Tag Archives: Cathedrals


“When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.” -Samuel Johnson

Hey, you know Samuel Johnson? Fuck that guy.” -Truman Capps

I’ve been in London for just over two months now. At the time of this writing, I have exactly two weeks left before I jump on a plane and fly back to the United States. To be honest, I’m looking forward to it.

I’ve seen Big Ben and Parliament, and Westminster Abbey. I’ve had lunch in St. James Park and made faces at the guards at Buckingham Palace.

I’ve hung out in Trafalgar Square, had dinner in SoHo, and thoroughly perused the National Gallery, National Portrait Gallery, British Museum, Tate Britain, Tate Modern, Imperial War Museum, and the British Library. I’ve taken a stroll through the Tower of London and across the adjacent London Tower Bridge.

I’ve taken the obligatory tourist picture straddling the Prime Meridian at Greenwich. I’ve ridden a boat down the Thames. I’ve seen 10 Downing Street.

I got as close as possible to Battersea Power Station. I’ve seen three productions at the British National Theater and two at the Globe. I’ve eaten enough fish and chips, bangers and mash, and chicken tikka masala to choke a donkey.

I had wanted to visit Slough, setting of the original UK version of The Office, today so that I could see the building from the opening titles that is ostensibly the headquarters of Wernham-Hogg Paper Company. But I did some research today and discovered that a trip to Slough would take an hour and a half, one way, requiring multiple bus transfers and the purchase of a train ticket that would cost several pounds. Then, once in Slough, I would take a picture of the building that was shown at the beginning of every episode of a TV show I liked, then turn around and spend an hour and a half making my way back home.

Let’s just pretend I took this picture.

Having not done it, I feel sort of stupid, because really – do I have anything better to do? I’ve exhausted my tourism opportunities in the city (save for the changing of the guard, which I’ll see tomorrow, and the London Eye, which I’ll ride in my last week here, if at all), so my last couple of weekends have been spent kicking around Harrow or doing homework, with a fair amount of time spent daydreaming about whatever my internship situation winds up looking like for the summer.

But that’s the thing – I’ve been a tourist for so long now that I’m kind of getting sick of it. I miss just being a resident. I miss not feeling the need to pull out my camera every time I see something interesting. “Wow, the Steel Bridge looks pretty nice today… Eh, why take a picture? It’ll be here tomorrow. In Portland. Where I live.”

London is a gigantic city, and I’m not going to be the dumbass who suggests that I’ve seen everything it has to offer in two months. There’s undoubtedly more stuff to see in this city – fascinating little museums, street markets with free samples, red phone boxes with interesting pornographic leaflets in them – but I feel as though I’m almost fed up with seeing.

Every cathedral is very impressive for the first few seconds after you walk into it – it’s a massive indoor space with light shining through stained glass. They were designed to be impressive sensory experiences. What the original architects didn’t bargain for was the fact that one day, the people seeing cathedrals would be study abroad students who see at least two cathedrals a week.

And museums – oh, the museums. I’ve had so many maps and audio guides thrust into my hands, wandered through so many dusty rooms wondering “How much longer should I stare at this arrowhead?

Because of the short duration of my study abroad session in England, I’ve been forced to dive headfirst into pretty much everything. I haven’t had time to space out my museum visits over several months or get acclimated to the city at a reasonable pace – not that I wish my study abroad excursion was longer (for reasons I’ll cover in a later update).

Essentially, my time here, while it has been a life changing, kickass experience that I wouldn’t give up for the world, has also been essentially one big culture binge, and going on a two month binge of any sort is bound to burn you out eventually, be it heroin or English history.

Heroin will probably catch up with you a little faster.

Truman Capps has not gotten burned out on the deep fried foods, though, as tonight’s dinner proved.


– Truman Capps

Pronunciation is a difficult issue over here. The English tend to assume that their pronunciations are inherently more correct than ours, so they’ll laugh at you if you ask for a kebab (pronounced keb-ob) instead of a kebab (pronounced keb-ahb), and won’t understand when you talk about aluminum foil as opposed to al-oom-in-e-um.

