One More Epicycle

Didn’t feel like doing anything too exciting today, but did feel like wandering, so I went downtown to people-watch. I play spot-the-accent and guess-who’s-a-foreigner: there’s definitely something about us NorthAm types which you can recognize at a distance.

Don’t think I’ve mentioned it before, but the criticism of the new statue at Trafalgar Square is entirely justified, in my humble opinion. It doesn’t seem to fit the location at all. I also agree with the point raised by several sceptical observers (Mark Steyn comes to mind) that there already is a monument to the achievements of the disabled at Trafalgar. There has been for a long time. It’s hard to miss, on account of it being fifty metres up: Lord Nelson was one-armed and was blind in one eye. I don’t think I’m alone in feeling that celebrating his accomplishments because they’re accomplishments is a greater witness to the fact that missing a limb isn’t a barrier to changing the world than what’s currently sitting on the Fourth Plinth.

Today’s unexpected familiarity came as I was walking down the street north of Covent Garden. At least I think it’s north.. it’s usually too overcast here for the Sun to be much help. Whichever direction it was, it’s always packed with natives and tourists going to or coming from the shops and performances at the Garden. Most of the time on this access they have several performers covered in thick reflective paint to make them look like statues. “Living Statues“, or so wikipedia claims. They’re very good at what they do, but I find it a little weird when they start to move. Which I guess is the point..

On account of these creepy mimes, whenever I’m walking by I try to hug the side of the street near the stores to avoid them, which is why I picked up the scent. Instantly I was transported back to grade four or so, because the aroma was that of my sister’s old Strawberry Shortcake doll. There’s no mistaking the overpowering artificial not-quite-berry smell of the doll’s hair; but on second thought I guess there must be, because it was a bakery or something, not a toy store.. and this smelled delicious.

My sister also had a short vinyl record which described a day in the life of Strawberry Shortcake, where she visited her friends, one of whom I remembered was Huckleberry Something– Huckleberry Blue, it turns out. There may have been a mystery they had to solve (on the order of missing cupcakes).. I can’t recall if there was a plot or not. (Heaven help us all, it looks like it was called “Adventures in Strawberry Land”.)

The wikipedia page also contains some of the most improbable sentences I’ve read in some time, in a section describing fan criticism of the inconsistencies amongst the various versions of Shortcake canon:

And maybe oddest of all is Rhubarb’s (Raspberry’s pet) change from a monkey to a raccoon. This might be explained by the existence of Banana Bongo (Tangerina Torta’s monkey), although Banana Bongo himself was originally introduced as the leader of a monkey band on Seaberry Beach during the story introducing Coco Calypso and Seaberry Delight.

The mention of Seaberry Beach is ringing a (mercifully distant) bell.

And that’s more words than I ever thought I’d write on such a subject..

By the way, to prove that my utter lack of artistic talent doesn’t make me snark at all artists studying the paintings: when I was at the Gallery today there was a cute little red-haired girl who was intently focused on one of the pictures. I know it was one of the gorgeous scenes by Meindert Hobbema, but I can’t remember which one. She was quiet about it, and unlike Leonardo’s would-be apprentice from before, when I neared the painting she politely stepped away and then returned afterwards. See? I freely admit not all artists drawing there are pretentious attention-seekers.

On my way home I stopped in at the Maple Leaf, the Canada-themed bar just below Covent Garden, for a few minutes. Had a pint of Sleeman (with one exception, for which I plead necessity, I haven’t had Molson since their semi-blasphemous “I AM” campaign), listened to some comfortable voices, watched some taped hockey (Edmonton vs Colorado), and tried not to smile as I overheard two Englishmen discussing the mechanics of shooting. I wonder if that’s how they feel when they hear North Americans talking about soccer, or if the more international nature of their favourite sport means it doesn’t sound quite so odd..

A day not rich in Big Grand Events, but full of small happenings that stuck in my mind. Not bad, all in all.

