Travel Journal 10: The Welsh invade London
Wednesday 17 May, 2006
At night the city is no more full of dreams than at any other time. That's where people go wrong. They think that the daytime city, full of money and work and people who know where they're going, is the real one. But I look all the time for the real city, and I know it's not as simple as that. It's not simple at all. You might think you might find it by digging holes or staring at the pavement, but it's not there in the mud and stone and brick. The real city is alive and breathing. You can look for it in the buildings, in the way they're built and why, and how they look in the light; what someone called the spectacle organised by architecture. But how could that be the real city? The real city is not organised by anyone. It just uses certain places to make itself seen, and the best architects know this and don't overreach themselves. I don't know about the people. They seem to be living some great truth, like the dance of atoms and, of course, it's not anything they understand individually. But still, you could investigate them, follow a few threads of their lives, their friends and those they work with. You could even find out what remains of their ancestors, and you'd be no closer to the thing that moves and connects them. It is that which gives me a feeling I've never known before. I'll call it a religious feeling, 'cos I've no other word for it. When I see all of this, this city, full of light and sound, and there's so much that you can't even imagine knowing all of it, so beautiful and so hideous all at once. It's then I start to think there might be a new god that only lives in cities. It's not every day you discover a new god, especially such a powerful, ambivalent one. Sometimes a drunken, stinking, dangerous god, certainly. But still, the correct response to a god, or goddess, any kind, is worship. I don't care what anyone says, and that's what I want to do. I feel like Saint Joan must have felt when she heard her voices: like a blasphemer. But I think we could do with more gods, not less, and I'll take that chance. And, of course, the presence of a god makes the city a sacred place, which is what I always felt anyway. Look at it, just look at it. How could it not be?
Shriekback "3am (Search for the Naked City)"
written by Barry Andrews with London in mind.
I understood this on a certain level long before I came to London. I caught of sense of it when I went to New York City my first time, when I was six years old. And, although Asheville is a mere speck in the scheme of things when compared to cities like NYC and London, I felt a deep connection with the soul of my home town, and still do when I'm fortunate enough to visit. I even wrote a poem that predates Sacred City by six or seven years called "The City Sings" (under the pen name Mahalia Bergestonian, my Jewish Gospel alter-ego.....long story.....), and it expresses the same sentiment as does the concept album, but on a less eloquent and mature level. So I related to the message of the album until I entered into London...and then I grokked Sacred City.
We headed out from Brighton around 10:30, our destination: Barnes, a suburb of London and home to Nick and Stevie where we were to pick up a wheelchair that Stevie got from his parish for Aunt Tudi to travel about in London. We ended up taking the long way 'round because falkenna and I both missed our exit. I'm about as useful as a tit on a boar hog when it comes to reading maps, so falkenna was pretty much screwed with me riding shotgun. The long way 'round encompassed our driving through Wimbledon which, from what I saw, is a splendid town. I wouldn't mind going back to Wimbledon and just walking about, soaking up the atmosphere. We arrived at Nick and Stevie's cottage a little before 1 PM. Stevie told us that we'd just missed Barry, who had left for London a few minutes prior to our arrival, to go visit his aunt, who was in very poor health and not expected to last much longer. We were to reach out to him via cell phone when we made it into London.
Stevie and Nick's cottage is comprised of two separate dwellings that they merged. But they kept a door that they can close when there's a bit of marital strife. Like I told Stevie, I think every married couple should have a door like that. It would probably save a good many marriages. Since Stevie and Nick have been together for 8 years, I'd say the door has worked pretty damned well for them. Whilst there, I was taken upstairs by Stevie and falkenna to finally see and touch the Bed of Mysteries (there are pictures of the Bed in the Shriekness folder of my Photobucket account. Both Stevie and falkenna tried to persuade me to sit on the bed, but I dared not. There's just some things I can't do and certain places I cannot go. After the vampiric episode the day before combined with my knowledge of vampiric involvement in the Bed Explication, I was positive I shouldn't connect with the Bed in that manner. All that aside, the Bed is amazing and perfectly beautiful, a magickal microcosm that, I'm sure, wraps around you like a cocoon as you sleep, giving you the dreams you're meant to have.
