Here's a Novel Idea: Watch the Movie

You don’t see unattractive women driving around in Maseratis.

Anyway, I finished A Tale of Two Cities, and having enjoyed that read, I decided to return it to the library and pick up another novel set in Britain.

(Un?)Fortunately, I found George Eliot’s Middlemarch—all 838 pages of it. I picked it up off the shelf thinking, “Who does this guy think he is?” And then (to my horror), I read About the Author, and found out this imposter is actually a woman…literally. But I digress.

Eliot’s novel is widely considered one of the greatest ever written, but I—even before reading it—beg to differ. Dickens pulled off A Tale in 390 pages; that windbag Dostoevsky managed to keep his Crime and Punishment under 500. The SparkNotes for Middlemarch are probably as long as the first two installments of the Lord of the Rings. Yet, I will give it a shot.

Seriously though, this will be the biggest book I’ve ever looked at that isn’t giving me the definition of “loquacious”.

More importantly, my German friends Nora and Marie are coming to visit. I expect them Wednesday night, and I expect schnitzel Thursday morning. Another German joke would have involved sauerkraut, but I am going to go find Hyde Park.

...Like a Yankee With His Head Chopped Off

Tonight, I decided that I should finally start exercising. So after dinner, I put on some athletic-looking clothes and headed out. My original plan was to run to nearby Hyde Park where I plan to kick a rugby ball around (once I get a pump to put air in the ball).

Down Victoria Street I ran, afraid that maybe it was taboo to run, despite my having seen hundreds of others running around all the time. But there is just something different about running that makes me feel I am doing it wrong when I am in an unfamiliar place. I think, "Surely these people must think me an idiot." And I feel this way not just because running is stupid (running just for the sake of it when I could be playing a sport seems so dumb even though I don't actually mind it that much) but also because there is something inherently ostracizing about running.

Making my way to Hyde Park, I soon remembered that I didn't (still don't) know where Hyde Park is. Well, I know it is in London somewhere, but I can't tell you what is near it. I just kept going, though, as is my way when I am on runs. My method is usually to get sort of lost so that I am concentrating on finding my way home and not on my aching legs that I should have stretched better. What followed was one of the best runs I have ever experienced. I was passing sites I had only hoped I would see here. Not Big Ben or the Tower of London, but out-of-the-way places that have a different type of character. Homes and shops that I may never again see--London is massive. I passed by Chelsea Hospital, a marvelous structure that could either be foreboding or warmly welcoming. I ran by tiny little streets with cars parked on both sides, making it--one would suppose--difficult to drive a car in between.

After following groups that seemed to be headed toward a park--for what amount of time, it would be impossible for me to say--I found myself in front of Battersea Park. Although it was not my intention to arrive at this particular destination, I was just glad that the descriptions others have attributed to London's parks are not by any means hyperbolic. This is at least the second one I have been to and they are incredible. They are especially so if one thinks of them in their context: several of these lush, open, well-groomed beauties--with their trees, winding paths, and overall woodsiness--exist within one of the biggest cities in the world.

I ran about in the park--I might have been skipping, for all I know--for a bit, and then simply headed back. From the park, I just instinctively made my way back. My instincts were probably listening to the signs pointing back to VICTORIA.

After my shower, I went to Sainsbury's for some oranges.

By the way, I am reading A Tale of Two Cities. Sadly, I have never read it before, but I have pretended the opposite on several occasions. Actually being in the general area where the novel takes place is making me more and more pleased with my decision to hold off on the read. Still, I can't help hoping that one of these times, I will open the book and the inside will be cut out, and inside the hole there is a DVD of the book.

Invading York, Forgetting Your Camera

Obviously, I didn't pack for York on Friday evening or night. No, I packed for the journey (I had to be at Kings Cross Station at 8:15 on Saturday morning) 15 minutes before I started the journey. On Friday, I worked a half day (9:15-1:00) and went directly from there to the Westminster Study Abroad office to make the final course/module decisions. Unfortunately, I had to go to the office to do so due to privacy policies, I assume. But as my life goes, something useful came of this drop-in: I was reminded of the boat party that was set to take place later that evening.
I made my way back to my room, and made sure to immediately take care of my laundry. Here, I should thank British Airways for the free detergent that was included in the package handed to me on Friday morning. There was a group giving out bags of promotional goodies that morning. Anyway, I put in my clothes and was set to take care of some work...this was at about 4:00. By 4:45, the clothes were still going, as happens occasionally (people open up machines, the machines guess incorrectly, etc.). Instead of waiting the 15 minutes downstairs, I headed back up and started my dinner. Then, back to the laundry room; no change--back upstairs. With supper thoroughly cooked and eaten, I popped back down to check the machine. To my surprise, there were still 12 minutes left. Now I am no clock, but that seemed impossible.