UPDATE: I’ve only just realized what the scent could have been. Strawberry shortcake. Not the doll, what the doll was named after. As unlikely as this sounds, that it could have been the dessert itself didn’t occur to me at any point yesterday..

I forgot to mention an odd discovery I made at the Museum.

First some backstory: a few years ago, there was a collaborative project of remixes of the soundtrack from the videogame Donkey Kong Country called Kong in Concert. (The Wikipedia page has more information.) It’s surprisingly good.

One of the songs on the album is called “Idols of Hanuman”, and I’d always assumed that Hanuman was a name dreamed up for the game. I was impressed, because it’s almost the perfect name for a jungle god. I can imagine the squat square carved-stone head half-hidden by the deep green overgrowth. Even the letters in the word, themselves short and below the midline, were well-chosen, and the ‘oo’ and the repeated ‘an’ sound appropriately chantable. (I agonize over details of word choice in stories far too much.)

Well, yesterday I learned I’d been completely wrong.

Hanuman is the name of an important divinity in Hindu belief — a vanara, a monkey-like being — who plays a major role in the Ramayana. It’s also, and fittingly, the name of a type of monkey.

I feel kind of embarrassed I didn’t know that. I should probably read the Ramayana, but I have trouble reading rhyming epic poetry, though it looks like there are some prose alternatives..

Yesterday I think I finished my first pass through the British Museum!

I walked through the Voices of Bengal exhibit, which was very enjoyable. Extraordinary craftsmanship, and I was quite taken with the giant clay statues worshippers build to pay respect to Durga. The Durga Puja rites are complex, but end with the statue they’ve painstakingly constructed being immersed in the river, where it dissolves. This is quite different from the Judeo-Christian tradition which tends to build things to last or not at all, and the dominant mode is permanence. (The closest exception which comes to mind are the palm leaves on Palm Sunday which are crushed and used on the next Ash Wednesday.)

There were also works from the Islamic side of Bengal. I was surprised that one of the Islamic paintings showed someone praying at a tomb. I was under the impression this was considered a kind of disbelief (shirk), the sort of things that those nefarious polytheists (such as Christians) get up to. Apparently this hasn’t been universally believed in the Muslim world. My guess would be that in places like Bengal, the practice of the faith tends to be somewhat more syncretistic; many Bengali Muslims enjoy the Durga Puja. There are obvious analogies with the mixing in places like South America between Catholicism and indigenous beliefs.

Probably the most arresting works were those involving the violent goddesses Kali and Chinnimasta. One Chinnimasta picture in particular was very disturbing. From Wikipedia:

In Hinduism, Chinnamasta (also called Chinnamastaka, is one of the mahavidyas, and an aspect of Devi. The literal meaning of the word Chinnamasta is one with a severed head. She is traditionally portrayed as a naked or scantly dressed woman astride the bodies, in intimate position, of Kama (Hindu god of love and sexual lust), and his wife Rati.

Chinnamasta, having severed her own head with her own sword, holds her severed head on one of her hands. Three jets of blood spurt out of her bleeding neck, and one streams into her own mouth of her severed head, while the other two streams into the mouths of her two female associates.

This event is what was portrayed in the image.

Drinking blood from your own severed head. Now that’s proof that you’re willing to pay the price of power. Incidentally:

She is the goddess of courage and discernment.

Bet you didn’t see that one coming!

Also checked out some of the artwork they were showing. I browsed the Avigdor Arikha drawings, which I didn’t like very much; maybe his works “reveal an acute intensity of vision”, maybe they don’t, but they’re definitely not much fun to look at. The `French Drawings: Clouet to Seurat, 1700-1900′ were much more enjoyable, but after spending so much time at the Gallery it’s hard not to think of them as mere sketches, regardless of technical merit.

