Bath

Bath is an incredibly beautiful (albeit touristy) city in the southwest of England.  Think of it as Aspen or Whistler, with spas instead of slopes.  The city was started by the Romans back in 43 AD.  Around 1700 years later, it started getting built up into the stately Georgian limestone city we know today, after King George III fell in love with the place and it suddenly became the “in” spot for rest, relaxation and royalty.  Luckily for us, the town planners hired their own “it” architect, John Wood, to design all the buildings in gorgeous Neoclassical Georgian style.  The result is a city so beautiful it’s been used in dozens of films and is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

In the center of the city, the ancient Roman baths still flow with natural hot spring water.  Despite many signs telling people not to drink or even touch the murky green water (it’s algae-riffic!), I saw plenty of dumb tourists doing exactly that.  I’m hoping they enjoyed their case of “Hadrian’s Revenge”.  For the slightly less-daring, you can get a warm glass of filtered, potable Roman spring water for 50 pence.  Back in the (Georgian) day, this water was considered a cure-all for everything from cancer to rheumatism.  I tried it, and it wasn’t bad (as glasses of warm water go), although it was so mineral-y that you felt thirstier after you drank it than before.  Nothing was ailing me at the time, so I can’t comment on the “healing” powers.  However, they apparently weren’t powerful enough to prevent King George from later going insane.

More info: Bath

Salisbury Cathedral

Salisbury Cathedral has two claims to fame.  First there is the church itself, which has the tallest medieval (built 1310-1333 AD) church spire (at 404 feet) in the UK.  The architecture itself is a bit of a mish-mash.  Gothic for certain, but with some major idiosyncrasies like double-transepts.  In addition ,the spire is not at the front of the church like the towers of Cologne Cathedral, it’s smack in the center where you normally might have a small ornamental spire or dome.  Not only is this a weird design choice, but it’s a poor engineering decision as well, since the weight of this massive thing on middle of the roof (6,500 tons) is now threatening the collapse of the entire structure.  When we were there, most of the exterior was under scaffolding, and 13-year-old signs informed us that the work would be completed in another 9 years or so.  (Talk about job security!)

The Cathedral’s second claim to fame is the Magna Carta.  If you’re scratching your head, trying to remember back to high-school history class for this one… the Magna Carta is the precursor to the American Bill of Rights.  It was drawn up in 1215 by a group of Barons who were unhappy with the runaway power of the evil King John (you may remember him as the thumb-sucking lion in Disney’s Robin Hood, if you didn’t read the book).  Basically the document says that even the king is subject to the rule of law, and that there are certain inalienable rights shared by all people that even the king isn’t allowed to violate.  Apparently, George W. Bush (a thumb-sucking lion if ever I saw one) has never heard of it. :)  There are only four “original” copies of this document left in the world, and Salisbury claims to have the “best preserved” one.  The British Library has one as well, but it was out for refurbishment when I visited, so I really have no basis for comparison.  All the same, it looked pretty readable to me.  Certainly more so than the faded crusty parchments we have in the National Archives in Washington DC (which has another of the four, oddly enough on “permanent loan” from owner H. Ross Perot).

If old documents and structurally dubious towers aren’t enough for you, how about this tidbit from the Salisbury Cathedral website: “A dead rat which carried traces of arsenic was found inside the skull of William Longespée when his tomb was opened centuries later.”  Nice.

More info: Salisbury Cathedral
Next: Bath

Stonehenge

For the one-year anniversary of our first date, Derek and I treated each other to two grand days out.  Mine (for him) started with lunch at the famous Fortnum and Mason, followed by a matinee of The Lion King, followed by drinks at the Absolut Icebar, followed by dinner at Cocoon, followed by dessert at the Oxo Tower.  It was a full day, to say the least.  But, it was limited to London.  For his day, Derek thought outside the box city, with a bus tour of some of England’s most famous historical attractions.