Suddenly, like a bad movie edit, I was brought back to the laundry room at Clifton-Fullerton Hall, my dorm at DePaul. (Here, I should say to my Uncle Dave Dlabal: I have a letter for you, and I will tack-ily email it to you soon because snail mail is for squares, man). I found myself revisiting the handful of horrible experiences that occurred in that room. Locked machines imprisoning my clothes. Broken dryers that blow only cold air. Prying open locked machines because I really need the contents, you stupid machine. Dad, is any of this admissible evidence? I might owe DePaul some damages.

Back to the present, and I am using all of my tricks because the machines in every dorm anywhere in the world are Maytag. Basic, mostly unreliable, yet not horrible laundry equipment. To skip some details: I got the machine going, and the clothes in the dryer. With the clothes dry, I was ready for the marathon sprint to get to the meeting point on time. Current time: 6:00 pm; meeting time: 6:15 pm. I threw on a proper outfit and bolted toward Victoria Station. Travel For London's website puts the trip to Monument station at 9 minutes; I left Wigram House (my dorm) at 6:03. I was on my way to Monument at 6:06--what a fast person--and I made it to the meeting point in time to wait 15 minutes or so because obviously they know people will be late.

The next part of this long entry might not last here long. I will explain later on. On the boat, I ordered a drink and sat down, planning to just hang out for a bit. I planned to be there an hour and then go get some sleep--catch some proverbial Zs, if you will. Fortunately, this guy who is in both my Intro to 3rd World Studies module and my Challenges to the Nation State module recognized me and came to sit down.

Peter is the coolest guy I know from Denmark, and we had a good discussion. 8 pm rolled around, and I was contemplating my next move when I saw this young beauty that is also in both of my modules. I remember this because after the 3rd World lecture on Tuesday, she walked into the same cafe as me. But I was eating carrots and was obviously in no position to "mac", so I just sat there chomping away like a rabbit, pretending to be really engaged in the reading in front of me.

Now back to the boat.

Since most romantic stories involve a crappy old and smelly boat and boredom, I was in the mood to say hello. Then, the idiots running the music decided to turn up the bass and the treble, and everything in between. This was no good. Especially since I quickly learned that the young woman, Eliza (I don't remember her name), has a fairly pronounced accent. It is hard enough to understand Americans when the music is way too loud, but here I was trying to key in on some dainty French girl's mispronounced words strung together to form what I can only call: sentences?.
Well, the conversation went as well as possible. She is French, but moved to Canada for some reason (do you see her when you go to work, Dave?). Her boyfriend lives in Chicago, and I think she asked if I know him. She asked me if I was hungry, she and her friend were going to go get food (the boat remained docked all night).

I, knowing the ways of jealous Frenchmen ( and being chivalrous), politely declined her offer. Yet, I made my own offer: to see the two out and off to their destination. Outside, I asked again for her name (again, I have since forgotten maybe-Eliza's name) and for some reason I forgot to ask her friend's name. I guess I just didn't care. With regards to my statement about the possible impermanence of this portion, I think it is fair to say that I will erase this bit if the French girl and I become friends.

Home at 10:30. Emails and such, and no packing.

Shoot forward to 7:00 am the next day. I was awake and showering. I was fully clothed and packed by 7:30. I made good time, and arrived at Platform 2 at 8:00. No one there yet. 8:13: no one. Thinking my train time was set for 8:30, I was sure I had missed some directions in all of the emails sent to me. But, alas, 8:17 and some familiar faces. Only, no leader. She showed up at 8:20, knowing that our train was set to leave at 9. Also, the tickets are open to any train to York at any time that day. That is, we might have departed at 10:30 or 5:30 pm, for that matter.