The Japan exhibit was tucked away in an aerie. I enjoyed it, but it’s not as impressive as you might think the British Museum’s collections should be. The Museum’s India and China collections are astonishing; its Japan collection, by comparison, is merely worth visiting, although there are a few items which were remarkable. Note that this is relative to the Museum’s absurdly high standards set by its Greek, Mesopotamian, and Egyptian halls. (By the way, not sure I’ve mentioned it before, but I felt a burst of national pride when a few trips ago I toured their exhibit on North American aboriginal cultures and realized I’d seen better collections in Calgary and Vancouver. Not surprising, but I was glad of it.)

I still learned a lot about early Japan. I was especially interested in the distinct non/pre-Japanese cultures scattered along the island chain, such as the Ainu of Hokkaido and the Ryukyuans. I seem to like finding out about small, overlooked cultures which lurk on the edges and in the shadows of larger ones. There were also some interesting artifacts from Japan’s brief Christian period after the arrival of the Portuguese (and St Francis Xavier) including a copy of one of the edicts listing the various fines for sheltering or aiding any Christians.

One thing I did start to wonder about is why Japanese culture is the standard non-Western culture for North American geeks to be interested in, far more so than Chinese or Indian cultures which are in some senses richer. (They can’t help but be. China and India aren’t so much countries as continents.)

Is it that Japan is technologically advanced but socially awkward by Western standards, and therefore geeky by definition? Recall MacArthur’s famous description of Japan as a nation of twelve-year-olds. (Matters have changed considerably since then, with far more mixing between the sexes as a result of American influence, but anecdotal reports I’ve heard from people who teach English there suggest there’s still a large gap between the social patterns at comparable ages between North American and Japanese young people.) Or is the appeal merely that Japan’s producing works in the all-important cute-girls-and-giant-robots genre which is being tragically neglected in the New World?

In any case, there are still a handful of places to see in the Museum. I can think of one short raised hallway on the second floor I haven’t walked through yet (small ancient Greek artifacts, if memory serves), and there are one or two small temporary exhibitions I haven’t visited, and certain things I’m very interested in seeing (such as a lower floor with more from the ancient Mesopotamia collection) have been closed since I’ve been here. But I think it’s fair to say that I’ve basically made it through the Museum in a respectable fashion.

My visits are likely to be less frequent now, and I’ll be less methodical and more impulsive when I arrive, but I’m certainly not going to stop going. Too much of the stuff is just too cool, and I keep getting story ideas; I’m hoping to do a lot of writing over Christmas.

When you need to spark creativity, you can’t go wrong digging around in human history for inspiration. It’s so strange. I still haven’t gotten over the whole Pottery War idea..

(“I’ll never forget you.”

“You won’t?”

“No. You’re too weird.”)

As promised, back to Londonblogging!

Last weekend I made my first visit to the National Gallery. I saw it for the first time on my original trek downtown near the Parliament buildings; it’s hard to miss. Like everything else in the area it’s enormous, plus it’s located right beyond Nelson’s Column. (I’m having some trouble taking these famous locations completely seriously, because to me they’re places in the old Infocom game The Riddle of the Crown Jewels.. I half expect to travel the city in hansom cabs and solve puzzles by taking crayon rubbings of plates.)

At the Gallery I had the same problem that I had at the British Museum.. there’s just too much to see. At the Museum I decided to go see my favourites, but at the Gallery I decided it was easier to choose a direction.. worked out pretty well, I’d say. I fought my natural tendencies and went left. Some highlights:

Ludwig Mond (1840-1909 on the Gallery’s website, but 1839-1909 in my notes taken from the exhibit.. webmaster vs. plaque writer! it’s on!) was a famous industrial chemist, who came up with some impressive techniques and moved to England in the middle of the nineteenth century. Turns out there’s a Canadian connection.. he had nickel interests in hockeyland, and his company Mond Nickel was purchased in 1929 by Inco, whose Creighton mine is home to the SNO project which solved the solar neutrino problem and was managed from Queen’s, my old school. Small world! (And hey, SNOLab is now open. Cool.)