After the bed, Stevie took me out to his garden. What struck me initially about his garden is the abundance of ivy, for which I have a deep affinity. My first thought was of "The Ivy Garden," because it looked a great deal like what I had envisioned the Ivy Garden would be when I wrote the poem. Stevie said that he had removed a lot of the ivy because he was worried that, when Barry planted it as part of his garden design, the ivy would take over. Stevie showed me the candle-holders, the metal lattices, and the fire pit that Barry had designed and made for the garden. I think my favourite item of all the crafted items was the fire pit. For something made in the 90's, it looks like it came from a much older age. The lattice towers had a distinct DNA vibe about them. In fact, there are a lot of spirally designs that show up in B's metalwork, from what I've seen. There's a reason for that. Someday, I may find out what it is.
When we came back in from the garden, Nick produced a map of all the London bus routes and gave falkenna some tips on how to get where we wanted to go. We got Aunt Tudi in the wheelchair and headed down to one of the local shops to purchase day passes for the bus. After that, we hopped on the bus to Westminster and began our day in London.
The first place we went after getting off our bus was a sidewalk news stand that also carried postcards, magnets, and other sundry items for the Discerning Tourist. I got the last of the postcards I needed while Aunt Tudi got her obligatory London magnet. We then made our way down a shallow hill to a beautiful park that led us Buckingham Palace. The path to the Palace was incredibly peaceful and pretty much my favourite part of the Palace tour. To have such a pastoral area in one of the largest cities on Earth amazes me. It's one of the things that endeared London to me from the very beginning.
When we got to Buckingham Palace, there were two things that instantly affected me: the giant fountain at the front of the palace with all the ornate statuary and the sidewalk compasses marking the directions of the Princess Diana Memorial Walk. I guess I'm just one of the Great Herd, but I harboured a great affection for Diana and was quite saddened at her MURDER Unfortunate Demise. It began to mist rain a bit heavier at this time and the temperature was in the low 50's. Perfect English weather that I would give anything to be back in right about now.
From Buckingham Palace, we walked through St. James Park on our way to Parliament and Big Ben (I can't say or write that without thinking of the Griswalds). The park is very pretty, graced with a variety of flowers and deciduous trees (I couldn't rightly identify the trees, but they could have been a type of maple by the shape of the leaves). Part of the path in the park is called the Bird Walk, if memory serves. One of the kings (I can't remember which one falkenna said) was a bird lover and collected birds from around the world. He would place them in large cages along this path so the Commoners could walk by and see them. Although I don't agree with this, I do admire the king for wanting to share this beauty in his life with his people. Still though....if you truly love birds, you don't put them in cages. Just my opinion.
Out of the park and into the city proper, we found ourselves in the seat of British government. Lots of Very Important Buildings lined the streets and were illuminated with statues of Very Important Figures from History. It was all...Very Important. Parliament was okay, but I was enamoured with Big Ben, especially when he chimed out with a sound that roiled across the area like the sea at high tide. I felt the bells in my solar plexus. Ever since I was a wee tot, I loved Big Ben. My Granny used to sing a song to me that mentioned Big Ben: England swings like a pendulum do, Bobbies on bicycles two by two, Westminster Abbey, the tower of Big Ben, the rosy red cheeks of the little children. So I took quite a few pictures of the great clock, one at the very base of it.
The rain picked up. It got a tad cooler. Perfection.