Now, this is a huge post, but it all culminates here: I wanted to take a picture of platform 9 and 3/4 (from Harry Potter fame), but I did not have my camera. Sadly, throughout my York trip, it remained back here on my desk. No photos of the lush countryside and lopsided, sloped roofs. No proof of my stay in a really nice hostel, or my venture into Yorkminster (an amazing cathedral with loads of history). I have no way of showing you lot that I was in one of the best cities I have ever been in. But at least I didn't have to carry it around? I don't know how to make myself feel better about this.
Overall, the weekend was excellent. I even went on a Ghost Tour, but no sightings. Sorry for the length of this one.

Not Really Directly Related to My Trip

Usually, when I think of a new phrase or word, I go to Google and search for it. I search with quotation marks, so I can be sure that my exact idea is being searched for.
That is, what I believe to be my idea. If the search with quotation marks around the subject yields no results: great idea, Keenan. If there are results, I check to make sure it wasn't some freak coincidence that brought the words together in such a way as to seem--in a Google search--to be the same as my thought. And if someone else has already thought of it? That is, if it does yield results. Well, then I guess no one should open up Circus Coffee: The Greatest Joe On Earth because they might get sued.

I don't even like coffee.

Catching Up

Obviously, it has been awhile since I last posted--such is the business of moving to a new country for awhile. This will be a brief overview of the past week or so because I am going into work in a little bit.
Last Thursday, I went to the Comedy Store in Piccadilly Circus. Before the show started, I had some time to kill, so I waited outside of this theatre where Johnny Depp's movie, Sweeney Todd, was being released. Movies do not get here until well after they have been out in the States. Anyway, as I was waiting, there were these moments of uproarious screams (much like those heard in old Beatles footage) from obsessed British girls and other raving internationals. And believe me, they were loud. It was hard to hear, and I was a good 75 yards from the lot of them. But the volume nearly tripled when the Man of Mystery himself casually walked out of his limo and down the red carpet. It was actually a good experience--very interesting to see this reaction and overall event. Anyway, the show was well-worth the 16 pounds ($30), but it is the last time I spend that much on anything here.
Friday night found me on a London Walks Tour through the Jack the Ripper Haunts. It was a tour guided by one Donald Rumblebow (he fairly famous for this gig--he has helped on the sets of most major films about Jack). It was really tough to imagine that these crimes had actually taken place so long ago in the same place I was standing.
Saturday was another museum day, went to bed early enough. On Sunday, I went to church, and while I was welcomed by many there, I do not plan to return. Monday saw the start of class--Tuesday, the continuation of my studies. And yesterday, Wednesday, was my first day at RASC; I need to go there now.

With Grape Power...

Sorry about the length and confusion in that last post. This should be much shorter.

I think I am starting to get over my “jet lag”—a term I view as bullcrap because in reality, I am just tired. “Jet lag” is like “alcoholic”, it’s a nonsensical term that means nothing. But, anyway, along with getting on a good sleeping schedule (hard ‘k’ sound, not ‘sh’. Get it right, Brits.), I am also starting to feel more comfortable here. Today, I had my face-to-face interview with Teshome Damte from the Refugee Advice and Support Centre (RASC). That was at 11:00, but I was there at quarter til, so we started then. RASC is a 241 King Street, in a building that is surely over 150 years old. I mean to say that it is noticeably older than most structures I come across. There are a few other organizations that share the building, but I am not yet sure what they are. Immediately, Teshome began discussing my responsibilities. He expressed the need to overload me with information today, as he will be gone until the 28^th. This will leave me in charge…co-charge. Temomi is a Japanese girl of about my age who is also volunteering with RASC; she started yesterday. Until Teshome’s manager returns, Temomi and I will be answering the phones, dealing directly with drop-in clients, and interacting with the students that stop by to use the three or four computers available to them. We will also be teaching an English class in the upstairs “classroom”. ESOL books and my incredible grasp of the English language will be our main tools, as Temomi speaks English as a second language herself. Underlying all of this is the need for more resources. That is, RASC is constantly seeking funding. In the way of volunteerism and charity-giving, the UK is far behind the US, so suck, UK. We would be you again because with a few bake sales and a Sycamore Storm Dance, we'd have enough funds to shoot before seeing the whites of your eyes. Drafts for grants from various groups are constantly being written up by RASC. Temomi (this has to be spelled wrong) and I will work with Teshome and the manager to write up several of these in my time with the centre. Obviously, expect to hear more about my adventures at RASC in the coming weeks.