Back to art. Mond knew his paintings, and could afford to build himself quite the collection. The Mond Bequest, as it’s known, gave forty-two works to the Gallery. My favourite of his donated pieces was the very first one I saw, the “Mond Crucifixion“: Raphael, “Altarpiece: The Crucified Christ with the Virgin Mary, Saints and Angels”. The Web image doesn’t do the power of the colours justice. There are fine and intricate patterns on the hem of the Virgin’s robe.. the detail’s astonishing.

A close second was Fra Bartolomeo’s “The Virgin adoring the Child with Saint Joseph“. Mary’s very beautiful, but I was more moved by St Joseph. He often gets overlooked, yet here he’s very human: craggy and shadowed and tired, but a peaceful, satisfied tired. Again, the Web picture doesn’t capture the real force of the personality. (I’m not fond of the way children were drawn in that era, very few of the images of the Christ-child struck me with the force that the faces of the adults did.)

Only once did I have to stop myself from laughing. In one room, there were some paintings by Leonardo. When I went to look at one of them, probably The Virgin and Child with St Anne and St John the Baptist, an unbelievably stereotypical artist right out of Discount Casting came up. He was in his mid-twenties, had a short, curly beardlet and a mullet, a handful of charm bracelets on his wrist, and was holding up a sketch pad. He’d move towards the painting, nod and/or shake his head, depending on his mood, and then hmmm-and-ahhhh pretentiously while he made some markings on his page. Everyone kept away to give him his space — can’t interfere with the artist, after all! — as he danced back and forth and muttered to himself in dissatisfied tones and prevented the rest of us from approaching.

I’m scarcely an expert, but using the I-know-what-I-like criterion I’m not sure it was the best painting in the room; I’m not even sure if it was the best Leonardo in the room. There was another one on the other side of the doorway which I thought was a more mature work, this one was only a study.

Well, maybe there was something in particular he was trying to capture, I can’t be sure.. but I can say that I can’t remember the last time someone presented so much like he desperately wanted to be seen learning from Leonardo da Vinci, as if he weren’t in it for the drawing but for the performance. I have zero artistic talent myself, as anyone who’s ever seen me draw diagrams on a chalkboard can verify, but I’ve known a couple of painters and graphic artists and so on. None of them were ever as over-the-top look-at-me-I’m-being-creative! as this guy. Most of them had a pretty workmanlike attitude about it, which made sense to me.. it’s hard work, and if you want to earn a living doing it it’s going to take concerted effort.

Let’s see, what else did I like.. Cesare da Sento’s “Salome“: she has a perfect See?-Here-You-Are look on her face; Holbein the Younger’s “The Ambassadors” had an impressive presence, and I was so caught up in the people that I didn’t even notice the painting’s Obvious Feature until I overheard some kids and their parents talking about it. In my defence, the painting’s huge. (Said feature doesn’t even look like it’s part of the same painting. Up close it looks like it was added by someone in 1986.)

The Michaelangelos they had didn’t do much for me. Both were unfinished and had this Monty-Python cut-out animation feel to them — you know, stamping feet and all. Once the association got set up in my brain I couldn’t get rid of it. And the Jesus in The Entombment is very weird looking, and he reminds me vaguely of someone I’ve met and didn’t like.. which isn’t how you want to think of Christ.

Of the Italian Masters I think I like Raphael the best. I spent the most time looking at those, and I went back to see the Mond Crucifixion later.

I’ve only seen about about a fifth of the works currently up, and that’s not counting the Cézanne and Velázquez exhibits they’ve got on. Guess I’ll have to head back!

I’ll probably always be more of a museum guy. Give me battleaxes and maps and angry cuneiform honouring a man’s triumphant defeat of his countless foes over paintings of tables any day.. but I’m glad I went.

For one thing, I’ve noticed — and I’ll just say this and leave the reader to draw his own conclusions, correcting for the fact I’m a charter member of the Homely-Canadian community — that far and away the most attractive women in London seem to be at places like the Museum and the Gallery.

I note without comment that these locations have the highest proportion of tourists..

Today marks my thirtieth day in London (well, depending on how you count that first half-Thursday) so I thought I should do a brief summary.. and by summary I mean letting the neurons fire as they will and seeing where that takes me.