falkenna texted Barry earlier to let him know we were in London. He texted back to let us know he was in the throws of family issues and couldn't get away at the moment, but he'd try later on and would let us know. That was around 3 PM. It was now around 5 PM, so we decided to make our way to Whitechapel in order to beat the traffic and ensure that we weren't late for the Ripper Walk, which began at 7 PM. We were all parched and hungry, so we popped into a pub nearby and got us some beverage and Chicken Yakatori. Basically, it tasted like chicken teriyaki on sticks that is, chicken teriyaki kebabs. Verily, did we all nosh with enthusiasm. We left the pub around 6:30 and hopped the bus to the place where the Ripper Walk was to commence. falkenna checked her phone and had a message from Barry saying that he was exhausted and was sorry to bail on us, but he needed to go home. Ah well, such is life. To be honest, I wasn't sure I could have handled going on a Jack the Ripper walking tour with Barry Andrews. There's something not quite kosher about the mere idea of it. No. ::wibbles::
The rain had pretty much become steady at this point, as we reached the Aldgate East Underground Station. There were about a dozen members of our tour group as we stood shivering in the chilly wet London breeze, waiting for the Walk to begin. Led by a pretty young lady from Birmingham (props to Jeff Lynne yo), we began the walk shortly after 7 PM, making our way around a corner to find ourselves on Thrawl Street. This was our first stop and our guide (I wish I could remember her name....damn) began establishing the atmosphere of the time in which the Ripper did his deeds. She told us of the abject poverty and overcrowding that plagued the Whitechapel district, and how utterly miserable everyone was. The hopelessness and desperation of the people who lived there were magnified tenfold when they were made unequivocally aware that a vicious killer walked amongst them. The sense of panic was inescapable and, therefore, manifested into an almost corporeal entity riding on the backs of everyone in Whitechapel.
She spoke of the first of Martha Tabram, who is believed to be Jack's first victim. She told us all how Martha sustained great injury from her attacker, but walked a great distance to find help and gave a description of her assailant while in the hospital before she died. They grew 'em tough back in the day....
The streets we walked down seem to be more like alleyways because they're so narrow and dark. I believe that some of the streets are still lit with gas lamps. The London council probably wanted to keep it that way to maintain the ambiance for touristy reasons. When the lamps came on, they gave off a weak yellow light that made the shadows long and didn't do much else. Illumination didn't seem to be the main purpose of these lamps, in my opinion. By this time we were all a bit damp, perhaps a shade past damp. The rain continued its steady soaking and was perfect for the events of the evening.
Our guide explained that many of the sites important to the Ripper's activities had either been demolished or built over (or both), so she enhanced the tour with relevant pictures to better describe what happened in 1888. A lot of these pictures she had were never released to the public and can't be found anywhere. I believe her because, trust me, if there were any pictures to be had regarding the Jack the Ripper mystery, I would have found them and I hadn't seen many of the pictures the guide provided. She also offered descriptions of the murders I'd never heard before. Just this information alone was well worth the effort to do the Walk.
We came to the place where Jack the Ripper left his cryptic message scrawled on the side of a building: The Juwes are the men who will not be blamed for nothing. It's now a shop that, when closed, is protected by a big pink roll-up door. What's so wild is that the local kids, who have obviously grown up with the shadow of Jack bearing down on them, continue his legacy by writing their own graffiti about the Juwes, whoever or whatever they were or are. I meant to get a photograph of some of this graffiti but forgot, in the throes of catching up with the group.
The streets in which Jack did his work were some of the most dangerous areas in Whitechapel, so much so that the police wouldn't go down most of them without travelling in fours. There was one street they wouldn't go down at all and this was Fashion Street. Anyone on this street who dialed 911 in 1888 was pretty much screwed.
Our guide ended the tour with some interesting information and theories about the Jack the Ripper mystery. The good doctor for the Royals, one Sir William Gull, was not the Ripper according to our guide, who seemed to be a bit of an expert on the doctor's biography. According to her, Jack the Ripper was more than one person and they were connected to the British Royal Family. Mind, she didn't say they were members of the Royal Family, just connected. So....food for thought. I tend to lean in that direction, being an almost-well-known paranoiac/conspiracy theorist who is all too eager to point the finger at the various secret societies that vie for control over the human herds of Earth.
0_o
But I digress.
We came full circle near to the Aldgate East Underground. Aunt Tudi and I had fallen behind a bit because the wheelchair didn't like the cobbled areas. falkenna walked on ahead of us and then......disappeared. So there we were at almost 10 o'clock at night, two foreign women alone in Whitechapel. My worst fucking nightmare. When I was about to give up ever seeing home again and attach a note to my arse that said "VICTIM HERE!" falkenna reappeared with cold drinks in hand. Apparently she had motioned for us to wait in the place where she popped out of sight because she was going into a shop to get blessed liquid. My gratitude for something to drink outweighed my inclination to grab her by the shoulders and shake her to and fro as I wept with horror. So we sat at the bus stop and waited for the bus that would start us on our journey back to Stevie's and Nick's.
