my friends. And call me if you're up late at night in mourning.
While ruminating deeply over the exquisite consistency of Santa Cristina Sangiovese and making friends with my radical sign [which is Capricorn/Pisces for you ladies] the deja vus of The Cold Room where I sit draw me here once again. I've also had lunch with my Colleague of Sorts who is doing fine pre-arranging the candy plot twists and sweet characters in his next confection and novel resurrection.
With new Moleskins in hand and a new favorite band, we lunched at the North Beach Coppola Cafe Zeotrope where you can still buy a copy of One From the Heart and consume Carbonara for late Saturday breakfast. He departed on the train that evening headed for The Big Valley reading a killer Germanic book of despair. You can review his long journey into blight on the literary location mashups soon to be provided with Google's Where You At, Ishmael? program on Facebook if you like.
Meanwhile staggering over to the point, let's get our theme on here because it's totally sick, dude. With grand aplomb, my researchers burst in with big chests heaving and thongs snapping this afternoon so excited about their find and rightly so. Bidding them a seat together on my ample beanbag chair at the foot of my desk, I asked them to explain rather than writhing together in bliss.
"POETRY COLLECTION! ECCO! Bukowski! The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993! 576 pages! 1.8 lbs! New York Times! Written by Harrison!"
Throw in a dinner with Jack Nicholson and Orson Welles as background material reading from The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand. Now watch the Legends of the Fall guy try to tackle the Dirty Old Man on his own turf in his own house. Though Jim's need to conveniently consult a seemingly serendipitous fictional Frenchman to explain his Celine shock and awe filled me with surprise making me surmise that his head's going bad perhaps worse than his eyes, I totally buy Jim's overall take and love his Milosz quote because these are my guys. It's mostly a question of style and baby they've got it.
The girls got bored, said they were thirsty, and immediately needed to watch America's Top Model, leaving me with the parting words: "Shut up, Daddio! Read it you creep! Analyze in your sleep!" So follow their advice my friends. And call me if you're up late at night in mourning.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
All My Friends Are Going to be Strangers
The title for this entry is not original, but is the title of a novel by Larry McMurtry (Lonesome Dove, The Last Picture Show, and so on). The title's implications, however, have, as of late, been leaving traces of fairy dust in the title-quadrant of my brain. Many titles--the names of stillborn novels and poems--have died there, undusted.
McMurtry's title bounced to the forefront several weeks ago when I attended a social function co-hosted by a woman I have been friends with for nearly 20 years. I was seated at a table watching and listening to celebratory commotion when I realized I had been nudged to a circle a bit outside of "close friends." Around the room like so many orbiting planets were new people, ones I did not know and will never meet.
Not long after that function, I was having lunch with someone I've known for nearly as long, and somewhere in our conversation he spoke of doing things that would take him to places I would never see. I again thought of McMurtry's title and how much truth there is in it, how people who seem so close might not be for long. I also remembered a photograph of my son and one of his friends in elementary school. The two boys smile into the camera, their hands clasping a large sign on which is painted "Best Friends Forever." But their paths diverged not long after. And, because for various reasons I am prone to sadness for this son, I found myself wishing for him a lifetime of friendships.
This all sounds, perhaps, more desultory and dramatic than I intend. Mostly, I wanted to write something about the title, and look where I ended up.
McMurtry's title bounced to the forefront several weeks ago when I attended a social function co-hosted by a woman I have been friends with for nearly 20 years. I was seated at a table watching and listening to celebratory commotion when I realized I had been nudged to a circle a bit outside of "close friends." Around the room like so many orbiting planets were new people, ones I did not know and will never meet.
Not long after that function, I was having lunch with someone I've known for nearly as long, and somewhere in our conversation he spoke of doing things that would take him to places I would never see. I again thought of McMurtry's title and how much truth there is in it, how people who seem so close might not be for long. I also remembered a photograph of my son and one of his friends in elementary school. The two boys smile into the camera, their hands clasping a large sign on which is painted "Best Friends Forever." But their paths diverged not long after. And, because for various reasons I am prone to sadness for this son, I found myself wishing for him a lifetime of friendships.
This all sounds, perhaps, more desultory and dramatic than I intend. Mostly, I wanted to write something about the title, and look where I ended up.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Book of Sighs
My friend Tom gave me my first Moleskine notebook in 2004. In it, I have chronicled three years' worth of various travels, excursions, and minor expeditions to the following, some more than once:
I also have recorded certain quotations, such as these:
Have you heard of the Rosetta Stone, for example?
Leafing through the notebook now, however, I see the same pattern for three years: overviews and highlights, nothing in-depth. Another example: I did not note that, on my second day in London, I awoke to a light snowfall. I have remembered, however, that most of my note-taking involved an even smaller, more portable notebook, and from that one I would transcribe my notes into the one now on the sofa cushion beside me.