–

Time it took wandering around downtown to believe that the English once ruled the world: five minutes.

Time it took at Heathrow to understand why they don’t anymore: also five minutes.

Most Kafkaesque experience: visiting one of the small downtown Tesco stores to pick up something to drink. A Big-Brother voice blaring over loudspeakers repeatedly and angrily commanded those of us waiting in line to move to a station with a certain number — when there was no teller at the station. The numbers called were effectively random due to a problem with the system. The women at the stations were ruefully apologetic, but were unwilling to turn off the announcements. Privately I think this is the result of natural selection: the ancestors of those like me who were only a few seconds away from smashing the speakers into little bits all escaped to the New World.

Stupidest English idea: restaurants without washrooms. (!)

Officemates I have who commute to another country every weekend: one.

Trips I’ve taken on the Underground: dozens.

Trips I’ve taken on the bus: zero.

North American innovation I’ve missed most: customer service.

Most cheerfully-resigned bit of graffiti: at a seriously-gated spike-fenced compound out near Bromley-by-Bow run by Securicor or some other security group, underneath a sign warning that increased antitheft measures had recently been taken, someone wrote “Oh well!”

Number of times I’ve been asked to give directions: four.

Number of times I could help: three.

Best preaching: Fr Jones, St Peter’s London Docks, on the rich young man.

Length of time it took to open a bank account: three weeks.

Side of street that the English drive on: the wrong one, though they do paint these useful ‘look to the left’ and ‘look to the right’ warnings on the streets for the benefit of tourists.

Number of near-death experiences in the first seven days due to above dangerous convention: three.

Number of students I was worried were going to get zero on their first exam: one.

Number who did: one.

Length of time he stayed in the room: half an hour.

Imogen Heap lyric I now understand: “caught on CCTV“. The Revolution may not be televised, but everything else you do in this country is. It’s.. unnerving. Feels like you’re living in a bad Outer Limits episode about some near-future dystopia.

Chapters of stories I’m writing that I’ve finished since my arrival: three.

Number of books read: two.

Fraction of astronomers attending our weekly Friday talks who are female: 0.03%.

Fraction of my PPARC grant which goes to infrastructure support: ~50%.

Usefulness of said infrastructure personnel: zero.

Number of favours I had to call in to enter the country as a result of incompetence of same: three.

Favourite sandwich from the on-campus shop: bacon and chicken.

Strangest noise: the ceaseless loud beep from the security box on the ground floor, which has now been going nonstop since the first week of my arrival, and which seems to bother no one but me. See above discussion of Tesco voice.

Fraction of island surrounded by water: 100%.

GNP contribution of Greater London: ~US$660 billion.

Average number of Mayor-sponsored signs in any given Underground station encouraging Londoners not to flush: two.

Sense the above three facts make in conjunction with one another: none.

Newspaper with decent editorial stance which isn’t a tabloid: yet undiscovered.

Number of ‘Perfect Fried Chicken’ fast-food stores within a few minutes of my office: four.

Number of nearby stores I’ve seen advertising their food is halal: ~100.

Number of nearby stores I’ve seen advertising their food is kosher: 0.

Satisfaction I felt when I just spotted the Hebrew writing on the back of the Stella Artois bottle: considerable.

Products cheaper here than back home: none, although beer is arguable.

Best place to get must-finish-this-code late-night beer: the Off-License store down by the overpass near Bow Common.

Favourite view: looking west from the Mathematical Sciences building down Mile End toward central London.

Referee reports written: one.

Seminars attended: eight.

First time I seriously considered apologizing to Richard, buying a ticket back to Canada, and telling him “I have to go see about a girl”: Wednesday 4 October.

Physicists I know who acted in Good Will Hunting: two.

Number of them who if memory serves are also from this island: one.

Favourite building: Parliament, closely followed by St Paul’s.

New favourite day of week: Tuesday, strangely enough, with Friday afternoon a close second. I’ve been a Thursday guy for a long time.