We arrived back at the cottage around 11 PM, tired, wet, and a little on edge. falkenna hates the city and Aunt Tudi isn't too very fond of large cities herself. Me? I could have stayed there and wandered about forever....just not in Whitechapel, dig.
We told Stevie and Nick about our day and, somehow, the conversation became a debate about the difference in British and American aid to the poor or disenfranchised. This was perpetrated by the edgie duet themselves, falkenna and Aunt Tudi. Me? I just sat there and gave Stevie and Nick the "roly eyeball" and twiddled my thumbs. When Midnight struck, we bid the men adieu and headed back to Brighton.
It was nigh onto 2 AM when we got home. Even though I was tired, I was also energised by the presence of the city in my mind. falkenna was perplexed that a misanthrope such as myself could enjoy being in such a vastly populated place. I tried to explain that it wasn't the people necessarily, but the human energy over all. To me, London was like a gigantic organism with a very thin epidermis that one can ease through to find the wonders therein. A city that large, like New York, which falls into this category, but not as strongly as London, at some point no longer depends on humans as individuals; rather, it is its own Being, powered by the energy drawn from the human whole from which it feeds. It's a living thing filled with mysteries waiting patiently to be discovered by the right explorer. I hope to someday go back and do just that, be an explorer of the greater mysteries. I'll leave falkenna and Aunt Tudi behind, and they'll thank me for it, 'cos they're just not cut out for roaming about and watching to see what happens. Give them the countryside and they will be happy.
After eating a bite, we all bid each other a good night, and Aunt Tudi and I retired to our room to pack for the trip home the next day.
The final chapter, hopefully later on today, after I've gotten a couple hours of sleep....good god it's 4:10 in the morning! Kill me now.
At night the city is no more full of dreams than at any other time. That's where people go wrong. They think that the daytime city, full of money and work and people who know where they're going, is the real one. But I look all the time for the real city, and I know it's not as simple as that. It's not simple at all. You might think you might find it by digging holes or staring at the pavement, but it's not there in the mud and stone and brick. The real city is alive and breathing. You can look for it in the buildings, in the way they're built and why, and how they look in the light; what someone called the spectacle organised by architecture. But how could that be the real city? The real city is not organised by anyone. It just uses certain places to make itself seen, and the best architects know this and don't overreach themselves. I don't know about the people. They seem to be living some great truth, like the dance of atoms and, of course, it's not anything they understand individually. But still, you could investigate them, follow a few threads of their lives, their friends and those they work with. You could even find out what remains of their ancestors, and you'd be no closer to the thing that moves and connects them. It is that which gives me a feeling I've never known before. I'll call it a religious feeling, 'cos I've no other word for it. When I see all of this, this city, full of light and sound, and there's so much that you can't even imagine knowing all of it, so beautiful and so hideous all at once. It's then I start to think there might be a new god that only lives in cities. It's not every day you discover a new god, especially such a powerful, ambivalent one. Sometimes a drunken, stinking, dangerous god, certainly. But still, the correct response to a god, or goddess, any kind, is worship. I don't care what anyone says, and that's what I want to do. I feel like Saint Joan must have felt when she heard her voices: like a blasphemer. But I think we could do with more gods, not less, and I'll take that chance. And, of course, the presence of a god makes the city a sacred place, which is what I always felt anyway. Look at it, just look at it. How could it not be?
Shriekback "3am (Search for the Naked City)"
written by Barry Andrews with London in mind.