First up was Stonehenge.  As we drove up to the site, the tour bus lady told us that people generally have one of two reactions when they finally see Stonehenge in person: a) they have a moving, spiritual experience or b) they realize it’s just a big pile of rocks.  Personally, I was thinking of the Stonehenge scene in This is Spinal Tap ”…an ancient race of people… the Druids. No one knows who they were or what they were doing…”.  This was right before the tour guide lady informed us that Stonehenge has nothing to do with Druids, apart from the bunch of 20th-century hippie flower-children who congregate there annually under the guise of doing something Druid-y.

Second thought that occurred to me was an old Mark Russell bit: “You ever see that movie, Field of Dreams?  Kevin Costner is walking around in his cornfield and he hears a voice, and it says, ”Build a baseball field, and the people will come.” Did you ever figure maybe the ancient Druids [sic] were walking around and they heard a voice?  And it said, “Build a pile of rocks!”

Regardless of who built it or why or when or how (geez, do we know anythingabout this thing?), the fact remains that Stonehenge is a fascinating, unique, monumental tourist trap.  The good news is, it’s cheap, only a few pounds.  The bad news is that hoards of people will be circling it at any given time, juggling an Acoustiguide in one hand and a digital camera in the other, and jockeying for a shot of the stones with their wife/daughter/grandmother/etc. in the foreground while holding up the slow-moving procession behind them.

What is it like in person?  I thought it was bigger that I was expecting.  Derek thought it was smaller.  In any case, the really disappointing thing is that you can no longer go up and touch it.  You’re restricted to a grassy perimeter view. :(  However, if you join English Heritage(the organization that maintains this and many other historic sites in England) you can get tickets to special members-only events that allow you to walk “amongst” the rocks.

More info: Stonehenge
Next: Salisbury Cathedral

The Lion King

Of course, I’ve seen it all before.  I saw the show in Seattle when it was on tour.  I’ve seen the movie.  I’ve seen the scaled-down shows at the Animal Kingdom and Disneyland Paris.  And, considering I didn’t even like the original movie that much, it begs the question, why to I keep torturing myself this way?  What’s more, why am I now dragging Derek to these things?

The reason is simple: Julie Taymor.  Only she would think of the African savannah as hunky shirtless guys in rope hoop-skirts balancing flats of tall grass on their heads (see picture).  Who’s Julie Taymor?  She’s the director/creator of this show.  She’s the one who took the completely lame and sappy music of Sirs Elton John and Tim Rice and actually managed to create a visually stunning operatic pageant that makes you forget about the music (at least until people start singing).  In fact, it’s so visually spectacular, you start wishing there was a mute button for the show, so you could admire the creativity on stage without the cloying Disney-ness that goes along with it.

Julie Taymor is also responsible for the films Titus and Frida.  If you haven’t seen them yet, go out and rent them now.  They’re both brilliant, also visually stunning, and you’ll get a better idea of what she was able to do with The Lion King if you’ve never seen it yourself.  As a night at the theatre, it’s a mixed bag (due mostly to the songs), but as a moving work of art, it’s hard to beat.  Will I go again?  No, twice is enough (for now).

More info: The Lion King

Manchester

Manchester is a city of contrasts.  Located about 3 hours northwest of London in the middle of the country, Manchester is a blue-collar town with incredibly up-market shopping.  It’s a city of tatty terra-cotta-clad Victorian hotels, standing next to even tattier 1970’s concrete-block office towers.  It’s a city that fancies itself as the Chicago of Britain, but is really more like Albany.

To historians, Manchester is important as the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution.  Karl Marx and Frederich Engels visited here before they wrote The Communist Manifesto.  Indeed, this is the only place I’ve ever been that has a pointedly left-wing “worker’s rights” museum.  Aimed mostly at grade-school kids, you get a ballot card as you enter the People’s History Museum, and as you wander through the exhibits, there are voting machines with yes-or-no questions like “Will people have better working conditions in the future?”, “Does it take a special type of person to affect change?” or “Do you trust everything the government tells you?”  In the setting of a museum dedicated to organized labor, there are clearly some “right” and “wrong” answers to these questions, and it’s not surprising that the tote board in the front shows a bias toward the left-leaning responses (although not as strong a bias as you’d expect).  A frightening number of folks answered “no” to “Is it important to gather all the facts before you make a decision?”  But, that does explain a lot about the world.