This was also true during my program’s excursion to Bath, a small town in Southwest England. When English people asked me what I was doing that weekend, I would say, “I’m going to Bath”  (as in, splish splash I was takin’ a), and then, so as to avoid any confusion, add, “Or Bath.” (long A sound English pronunciation). The consensus from most people I talked to was that I was giving the matter too much thought, as I often do.

Bath is probably best known as the site of an ancient Roman bath, situated over the town’s hot springs (which are some of the only hot springs in the whole UK). Romans occupying England back in the day would flock to these baths to socialize, enjoy the naturally warm waters, and argue about whose idea it was to leave central Italy for a cold, drizzly island that was prone to occasional Viking attacks.

Bath still trades pretty heavily on this history, as evidenced by the spiffy museum they’ve built around the ruins of the ancient Roman bath complex, as well as the adjacent gift shop and café built over what I can only imagine are the ruins of the ancient Roman gift shop and café. It was a Friday, so the museum was packed, particularly with a rambunctious group of French middle schoolers, who were living proof that all large groups of middle schoolers the world over are eye-gougingly annoying.

The baths at Bath had religious purposes, as well. What I found most interesting was that angry Romans would inscribe curses against their enemies onto thin strips of lead, which they would then fling into the baths in hopes that the gods would honor their wishes. They had a bunch of these translated curses available on display, and I was struck by the fact that all of them seemed awfully petty for members of the civilization that conquered basically everything in Western Europe. Most of the curses were from people asking the gods to give other people bad luck because they’d stolen some minor valuables or had gotten a bit snippy about who had the best slaves. All I’m saying is, I expected a little more from the people who built the Pont du Gard.

On the way out, they offered us a complimentary glass of water taken from the thermal spring. Apparently the water in the spring fell as rain as long as 10,000 years ago, and then spent the intervening millennia seeping through the Earth, collecting underground, and then getting boiled back up again by geothermal heat – this should’ve been an indicator that this wasn’t going to be one of my better hydration experiences. The water tasted about like water tastes when you leave your Nalgene in the back of your car for several hours on a hot day. So, for the record, whether it’s three hours or 10,000 years, water just does not keep very well.

Adjacent to the springs where large numbers of men used to congregate and bathe together, the Anglicans built a giant church in 1156.

Cathedrals in Europe are like Taco Bell in America – they’re so plentiful that you never have to go too far to find one, and after a while you almost stop noticing them. You can only be totally blown away by high ceilings, fan vaulting, and stained glass so many times. Unlike Taco Bell, cathedrals usually have no drive through, although if you’re willing to wait inside, the Anglicans do make one hell of a Seven Layer Burrito.

We continued our walking tour through the city, looking at the various 18th century buildings and (mercifully) bypassing the Jane Austen museum when it started pouring down rain.

We took shelter in the lobby of the Bath Fashion Museum and one of the girls in our group suggested that we tour the fashion museum while waiting for the rain to stop. The girls all thought this was a great idea; the male contingent was not as enthusiastic. However, the rain refused to let up and we had nowhere else to go, so…



This already wonderful educational experience was not improved by the presence of the same group of obnoxious French middle schoolers, who may well have been stalking us as some sort of urban commando training. They went capering back and forth through the fashion museum, as uninterested in The Evolution of the Scarf as I was, until I bumped into a knot of them in the ‘Interactive Display’ room.

This was a room in which reproductions of Victorian era corsets were available for visitors to try on. In the room in front of me, a few dozen French boys and girls were chaotically doing just that, fighting over the available corsets and struggling to tighten them on to one another, all under the somewhat helpless gaze of a chaperone.

I spent a moment watching French 11 year olds prancing around in Victorian era underwear before making my exit, checking over my shoulder for Chris Hansen, just in case.

Truman Capps has been further documenting his shenanigans on his blog, Hair Guy.