I understood this on a certain level long before I came to London. I caught of sense of it when I went to New York City my first time, when I was six years old. And, although Asheville is a mere speck in the scheme of things when compared to cities like NYC and London, I felt a deep connection with the soul of my home town, and still do when I'm fortunate enough to visit. I even wrote a poem that predates Sacred City by six or seven years called "The City Sings" (under the pen name Mahalia Bergestonian, my Jewish Gospel alter-ego.....long story.....), and it expresses the same sentiment as does the concept album, but on a less eloquent and mature level. So I related to the message of the album until I entered into London...and then I grokked Sacred City.
We headed out from Brighton around 10:30, our destination: Barnes, a suburb of London and home to Nick and Stevie where we were to pick up a wheelchair that Stevie got from his parish for Aunt Tudi to travel about in London. We ended up taking the long way 'round because falkenna and I both missed our exit. I'm about as useful as a tit on a boar hog when it comes to reading maps, so falkenna was pretty much screwed with me riding shotgun. The long way 'round encompassed our driving through Wimbledon which, from what I saw, is a splendid town. I wouldn't mind going back to Wimbledon and just walking about, soaking up the atmosphere. We arrived at Nick and Stevie's cottage a little before 1 PM. Stevie told us that we'd just missed Barry, who had left for London a few minutes prior to our arrival, to go visit his aunt, who was in very poor health and not expected to last much longer. We were to reach out to him via cell phone when we made it into London.
Stevie and Nick's cottage is comprised of two separate dwellings that they merged. But they kept a door that they can close when there's a bit of marital strife. Like I told Stevie, I think every married couple should have a door like that. It would probably save a good many marriages. Since Stevie and Nick have been together for 8 years, I'd say the door has worked pretty damned well for them. Whilst there, I was taken upstairs by Stevie and falkenna to finally see and touch the Bed of Mysteries (there are pictures of the Bed in the Shriekness folder of my Photobucket account. Both Stevie and falkenna tried to persuade me to sit on the bed, but I dared not. There's just some things I can't do and certain places I cannot go. After the vampiric episode the day before combined with my knowledge of vampiric involvement in the Bed Explication, I was positive I shouldn't connect with the Bed in that manner. All that aside, the Bed is amazing and perfectly beautiful, a magickal microcosm that, I'm sure, wraps around you like a cocoon as you sleep, giving you the dreams you're meant to have.
After the bed, Stevie took me out to his garden. What struck me initially about his garden is the abundance of ivy, for which I have a deep affinity. My first thought was of "The Ivy Garden," because it looked a great deal like what I had envisioned the Ivy Garden would be when I wrote the poem. Stevie said that he had removed a lot of the ivy because he was worried that, when Barry planted it as part of his garden design, the ivy would take over. Stevie showed me the candle-holders, the metal lattices, and the fire pit that Barry had designed and made for the garden. I think my favourite item of all the crafted items was the fire pit. For something made in the 90's, it looks like it came from a much older age. The lattice towers had a distinct DNA vibe about them. In fact, there are a lot of spirally designs that show up in B's metalwork, from what I've seen. There's a reason for that. Someday, I may find out what it is.
When we came back in from the garden, Nick produced a map of all the London bus routes and gave falkenna some tips on how to get where we wanted to go. We got Aunt Tudi in the wheelchair and headed down to one of the local shops to purchase day passes for the bus. After that, we hopped on the bus to Westminster and began our day in London.
The first place we went after getting off our bus was a sidewalk news stand that also carried postcards, magnets, and other sundry items for the Discerning Tourist. I got the last of the postcards I needed while Aunt Tudi got her obligatory London magnet. We then made our way down a shallow hill to a beautiful park that led us Buckingham Palace. The path to the Palace was incredibly peaceful and pretty much my favourite part of the Palace tour. To have such a pastoral area in one of the largest cities on Earth amazes me. It's one of the things that endeared London to me from the very beginning.
When we got to Buckingham Palace, there were two things that instantly affected me: the giant fountain at the front of the palace with all the ornate statuary and the sidewalk compasses marking the directions of the Princess Diana Memorial Walk. I guess I'm just one of the Great Herd, but I harboured a great affection for Diana and was quite saddened at her MURDER Unfortunate Demise. It began to mist rain a bit heavier at this time and the temperature was in the low 50's. Perfect English weather that I would give anything to be back in right about now.