More recent history is marked by two more contrasts: bombs and pop bands.  (Not to mention pop bands that bombed.)  On the “bomb” front, the IRA exploded a bomb in the middle of downtown in 1996.  Unlike al-Quaeda, they were gentlemanly enough to issue a warning first so nobody got killed.  But there was a lot of property damage (and a few injuries from broken glass).  The town has been rebuilding it’s downtown ever since, and quite frankly, they’ve made so many glorious improvements that more than one Manc has suggested that the bomb was far more affective as a force for urban renewal than as a political protest.

On the pop bands front, you can blame Manchester for all of the following: Herman’s Hermits, The Hollies, The Chemical Brothers, Joy Division, New Order, The Smiths, The Fall, Simply Red, Take That, Oasis, Badly Drawn Boy, and yes… Morrissey.

To everyone other than historians, Manchester is known for two more contrasting things: Football (“soccer” to you Yanks) and gays.  (Not that there aren’t any gay football fans out there.)  The city is of course home to Manchester United, as well as Manchester City.  Man-U is essentially the New York Yankees of British football, the team that always attracts the best players and has the biggest following.  Man-City is more the local team (although they still have a huge fan-base).  On the weekend we were there, Man-U was playing Chelsea for the premiership.  They lost, 0-3.  And, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth (not to mention binge drinking).

Over on Canal Street (which is famous in the opening-credits of the British version of Queer As Folk for having the leading “C” rubbed out), the party mood was unchanged.  Manchester has the largest gay population in the UK outside of London.  When we stopped into the city visitor’s bureau, we were handed a map with the city broken down into color-coded sections… “Chinatown”, “Central Shopping Area”, and plain-as-day, “Gay Village”.  If a Communist-leaning labor museum was hard to believe for an American, this was even weirder.  It’s so matter-of-fact.  Not like Greenwich Village in New York.  The was the Gay Village, no other name needed.  For a town so wrapped up in macho football-hooligan bravado and “chav” culture, finding the gay population clearly outlined on a map was a little surprising.  But I suppose it’s just as in-your-face as everything else in this city.  As for the clubs, I’m sorry to report they’re all getting overrun with gangs of drunk straight women who want to be able to ogle and drool over hot guys without worrying about getting hit on (or any other “straight guy” consequences).  Suddenly, I understood why the clubs in Vancouver, BC have a door policy that requires women to be accompanied by men.  They’re taking over!

In any event, Manchester was a lot of fun.  The museums were hit-and-miss.  The people were loud and rather “American”.  And the shoppingwas kind of Vegas.  All-in-all, an amusing side-trip, but not somewhere to go out of your way for… unless you’re a gay, Commie, pop-singing football hooligan.  Then, it’s heaven.

More info: Visit Manchester

Snoreeze

Considering last week there was nothingat all going on in Paddington, I was happy to see something truly weird this week.  Snoreeze, as you might guess, is a product that helps you stop snoring.  The twist is that it’s in the form of a dissolving strip (like those Listerine breath strips).  I have no idea if it works, but the set thing (in addition to the free samples) was the display…  a glass cube containing a king-size bed, occupied by two real live people, fast asleep in the middle of Paddington station. 

Apparently, Snoreze not only stops you snoring, it also knocks you out completely (at least to the point that you can sleep through all the noise of one of London’s busiest train stations).  I have to wonder how much this job pays.  How much do you get an hour to sleep in the middle of a train station in the middle of the day?  And do you get less if you start snoring?

More info: Snoreeze

Kew Gardens

Derek and I went to Kew Gardens today, hoping we would see the first buds of Spring.  Unfortunately, Spring is taking it’s dear sweet time this year, and only a handfull of blooms were on display.

All the same, it was great to finally see it in person.  But, I was a little disappointed by the old-fashioned-ness of it.  After the splendour of Butchart Gardens in Canada, or Huntington Library in Pasadena, or even the Bloedel Reservenear Seattle (thanks Adam)… where idyllic landscapes emerge from lush rolling hills, streams, waterfalls and perfect Japanese tea houses, all surrounded by colorful explosions of flowers and trees… well, Kew seemed a tad too formal and restrained by comparison.  I’m hoping to go back again when everything is in bloom.