Number of other Canadians I’ve met: four.

Number I’ve seen, without speaking to, but I could tell: ten.

Team mentioned on the only hockey shirt I’ve seen not worn by me: the Toronto Maple Leafs.

Number of decentish places where you can watch hockey in this city that I know of: three.

Time shift between London and Toronto: five hours.

Time shift between London and Red Deer: seven hours.

Distance between London and Kingston: three thousand four hundred and nine miles.

–

And there you have it!

I haven’t done nearly enough Londonblogging recently.

Partly this is because I’ve been taking my explorations of the city pretty slowly– there’s just so much to see. And before I surrender and take one of those bus tours, I wanted to get a sense of the various areas myself, and absorb the atmosphere.

The other week I spent an entire day wandering around the Parliament buildings, which are immense; the Palace, which is gorgeous; and 10 Downing Street (or as much as you can see from past the gates), with a loud protest across the lane about something involving the Congo. (Apparently whatever-it-was is Tony Blair’s fault somehow. Seems unlikely to me. The protest was being run by large men in secondhand camouflage fatigues, outfits not chosen to persuade the undecided and far too silly to be intimidating; I think they need to rethink their public relations strategy.) Simply drinking in the majesty of the buildings, and admiring the fine work on each window, took several hours. I’ll gradually work up to going inside.

Today I went to the British Museum, which I’ve been wanting to do since I got off the plane.

(This sudden decision to indulge myself has, of course, absolutely nothing to do with the subject of recent posts. Also unrelated was my discovery the other night that there is a beer which tastes so awful that I wasn’t going to drink it. Until I did, hating myself all the while.. or at least until I read the label after half of it was gone and realized it wasn’t the world’s worst-tasting beer but a reasonably tasty cider. Embarrassing levels of relief.)

Conveniently, given that my money’s tied up in various alcohol-related investments, there’s no admission fee at the Museum, although there are a number of donation bins. They advertise it as ‘free’, but they mean ‘publically funded’.. and since I’m now paying British income tax I’m part of that public.

I thought I’d been prepared for the scale of the place — seeing all the Victorian-era buildings downtown which look like they’d survive a nuclear blast should’ve been good preparation — but I was wrong. I’m convinced that there’s nothing left in Egypt for the Egyptians!

I immediately realized that there was no way I could see even a small fraction of what I’d hoped to, and that I had no chance of enjoying my trip unless I chose a particular theme and limited myself to that.

So I decided to go with one of my favourite eras, ancient Mesopotamia: Assyria, Babylonia, Sumeria, and so on, in the age of god-kings. (Why am I so fond of it? I’m not sure, but it might have something to do with the brilliant Rivers of Light game I played on my C-64 back in the day embedding itself deeply in my mind; or maybe simply that cuneiform looks too cool not to love.)

Most people seem to prefer the Egyptians, so even though it was fairly busy at the Museum I could find space to read the descriptions, and admire the enormous door statues, and inspect the fine angular imprints on the carvings of the triumphs of the kings. I’ve never seen anything like it; some of the monuments are the size of a room, although I had to wince when I learned that one of the best pieces had been cut into four segments for transport..

I think I’ll have to return just to look at what I’ve already seen once more, and next time with a notebook. I foolishly left mine at the office, so I couldn’t write down the most interesting names and stories and google for more information later. They also have a sacred objects of the Pacific exhibit on at the moment which I’d like to check out before it leaves.

Visiting the Museum is likely going to become a hobby for the next while, although I might shift my trips to Monday or Tuesday, some day when there’ll be fewer people there. I’m very much looking forward to the next time.

[And yes, you hopelessly visually-oriented people, I'll get around to taking some pictures eventually.]

So there I was, drinking incredibly overpriced coffee in Heathrow airport, overhearing a conversation in strangely accented French — at least I think it was French, I recognized occasional phrases — and watching passersby.