Universality of Parades

I will not be writing for nearly as long as last time around, as it is 4:55 am, and I need to try to get back to bed. Last night, I fell asleep at 11ish, and I slept until about 4:00 am. Waking up at four with no problem is strange (and frustrating), but at least Sunday was a good first full day in London.
The day began with the me waking up at 11:30 am after a sleep-spotted night of cold-- apparently sheets will not do the job of keeping me warm when it is 50 degrees. Unfortunately, 11:30 was the magic number, as I was to have been at an orientation at that very same time. I woke up at the correct time according to my phone clock, however, the time on that phone was incorrect. Thanks, Piccell. Anyway, I had to catch a taxi ($), and at least that was nice. The driver liked me. Despite my tardiness, Lisa, the CEA rep., was not the least bit upset.
After being oriented (a courgette is a zucchini, but I don't want it in either language), I was off to find a proper alarm clock before the 2 pm walking tour. I found one at a local Boots.
The group met at Oxford Circus. Nate Miller has often spoken of LillyWhites, a sports paraphernalia store. There is one in Oxford Circus, but we were just meeting the guide there, so there was no time to stop in--later, I suppose.
To keep this short, the tour was fine. The little British lady spouted jokes that were obviously memorized (Lisa was not laughing much), but at least some of them were slightly amusing. Here is a quick summation of the tour: Piccadilly Circus, little parade, gentleman's clubs (not like Damon's, but clubs for actual gentlemen...with loads of cash), royal homes, joke about British royalty, disinterested look from Lisa, royal parks, joke about royal horses, distant view of Buck. Palace, fatigue, slight boredom, tube ride, reminders that this is an expensive place.
Of the many great things from Sunday was the realization that no matter where one finds him/herself in the world, a parade sucks just as much as anywhere else.

The First Day, The First Nap

Hello all,

I am not certain how many people will be reading this, so congratulations if you are the only one--you have successfully found the next big thing. If I maintain this journal/blog, I stand to create the greatest collection of thoughts ever assembled by a Turner living in London on a VAIO laptop...post-9-11.

I want to start back at the airport in a time not too different from now...

It was yesterday that my parents helped me finish my packing (apparently, I use a lot of stuff because those bags pushed the weight limits). On the first attempt to journey to the airport, my mom--thankfully--realized that she (I) had left the folder containing my University of Westminster acceptance letter, my airplane ticket, and several other key documents on the counter at home. Five minutes and 38 "'Are you sure you have everything, son?' s" later, we were off on our second attempt. We left early in anticipation of traffic, both on the road and in O'Hare. This fact helped to calm me when, just outside of Malta, some trucker tried to backup some farmer's driveway. The two or three minutes that trucker stole from my life are not that important, but it did leave me thankful that I am going to college for something other than my GED (I'm looking at you, trucker. High school equivalencing, my eye. 90% of a high school diploma is earned by avoiding/giving wedgies from bullies/to dorks; you have earned nothing in my book). But the trip to the airport was quick and the security was a joke. The hardest part of it was saying goodbye to my parents.
To me, this process was a bit like attending my own funeral, but the rules only allow me to stay for a half-hour. Certainly, I could sit and reassure my mom about the situation, but perhaps--as in a real and normal funeral--the reassurances and support are best left to those back how with my mom. As for my own reassurances, I am entirely grateful to my folks for their support in my endeavors. They have done more for me than I would ever ask for. But that's just it, I didn't need to ask. I just told them about my aspirations, and filled out some forms.
And other family members have been helpful, as I have been on the receiving end of many good wishes and other supportive gestures. Friends, too, have encouraged me. I think of those at First Baptist who have been praying for me; I can say with great certainty that God is with me in this effort. Those not affiliated with FBC have been there for me in much the same way, lending helpful tips and tools for my trip.
Yet, what good would any of this be without God? I say that it would count for naught, were I without Him in this life-changing time. Earlier today, I crawled into bed for a quick nap, and all I could think was, "God is with me. " And that is the basest thing I require: the presence of a God who controls my world.
I want this trip to reflect many things--too many to list. But perhaps more than anything, I want to put into action Pastor Steve's message about getting off of the swingset in the backyard, and moving on to DisneyWorld.
Feel free to knick any of my jokes; there should be more in the next entry. By the way, the flight on American Airlines was great and I just walked around for a few hours today. Big Ben is not that big. I think they should just call it Ben, and let the individual decide for himself which adjective should be attached to it.

My Best,

Keenan Turner