More info: Kew Gardens

Smaller

For his birthday, I got Derek tickets to the play Smallerstarring Dawn French, Alison Moyet and June Watson.  Derek was particularly keen on this one because he was a big fan of Alison Moyet (who, I have to confess, I’d never heard of before).  I was a big fan of Dawn French, so I figured there’d be something for each of us.

The play was written by Carmel Morgan, who is mainly known for penning sitcoms and episodes of the British soap-opera Coronation Street.  If I had to describe it, I’d say it was like Ethan Frome… without the sexual tension.  Or perhaps the parable of the “prodigal son”… with Depends. 

Basically, you have a three-character play with an all-female cast.  Elderly mother and two grown daughters.  One of them (Moyet) has moved to Spain and is living the life of a showbiz wannabe, singing and dancing in various doofy costumes for old British farts on holiday.  The other daughter (French) has given up her freedom to stay home and care for Mother.  Mother (Watson) spends most of her time being completely unappreciative of daughter French, and waxing poetic about daughter Moyet.  Eventually Mother dies, and the two daughters wish they had behaved differently toward her and toward each other.  That’s it in a nutshell.

Now, after reading that description, would you call it a “comedy”?  Would you describe it as “Hilarious!”?  I wouldn’t, but maybe my British sense of humor (sorry, “humour”) needs some work.  There were laughs from the audience, but it was that kind of “relief” laughter you get after watching a half-hour of painful drama, where the smallest mis-delivered line produces huge guffaws because everyone’s so desperate for something less depressing.  And, if you were conned by the review on the sign outside that proclaimed this play “Hilarious!”, then you deserve a moment of excessive nervous laughter.

As a sad family drama, it’s okay.  The first act is basically June Watson and Dawn French, invalid-mom and nurse-daughter talking to each other at home, although it’s Mother who does most of the talking, complaining and kvetching while Daughter basically tries to ignore her.  I think we’re supposed to feel sad for Mother, being shut in with no one to talk to but a daughter who doesn’t listen.  But, Mother’s incessant chatter is so annoying, so boring and so constant, that frankly if she had survived to the second act of the play, I think I would’ve rushed up on stage and throttled her myself.  I’m sorry, I know that sounds a bit excessive, but imagine an hour or so of a play called Are We There Yet? consisting solely of three bratty kids asking the musical question of their Dad over and over and over…  you get the idea.  After the first act, I began to wonder if Smaller wouldn’t have been better titled What Did You Do Today? or What’s Going On Across the Way? or best of all I Wish You Were More Like My Other Daughter.

Luckily the second act is the reunion of estranged sisters Moyet and French after the death of their mother.  At this point you finally realize that the purpose of the first act’s banality was to remind us of the old adage, “You never appreciate what you’ve got until you’ve lost it.”  In this case, family.  We may hate our annoying brothers, sisters, parents, and so on, but deep down we still love them, and if they were gone tomorrow, we’d still mourn them.  And there you have it.

Homes Under the Hammer

There’s a clever double-entendre in the title of this show.  On the one hand, it’s a show about homes sold at auction, so the “hammer” is the auctioneer’s gavel.  On the other hand, homes sold at auction almost always need “renovation” (to put it lightly), and a hammer is at the light end of the tool spectrum required for most of these jobs.

These are some of the scariest homes in Britain.  And watching bottle-blonde host Lucy Alexander open the front door to discover something that looks like Oliver Twist meets The Day After… well that’s great TV.  Yesterday’s property, for example, was missing the living room floor.

Who buys these?  Property developers.  They buy these bomb craters for cheap, fix them up, and sell them off for a huge profit.  It’s not a bad racket, provided you a) have deep pockets and b) know what you’re doing.  The first point isn’t usually an issue.  But, the second… we’ll that’s also what makes this great TV. 