From Buckingham Palace, we walked through St. James Park on our way to Parliament and Big Ben (I can't say or write that without thinking of the Griswalds). The park is very pretty, graced with a variety of flowers and deciduous trees (I couldn't rightly identify the trees, but they could have been a type of maple by the shape of the leaves). Part of the path in the park is called the Bird Walk, if memory serves. One of the kings (I can't remember which one falkenna said) was a bird lover and collected birds from around the world. He would place them in large cages along this path so the Commoners could walk by and see them. Although I don't agree with this, I do admire the king for wanting to share this beauty in his life with his people. Still though....if you truly love birds, you don't put them in cages. Just my opinion.
Out of the park and into the city proper, we found ourselves in the seat of British government. Lots of Very Important Buildings lined the streets and were illuminated with statues of Very Important Figures from History. It was all...Very Important. Parliament was okay, but I was enamoured with Big Ben, especially when he chimed out with a sound that roiled across the area like the sea at high tide. I felt the bells in my solar plexus. Ever since I was a wee tot, I loved Big Ben. My Granny used to sing a song to me that mentioned Big Ben: England swings like a pendulum do, Bobbies on bicycles two by two, Westminster Abbey, the tower of Big Ben, the rosy red cheeks of the little children. So I took quite a few pictures of the great clock, one at the very base of it.
The rain picked up. It got a tad cooler. Perfection.
falkenna texted Barry earlier to let him know we were in London. He texted back to let us know he was in the throws of family issues and couldn't get away at the moment, but he'd try later on and would let us know. That was around 3 PM. It was now around 5 PM, so we decided to make our way to Whitechapel in order to beat the traffic and ensure that we weren't late for the Ripper Walk, which began at 7 PM. We were all parched and hungry, so we popped into a pub nearby and got us some beverage and Chicken Yakatori. Basically, it tasted like chicken teriyaki on sticks that is, chicken teriyaki kebabs. Verily, did we all nosh with enthusiasm. We left the pub around 6:30 and hopped the bus to the place where the Ripper Walk was to commence. falkenna checked her phone and had a message from Barry saying that he was exhausted and was sorry to bail on us, but he needed to go home. Ah well, such is life. To be honest, I wasn't sure I could have handled going on a Jack the Ripper walking tour with Barry Andrews. There's something not quite kosher about the mere idea of it. No. ::wibbles::
The rain had pretty much become steady at this point, as we reached the Aldgate East Underground Station. There were about a dozen members of our tour group as we stood shivering in the chilly wet London breeze, waiting for the Walk to begin. Led by a pretty young lady from Birmingham (props to Jeff Lynne yo), we began the walk shortly after 7 PM, making our way around a corner to find ourselves on Thrawl Street. This was our first stop and our guide (I wish I could remember her name....damn) began establishing the atmosphere of the time in which the Ripper did his deeds. She told us of the abject poverty and overcrowding that plagued the Whitechapel district, and how utterly miserable everyone was. The hopelessness and desperation of the people who lived there were magnified tenfold when they were made unequivocally aware that a vicious killer walked amongst them. The sense of panic was inescapable and, therefore, manifested into an almost corporeal entity riding on the backs of everyone in Whitechapel.
She spoke of the first of Martha Tabram, who is believed to be Jack's first victim. She told us all how Martha sustained great injury from her attacker, but walked a great distance to find help and gave a description of her assailant while in the hospital before she died. They grew 'em tough back in the day....
The streets we walked down seem to be more like alleyways because they're so narrow and dark. I believe that some of the streets are still lit with gas lamps. The London council probably wanted to keep it that way to maintain the ambiance for touristy reasons. When the lamps came on, they gave off a weak yellow light that made the shadows long and didn't do much else. Illumination didn't seem to be the main purpose of these lamps, in my opinion. By this time we were all a bit damp, perhaps a shade past damp. The rain continued its steady soaking and was perfect for the events of the evening.
