londON
And on we write...
Around half past ten I was welcomed at Paddington by our comrade M and, after some further ticket struggles, safely guided to his comfortable UCL lodgings in Bloomsbury or Camden or WC1 or thereabouts (near Corams Fields, near St Pancras, King's Cross and Euston train stations), after having indulged first in the luxuries of the UCL graduate anthroplogists' very own Common Room (a thing we still lack at both UC and, I believe the UvA and the VU - again, in random order). We talked, we had a cuppa, I waited for my sleeping mat to inflate itself, and we had a short but wholesome rest.
Breakfast included not only English tea and English bread (on which no doubt a seperate entry will follow) and 'English' yoghurt (which does not exist), but also glorious pindakaas and pure hagelslag (although polluted with "funnies").
And Ah: London...
I had my first rides in the underground, which might almost be as exciting as le métro. My first walks in various tiresome subways. My first inhaling of the smog, the fog. Large parts of London continuously smell as if something is being fried (which is probably true, though it's not entirely sure what). Other smells include the usual city-odours: exhaust gases, river water, stone, iron, food, beer, parks. Piss and pod are remarkably (though not completely) absent.
M assured me that it had to do with the weekend, but the city seemed deserted. So much the better for a first visit, because in this way I had first class views everywhere.
We walked through Fleet Street, the one-time Times (and other newspapers) imperium. We walked through Holborn ['ho-bun], slightly depressing law(yer)'s and business land (if I remember correctly: please help me if necessary, you London connoisseurs). I saw the Ivory Tower, or rather the World War II ministry of information (or something along those lines) which image George Orwell used as the Ministry of Truth in his 1984; it is beautiful in the best fascist architecture tradition of Rome and former Berlin. I love it (and took a picture of it).
We saw St Paul's, we saw the Thames, we saw various bridges spanning the Thames, we saw Tate Modern.
About which more tomorrow, I hope, because I am sort of imploding right now.
A last note: finally, the black and white pictures have been put into frames and stuck onto the noticeboard. It makes a difference. They cheer me up (even more than I am cheerful already). They tell me how lucky I am.
Goodnight.
Around half past ten I was welcomed at Paddington by our comrade M and, after some further ticket struggles, safely guided to his comfortable UCL lodgings in Bloomsbury or Camden or WC1 or thereabouts (near Corams Fields, near St Pancras, King's Cross and Euston train stations), after having indulged first in the luxuries of the UCL graduate anthroplogists' very own Common Room (a thing we still lack at both UC and, I believe the UvA and the VU - again, in random order). We talked, we had a cuppa, I waited for my sleeping mat to inflate itself, and we had a short but wholesome rest.
Breakfast included not only English tea and English bread (on which no doubt a seperate entry will follow) and 'English' yoghurt (which does not exist), but also glorious pindakaas and pure hagelslag (although polluted with "funnies").
And Ah: London...
I had my first rides in the underground, which might almost be as exciting as le métro. My first walks in various tiresome subways. My first inhaling of the smog, the fog. Large parts of London continuously smell as if something is being fried (which is probably true, though it's not entirely sure what). Other smells include the usual city-odours: exhaust gases, river water, stone, iron, food, beer, parks. Piss and pod are remarkably (though not completely) absent.
M assured me that it had to do with the weekend, but the city seemed deserted. So much the better for a first visit, because in this way I had first class views everywhere.
We walked through Fleet Street, the one-time Times (and other newspapers) imperium. We walked through Holborn ['ho-bun], slightly depressing law(yer)'s and business land (if I remember correctly: please help me if necessary, you London connoisseurs). I saw the Ivory Tower, or rather the World War II ministry of information (or something along those lines) which image George Orwell used as the Ministry of Truth in his 1984; it is beautiful in the best fascist architecture tradition of Rome and former Berlin. I love it (and took a picture of it).
We saw St Paul's, we saw the Thames, we saw various bridges spanning the Thames, we saw Tate Modern.
About which more tomorrow, I hope, because I am sort of imploding right now.
A last note: finally, the black and white pictures have been put into frames and stuck onto the noticeboard. It makes a difference. They cheer me up (even more than I am cheerful already). They tell me how lucky I am.
Goodnight.
posted by Anna P.H. Geurts | 12:53 am
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