Every so often, you get someone who’s never even seen inside the home their buying.  Personally, I can’t imagine thins myself.  Until recently, I owned my own place, and the amount of negotiating and inspecting that preceded the sale was quite spectacular.  To chuck all of that for the raising of a paddle at auction seems, well, wrong… and stupid.  But, hey, without these brave (read foolhardy) individuals, where would the TV drama be?  I have to admit that watching the look on their faces when they finally see exactly what sort of hell-hole they’ve bought is priceless.

But the show doesn’t stop there.  After three months, the cameras come back to check up on the new owners and see if/how they’re getting along.  Suprisingly, most of them are able to transform their auction-bought pig-styes into relatively nice homes in that amount of time.  The trick always seems to be getting “planning permission”.

Unlike in the States, here everything you do you your house has to be approved by the local city council.  It’s a bit like living in one of those planned communities like Celebration or Seaside where the mailboxes all have to be a certain distance from the driveway.  Everything here gets nit-picked. 

The other day, a lady bought a basement flat in London.  Back in the old days, this was a three-storey townhome, but since them each floor has been converted into it’s own apartment.  Unfortunately for her, this meant that her second bedroom contained a brick wine-cellar.  And planning permission to turn the wine-cellar into a bedroom… denied.  Never mind the fact that since the townhome-to-flat conversion there’s no more call for a wine cellar as the basement is no longer joined to the units above.  But hey, you roll the dice (or lift the paddle) and you take your chances.

More info: Homes Under The Hammer

Canary Wharf

The “East End” of London hasn’t had much to recommend it over the years.  Back in the 1880s, it provided the seedy backdrop for the crimes of Jack the Ripper.  In the 1960s, it was home to the Kray’s organized-crime family.  In the 1970s, part of it tried (unsuccessfully) to break away from Britain and become its own country.  For the past 20+ years, it’s been the setting for Britain’s longest-running blue-collar soap opera.

Then came the 1990s… and Canary Wharf.  Well, almost.  A group of investors in the 1980s had the brilliant idea of re-developing the disused London dockyards on the (fittingly grimy-sounding) Isle of Dogs.  It’s really not so much an island as a bulbous peninsula, that for the life of me, looks like a big scrotum hanging over the Thames.  Unfortunately, the economy took a downturn, and Canary Wharf sat largely vacant for a while.  It took another ten years for everything to turn around, and now it’s one of the sexiest, highest-priced addresses in London.

Canary Wharf is probably my new favorite place in the city.  There’s nothing quite like it anywhere.  Maybe Vancouver, but where Vancouver is full of gleaming high-rise condos, Canary Wharf is full of gleaming high-rise offices.  It’s the “gleaming” part that separates it from every other commercial downtown in America.  Everything in Canary Wharf looks like it was just built yesterday.  Everything is clean and shiny.  There is no litter; there is no graffiti; it’s corporate utopia.

Underground, there are two large malls that are about the closest thing you’ll see in London to American shopping malls.  As an aside here, I don’t know why I love malls so much.  But I do.  When I go to a new city for the first time, one of the first things I do is check out the mall.  I still dream about visiting the West Edmonton Mall one of these days.  There are not one but two malls in Slough (where I work), although they’re both pretty crappy (matching the town).  My favorite mall ever is the South Coast Plaza in Costa Mesa.  I worked in a Reno mall for four years, selling software and video games.  And yes, I love the movie Mallrats.  What can I say?  I’m a junkie.  Where else are you gonna get your Hot Dog on a Stick?

There’s no Hot Dog on a Stick in Canary Wharf (dammit), but there is London’s one and only Chili’s.  Back in the states, I could take or leave Chili’s.  The only thing I really love there is the Chicken Enchilada Soup.  Alas, the Canary Wharf Chili’s hasn’t even got it on the menu.  Actually, they haven’t got a lot of things on the menu.  It’s really a “Chili’s Too” (you know, the mini version they have in airports) masquerading as a full-sized Chili’s.  But hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

Mostly, I think I love Canary Wharf because going there is a bit like taking a break from London, getting away from the old buildings and soot, and being transported to Vancouver or L.A. (the way you’d like it to be, not the way it is), where everything is brand spanking new and the designer buildings soar into the clouds.

More info: Canary Wharf