Our guide explained that many of the sites important to the Ripper's activities had either been demolished or built over (or both), so she enhanced the tour with relevant pictures to better describe what happened in 1888. A lot of these pictures she had were never released to the public and can't be found anywhere. I believe her because, trust me, if there were any pictures to be had regarding the Jack the Ripper mystery, I would have found them and I hadn't seen many of the pictures the guide provided. She also offered descriptions of the murders I'd never heard before. Just this information alone was well worth the effort to do the Walk.
We came to the place where Jack the Ripper left his cryptic message scrawled on the side of a building: The Juwes are the men who will not be blamed for nothing. It's now a shop that, when closed, is protected by a big pink roll-up door. What's so wild is that the local kids, who have obviously grown up with the shadow of Jack bearing down on them, continue his legacy by writing their own graffiti about the Juwes, whoever or whatever they were or are. I meant to get a photograph of some of this graffiti but forgot, in the throes of catching up with the group.
The streets in which Jack did his work were some of the most dangerous areas in Whitechapel, so much so that the police wouldn't go down most of them without travelling in fours. There was one street they wouldn't go down at all and this was Fashion Street. Anyone on this street who dialed 911 in 1888 was pretty much screwed.
Our guide ended the tour with some interesting information and theories about the Jack the Ripper mystery. The good doctor for the Royals, one Sir William Gull, was not the Ripper according to our guide, who seemed to be a bit of an expert on the doctor's biography. According to her, Jack the Ripper was more than one person and they were connected to the British Royal Family. Mind, she didn't say they were members of the Royal Family, just connected. So....food for thought. I tend to lean in that direction, being an almost-well-known paranoiac/conspiracy theorist who is all too eager to point the finger at the various secret societies that vie for control over the human herds of Earth.
0_o
But I digress.
We came full circle near to the Aldgate East Underground. Aunt Tudi and I had fallen behind a bit because the wheelchair didn't like the cobbled areas. falkenna walked on ahead of us and then......disappeared. So there we were at almost 10 o'clock at night, two foreign women alone in Whitechapel. My worst fucking nightmare. When I was about to give up ever seeing home again and attach a note to my arse that said "VICTIM HERE!" falkenna reappeared with cold drinks in hand. Apparently she had motioned for us to wait in the place where she popped out of sight because she was going into a shop to get blessed liquid. My gratitude for something to drink outweighed my inclination to grab her by the shoulders and shake her to and fro as I wept with horror. So we sat at the bus stop and waited for the bus that would start us on our journey back to Stevie's and Nick's.
We arrived back at the cottage around 11 PM, tired, wet, and a little on edge. falkenna hates the city and Aunt Tudi isn't too very fond of large cities herself. Me? I could have stayed there and wandered about forever....just not in Whitechapel, dig.
We told Stevie and Nick about our day and, somehow, the conversation became a debate about the difference in British and American aid to the poor or disenfranchised. This was perpetrated by the edgie duet themselves, falkenna and Aunt Tudi. Me? I just sat there and gave Stevie and Nick the "roly eyeball" and twiddled my thumbs. When Midnight struck, we bid the men adieu and headed back to Brighton.
It was nigh onto 2 AM when we got home. Even though I was tired, I was also energised by the presence of the city in my mind. falkenna was perplexed that a misanthrope such as myself could enjoy being in such a vastly populated place. I tried to explain that it wasn't the people necessarily, but the human energy over all. To me, London was like a gigantic organism with a very thin epidermis that one can ease through to find the wonders therein. A city that large, like New York, which falls into this category, but not as strongly as London, at some point no longer depends on humans as individuals; rather, it is its own Being, powered by the energy drawn from the human whole from which it feeds. It's a living thing filled with mysteries waiting patiently to be discovered by the right explorer. I hope to someday go back and do just that, be an explorer of the greater mysteries. I'll leave falkenna and Aunt Tudi behind, and they'll thank me for it, 'cos they're just not cut out for roaming about and watching to see what happens. Give them the countryside and they will be happy.
After eating a bite, we all bid each other a good night, and Aunt Tudi and I retired to our room to pack for the trip home the next day.
The final chapter, hopefully later on today, after I've gotten a couple hours of sleep....good god it's 4:10 in the morning! Kill me now.