One scene above all others made me smile: a pretty girl returning from her trip was met by her geeky but obviously sincere boyfriend with flowers. Their reunion warmed even my ice-cold heart. However strange England might seem, some things here I already understand, like the impossible gratitude of an awkward boy when someone beautiful consents to let him into her life.

After half an hour or so, I finished my shot of caffeine-loaded courage, and decided to get myself to Queen Mary.

Richard had sent instructions on navigating the Underground: I was to take the Piccadilly line to South Kensington, and then take any train on the District line if it went as far as Upminster or Barking. (This last part came in handy: the first District train that came by didn’t go as far as I needed.)

I managed to get on the train, but it’s awfully difficult to maneuver when you’re carrying half again your own weight in luggage.. especially given the apparent incompetence of British construction engineering, at least as applied to their subway system.

Permit me to explain:

James, the astro-Englishman at Queen’s, has a band called Mind the Gap, and a shirt that says the same. He once explained to me that it was taken from a phrase often said on the Underground (not to be confused with a poem on the underground wall).

I thought it was cute but kind of silly: does it really need to be announced that much? In Toronto, they have occasional stickers noting that there’s a slight gap between the train and the platform — kind of obvious, really — but that’s it.

Well, what I’d failed to understand from James was that the gaps in question weren’t merely horizontal gaps like in Toronto but gaps with vertical offsets, ranging from a few inches to what I’ll swear to my dying day was a full foot.

When building the bloody thing, did no one think to measure the height of the platform to make sure it’d match the train door?!

Even setting aside the fact this makes the Underground almost useless for anyone in a wheelchair, it makes it difficult for anyone with a stroller — or, like me, with luggage. Absolute madness.

Having recognized this problem, they apparently decided that the game was already lost, so there was no reason not to make almost every station unnavigable unless you’re an Olympic athlete carrying nothing more than spandex. I lost track of the number of times strangers had to intervene to help some young mother with her carriage. (Or should I say pram?)

A civilized society would feel some level of shame at this catastrophic failure, this source of danger and inconvenience and unnecessary exclusion; such a people might even consider fixing it. The English have, characteristically, hit upon a completely different solution: they simply warn everyone about their mistake.

Over and over and over again.

From the time I left Heathrow to the time I arrived at Stepney Green, I must’ve head them announce “Mind the Gap” roughly a googleplex number of times. By the end I was ready to confess that there were five lights, that anything opposed to the Crown was Double-Plus-Ungood, anything at all, if only they would kindly STOP TELLING ME TO MIND THE GAP.

Admittedly, the other information they announced was very useful, with helpful notices about when to get off to switch onto specific lines, and the female voice announcing the stations on the District line was gorgeous.

I’m just not sure I can listen to James’ music ever again..

Leaving the Stepney Green station, I had my first conversation with someone in England where I couldn’t make out a word he was saying: the ticket-taker. This has proved to be a depressingly common occurrence. Finally he took my ticket and waved me through, and then it was a few minutes down the street — still carrying all this stuff — to the Queen Mary campus.

Fortunately the Mathematical Sciences building was the closest to me, and I resisted the temptation to step into any of the pubs I passed on the way.

Ten minutes of awkward navigation in the building, carrying everything up to Nelson’s office, room 453, and then I knocked.

“Reporting as ordered, sir.”

And the rest is history. History yet unwritten; but history nonetheless.

[Still catching up on stories.]

Well, unfortunately I didn’t get my beach volleyball team on the plane. (So much for the benefits of early check-in.)

Sidenote on that subject: for some time now I’ve noticed that there’s always a girl flying with me who I think is very cute, and she inevitably winds up sitting near me — near enough to overhear third-rate attempts at flirting — but not beside me. I don’t see the justice: why are the beautiful also lucky? How is that fair?

Anyhow, it happened again on this flight. Worse yet, the seat next to her was empty. Or at least it was at the start of the flight. About a third of the way in someone had moved to sit beside her, for reasons that aren’t clear to me.. he didn’t say two words to her, I don’t think, so his motive was obscure.

