Rewards: Real Death and Fictional Ressurections

Canterbury Cathedral

Canterbury Cathedral is a Gothic Cathedral rich with history. The Cathedral's front facing features a statue pair of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert (to the left of the main door) with Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh on the right side (one of the only known statues of the married couple together). A further array of Kings' statues line the outer facing of the building, with a line of clergy above them. The interior is composed in beautiful high Gothic style, and displays the most interesting stained glass; composed of the deep purples, blues, and reds. The Cathedral's Nave is also the resting place for Edward (the Black Prince), King Henry IV and his two wives. There is a candle burning in the center of the Nave where Thomas Becket's elaborate tomb once rested, before Henry VIII's cronies sacked the place in the Reformation.

Thomas Becket was the Archbishop of Canterbury until his murder by four knights under misinterpreted suggestion of King Henry II. Slaughtered inside Canterbury Cathedral, there is now a grimly commemorative modern art sculpture on the spot of his murder. His body was initially put to rest in the Cathedral's crypt, with a continual vigil of two monks praying at the tomb. Becket's tomb became the destination of many pilgrimages, with two holes cut into the lead tomb to allow pilgrims to touch the wooden casket during prayer. Many miraculous miracles occurred, and the blood of Becket was also concocted into an elixir. After the tomb was relocated to the Nave, and later sacked, Saint Becket was believed to be buried in an unmarked grave in the Nave. However, excavation has found no body in that section of the Cathedral, and the body of Saint Becket is lost in mystery.

Cliffs of Dover

The town of Dover is quite quaint, with the sprawling Dover Castle over looking the town from the large hill. After somehow getting lost, we found a cafe that offered an English Breakfast for less than five pounds: one of those times where quantity won out over quality. With calories to burn, we had a misadventure by mistakingly climbing the long, steep hill to Dover Castle. Finding the Castle not only closed, and also that there was no access to the famous cliffs of Dover from that hill, we retreated down the path we came. Following the highway to outside of the town, we discovered the public access path up to the cliffs near the highly active port. While the cliffs themselves were as white as their name suggests, the view was somewhat ruined by the sight of the port imposing the view of the vast ocean.

However, after hiking for some time, we rounded the cliffs to find the perfect scenic view, leaving the port and town behind us. Other than the worn paths and occasional gate/fence, the routes along the cliffs were left to their natural splendor, with roads and car-parks further back on more solid ground. The view we finally found featured little trace of civilization (beyond several hikers taking selfies), on a jutting section of cliff facing South East. The cliffs were spectacular, dropping down to the rocky beach where rolling waves crashed the shoreline. The English Channel stretched beyond view, speckled with ferry boats to France, whose cliffs could be faintly made out along parts of the horizon. We left the cliffs and the faint view of France as the sun set, with no ominous foreboding of the events that would shake the distant country later that night.

Camden Town

Saturday featured scattered rains and cold winds. Postponing a trip to Brighton, I wandered Camden Town Market. A vibrant section of London featuring many shops, stalls, and the most diverse food court imaginable. Surprisingly, the market was still bustling despite the events of the previous night and the weather of the day. I didn't buy anything besides food. The crowds, though less than in nice weather, made me more irritable in the soggy weather. Not altogether the most worthwhile visit, but successfully got out of the Pickwick for a bit.

The Old Vic; The Hairy Ape

Eugene O'Neill's expressionist play is very different from what we've seen on the trip. Also, I fully understand why this show was not on our schedule for our group, as many would have dismissed the play for being too esoteric, yet the play served as great contrast for the different styles of theatre.
Telling the story of industrial worker Yank, O'Neill's play follows the character through an identity crisis searching for belonging in the capitalist world. As Yank begins with confidence in his work as a fireman stoking the engines of an ocean-liner, an insult from the daughter of an industrialist shatters his pride; prompting the character to search for revenge and belonging. Failing both, Yank eventually looks for friendship from a gorilla he frees from the zoo, leading to his demise.

The production at the Old Vic was fleshed out in filth and florescent colors. Bertie Carvel possessed a demanding stage presence as the brutish Yank, supported by the other actors' alternating embodiment of upper and lower classes. The expressionist elements of the production were strongest in the representation of the Manhattan 5th Avenue upper-class (wearing suits and white masks) and the man in the moon (a giant balloon with a face). The staging of the scenes in the ship's bowels (forecastle, stoke room, and showers) featured wonderful staging and physical theatre. Round everything off with an actor in a gorilla suit, and you have O'Neill's The Hairy Ape.

The Sunday Misadventure

A failed attempt to visit Brighton. Boarding the train at St. Pancras, apparently I was supposed to transfer at Blackfriars to reach Brighton. I was too engrossed in my book to realize, and hence rode a loop back to Blackfriars. Finished book. Exited station on Southbank and walked across Waterloo Bridge back to the Pickwick. Failed attempts at calling the Garrick Theatre about tickets for Winter's Tale. Visited the Vodafone store to inquire why my call was being rejected. Discovered I can't make calls to numbers beginning with “08,” didn't understand why, just accepted defeat. Walked down to Trafalgar Square to find the Garrick closed up. Sat in cafe to wait till closer to showtime for the box office to open. Box office never opened, with the theatre dark for the night. Walked back to Pickwick. Called it a day of successful failure.

In a world filled with reality and terror:
Paris bleeds. Syria burns. Soldiers perish. Industry thrives. Women suffer. Children die hungry.
And the poor and miserable continually suffer the blows and bombasts of dangerous misfortune.

Inside the little infinity of my mind:
Billy Pilgrim weeps in self-conceit. The monster eats the entrails of spare time.
And the dragon Malexander Supertourist rises again, in disingenuous resurrection.