So, before describing more about Europe, I need to find the original notes, to un-censor myself. Chatwin was correct: losing a notebook is a catastrophe for a writer. What's worse, though, is to have an incomplete notebook. (We will return to the idea of notebooks when I describe Edinburgh; you'll have to wait for that.)
- St. Louis, MO
- Chicago, IL
- Portland, OR
- Kansas City, MO
- Martha's Vineyard, MA
- Boston, MA
- Providence, RI
- Phoenix, AZ
- Mendocino, CA
- Gualala, CA
- South Lake Tahoe, NV
- Hartford, CT
- Ely, MN
- San Francisco, CA
- Edinburgh, Scotland
- London, England
- York, England
- Canterbury, England
- Ouray, CO
- Woodstock, IL
- Elko, NV
- Tillamook, OR
I also have recorded certain quotations, such as these:
- From Pascal: "The last thing one settles in writing a book is what one should put in first."
- From Kierkegaard: "I can't bother to write what I have just written, and I can't bother to blot it out."
- From Chatwin: "To lose a passport was the least of one's worries: to lose a notebook was a catastrophe."
Have you heard of the Rosetta Stone, for example?
Leafing through the notebook now, however, I see the same pattern for three years: overviews and highlights, nothing in-depth. Another example: I did not note that, on my second day in London, I awoke to a light snowfall. I have remembered, however, that most of my note-taking involved an even smaller, more portable notebook, and from that one I would transcribe my notes into the one now on the sofa cushion beside me.
So, before describing more about Europe, I need to find the original notes, to un-censor myself. Chatwin was correct: losing a notebook is a catastrophe for a writer. What's worse, though, is to have an incomplete notebook. (We will return to the idea of notebooks when I describe Edinburgh; you'll have to wait for that.)
Monday, November 12, 2007
Dead Man Talking
Kominiski beat me to the punch--or the post, anyway, about Mailer, someone who wrote plenty of books, none of which I've read.
I was in Border's yesterday afternoon thinking about that: yet another dead author whose books I've not opened. The most I knew about him was that he'd stabbed one of his wives. (William S. Burroughs shot one of his wives, though I'd like to think that both Mailer and Burroughs truly did love women when all was said and... well, "done" might not fit. Hemingway, an author many feminists apparently dislike because, I think, of how he portrayed and treated women, was at least polite enough to shoot himself. Does that mean he loved women more than the other guys?)
Like I said, I was in Border's, where I wandered around a bit thinking I'd like to buy a Mailer book, but how cliche' would that be, buying a book written by some guy who'd just died? Even the young clerks at the cash register would see through that ruse. Besides, I don't have room on my bookshelves for more books, and I've still got over 200 pages of A Tale of Two Cities to plow (or, for Dickens, plough?) through.
Mailer will have to wait. I've considered using the library every now and then, so perhaps I'll find him waiting for me there. Slate has an article of interest, if you've got the time. Of course, there will be articles everywhere, at least for awhile. That's how literature tends to work: Some guy spends a lifetime writing, then when he dies, people write about him, dissect what he said and wrote, place him in his appropriate place in the Canon.
And people like me, people who are old enough to know better, should've jumped the gun, been pro-active, been ahead of the curve, anticipated the value-added bring before it was even brought.
I was in Border's yesterday afternoon thinking about that: yet another dead author whose books I've not opened. The most I knew about him was that he'd stabbed one of his wives. (William S. Burroughs shot one of his wives, though I'd like to think that both Mailer and Burroughs truly did love women when all was said and... well, "done" might not fit. Hemingway, an author many feminists apparently dislike because, I think, of how he portrayed and treated women, was at least polite enough to shoot himself. Does that mean he loved women more than the other guys?)
Like I said, I was in Border's, where I wandered around a bit thinking I'd like to buy a Mailer book, but how cliche' would that be, buying a book written by some guy who'd just died? Even the young clerks at the cash register would see through that ruse. Besides, I don't have room on my bookshelves for more books, and I've still got over 200 pages of A Tale of Two Cities to plow (or, for Dickens, plough?) through.
Mailer will have to wait. I've considered using the library every now and then, so perhaps I'll find him waiting for me there. Slate has an article of interest, if you've got the time. Of course, there will be articles everywhere, at least for awhile. That's how literature tends to work: Some guy spends a lifetime writing, then when he dies, people write about him, dissect what he said and wrote, place him in his appropriate place in the Canon.
And people like me, people who are old enough to know better, should've jumped the gun, been pro-active, been ahead of the curve, anticipated the value-added bring before it was even brought.
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