Aside from that perpetual problem, I couldn’t complain about the British Airways flight itself. There was ample legroom, the crew was very friendly and helpful, and the food was pretty good. They came around once every half hour or so offering beverages, and I took advantage of it most of the time. The entertainment selection was excellent, what with the private screens and all, and I watched MI3 (I know, but I wanted something mindlessly distracting) and listened to a nicely atmospheric performance of a short mystery story by a famous author (can’t remember which one).

One quirk: when watching the Disney-produced cartoons before the movie on a different channel (episodes of Kim Possible and Recess), they seemed to go by oddly fast. My best guess is that they’d reedited them down to fit into a smaller runtime by deleting as many of the nonspeaking frames as they could. Google probably knows, but life should have some mysteries.

In fact, the only issues that came up I can’t really blame on the airline: the woman in front of me, despite the fact her husband understood and complied, refused to put her seat up during meals, ignoring the instructions of the stewardess. (Well, maybe that one I can blame somewhat on BA, although I’m sure they would’ve intervened if I’d said something.)

The other they really couldn’t do anything about. The elderly woman beside me — originally English, but she’s been in Canada for a long time, I gather — has a slightly different sense of airplane etiquette than I do. We were sitting in the three seats in the middle aisle, myself on the left and her in the centre. It quickly developed that there was no one sitting in the right seat.

In her place, I would have naturally moved to the right, so as to give both of us more room to stretch out. Instead she decided to use the empty seat for storage, and stayed where she was. Twice I think she managed to change my channel or volume with her elbow.

She also turned on the reading light. Not to read, though: to sleep, with no intentions of reading whatsoever. I can’t quite understand that.

I didn’t get any sleep myself, but even being quiet in the dark is restful in its way.

After many hours, I saw my first glimpse of London through the window; the landing was very gentle; and I was in England.

–

I followed the herd to the UK customs agents. There was a long lineup of people in front of the ‘all others’ category, with ten officials or so manning various stations, but no one in the line under the sign which said ‘UK Visa Holders’, behind the map of instructions which pointed people with UK visas toward the empty line. Seemed uncomplicated enough.

The two agents manning the allegedly appropriate stations looked bored, so I asked them “Is this the line for UK visa holders?” to which of course they replied “No.”

I hadn’t the courage to ask them exactly what it was the line was for. Possibly for questions about where the UK visa holders should go if not to where the signs point, which strikes me as an odd thing to need answered. I suspect it’s a weird British governmental-Zen thing. Maybe I should have played Douglas Adams’ Bureaucracy as preparation for moving to London.

I found my way into the correct line and things moved quickly. While in line I saw a man being brought in handcuffs by four or so sombre-faced uniformed officers to one of the stations: I couldn’t overhear any of the conversation, so I don’t know what he’d done or was believed to have done. Suffice it to say he didn’t have the look of a man who had been unjustly accused. I heard slightly nervous laughter from the people behind me as they quickly checked to make sure all of their forms were in order.

Eventually it was my turn. I was hoping to get the guy who’d handled the prisoner, as he looked the friendliest, but no such luck.

They waved me forward, and I gave the agent my passport and the arrival form I’d filled out on the plane.

“Where are you coming from?”

This actually stopped me for a second. Did he mean country? City? City of origin of trip? Finally I just said, “Toronto.”

“How long are you here for?”

“Two or three years. I’m working as a postdoc at Queen Mary.”

“Do you have your work permit?”

“Er, yes.” After a second of digging through folders, I passed it to him. He continued his rather random-looking stamping and strangely multidirectional writing on the pages before him.

“Who are you working for?”

“Prof. Richard Nelson and Carl Murray.”

And after some more stamping, that was it. Only four questions. I was expecting a more Inquisitional interrogation, and had Richard’s cellphone number at hand just in case.

Then off to get my luggage, which was available almost immediately; to take some British money out of the bank machine; and to sit down, breathe, and have a coffee.

Almost there.

Next time: Eastward bound.