This morning as I was (quite literally) running to class, I heard someone whistle behind me. I ignored it, and kept running- I was already late, and who could be whistling for me anyhow? I heard it a second, and a third time... and finally I turned around to see who it was and what they wanted. A tall gentleman, wearing a fancy black suit, (his dark hair slicked back and his shoes shined till they looked like wet plastic), stood at the top of the street. As I turned, he mimed "scarf". I looked at my bag, where my red scarf had been, and realized that it must have fallen off in the tumultuousness of my footfalls. I hurried back the way I had come, and as I did so, he bent down to pick it up. I thanked him breathlessly, and then in a grand, sweeping bow, he extended his hand toward me, silk red scarf dangling from his palm... He said "Madame", and I laughed, curtsied, and retrieved my scarf gracefully... and as I hurried away, he winked, and waved.
***
Our last day of class was very similar to every other. We met on the second floor of the church building in Kensington... the one just down the street from the V&A and across from one of the entrances to the South Kensington Tube stop- (though it was a deceptive entrance, because you walked several blocks underground before you reached the place where the trains actually stopped).
I sat on the edge, near the windows, as usual. I always get a window seat, if I can help it... in the car, on the bus, in the train, in the commons, and especially in class. There is something about a window that makes life more livable, more connected. Sitting there, listening to Lance talk about Shakespeare, I could also hear the ice cream truck outside, the trotting sound of mounted policemen, cars, and conversations. London was out there. And I loved to listen to it.
I'll admit I was distracted. I didn't realize how many people had noticed... but I suppose when someone slumps into their chair and keeps a kaleidoscope glued to their eye during Shakespeare, it's hard not to notice. But I love the colors... and today they were more interesting than anything Antony and Cleopatra had to offer.
I would roll my head around... looking at the ceiling, and then the floor. Red, blue, green, purple, orange, brown, gold... weaving in and out like something under water. There is a world in a Kaleidoscope altogether more interesting and beautiful than our own... though it is made up only of pieces from the outside. The mirrors could make even the most uninteresting of objects into art... a shoe, a lightbulb, a backpack, a stack of books. Somehow, looking at all these ordinary things through this little tube made them dance... made them come alive.
It occurred to me that perhaps this is what The Beatles meant, when they said that Lucy had "Kaleidoscope Eyes"... I think every artist has got them. They are the ability to look at something ordinary, and see it differently than anybody else. They are the ability to look at something ordinary, to interpret it, and to make it more beautiful than it was before.
During the break, we were privileged with a break-dancing performance from the one and only Hugh Cha. It was certainly entertaining, if slightly awkward... you see the music program was having class in the room adjacent to the cultural hall, so there was no clapping, cheering, laughing, or screaming allowed. (Which obviously makes for an interesting dilemma... have you ever heard of a silent break dancing circle?) But we made do- smiled a lot, laughed silently, and did our best jazz hands, hoping it would help.
Our performance for Roger's class went off without a hitch. I didn't realize it until the class responded to our project in discussion... but we had managed to incorporate themes, elements, and imagery from almost every memorable play we'd seen in the past six weeks. And as Jason said, it was the perfect way to end the term... it wrapped everything up- revisited, reminded, tied together, and let go.
After class we met at the flats for a group lunch... a last hurrah. The table was covered in boxes of absolutely delicious gourmet pizza, and we were each allotted three giant slices each... (certainly more than enough for most of us girls). I had, of course, the tomato, basil, and mozzarella variety, and a tall glass of orange juice. We sat on couches, on the floor, on the chairs, and on the tables... laughing, and talking to one another. I shared my Kaleidoscope with anyone and everyone who asked to see it... and by the end of the day, all but one or two had taken in the excitement and beauty of that little gold trinket around my neck.
We had inside jokes... camaraderie... shared experiences, both good and bad...
We were friends. All of us.
And I wished for a moment that we would never have to leave. That we could stay there, indefinitely. Going to Tesco twice a week, learning about the theatre, walking to the tube station, visiting museums, parks, plays, restaurants, and markets... laughing... learning... always together.
But, I knew that couldn't happen. And even as I held onto that perfect moment, eating pizza on a couch in London, talking and laughing... I could feel the ambitions, life goals, and changes slowly pulling us in our separate ways.
Suddenly I knew that my days in London were numbered, and I began to understand what that meant.
***
We finally discovered that the number 10 bus would take us to Oxford Street... the only trick was getting off at the right stop. Some new BYU study abroad students that had just arrived at the flats hopped on the same bus, and we rolled our eyes as they began talking... Americans. Without a doubt. Obnoxious. Loud. And totally unaware. But I looked at Robyn and shrugged my shoulders, as if to say, "Don't worry, they'll learn...".
The lines at Primark were heinous, as usual. But we'd discovered a way to work the system. One of us would stand in line, while the other shopped. And then, after about ten or fifteen minutes, we switched places. After forty five minutes of standing and shopping, standing and shopping, we had what we wanted, and we were at the front of the line.
It began to drizzle as we walked toward the bus stop, so we walked a little faster, laughing that we had both forgot our umbrellas. But that is how London works. If everyone remembered their umbrellas every day, it would never rain.
As was tradition on Monday nights, we made one last trip to My Old Dutch for an early dinner. By now the staff recognized us, and knew that we'd come every Monday, ready for our 5 Pound Pancakes. And I wondered if they'd miss us next week, when we didn't show up.
They didn't roll their eyes when we asked for tap water. By now they were used to us and our strange drinking habits. But just to give them a little satisfaction, I ordered a lemonade. What I received was a sweetened sparkling water... with a lemon. It WAS delicious, I'll give them that. But I still can't figure out what it is with them and sparkling water. That's all they know how to drink.
After dinner the group split- some headed to plays, others to pack or study for finals. But I decided to take a walk in the park, despite the rain. Or maybe because of it.
I've found that London rain makes green things greener. When the sun is out, and the air is warm, the leaves are bright and clear, like early spring. But when the air is foggy, drizzly, they turn a dark, rich green, like water that's very deep and still... It is not light, and young... but somehow elegant, regal, mysterious, and wise.
I walked past the palace, which sits on the far corner, all the while staying beneath the trees. I walked slowly, breathed deeply, thought about everything and nothing all at once.
I knew where I was going, and found the Elfin Oak without a problem. Months ago I had given a report on this area of London- Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park- and had enthused many of my classmates with stories about this old oak stump. And yet, I'd never seen it.
Hundreds of years ago, the hollow oak log had many little figures carved into its surface... elves, fairies, animals, maidens in distress. Later the little creatures had been painted. And now it stands right next to Diana's Memorial Playground, in Hyde Park.
It was fascinating, certainly. But the little boy peering through the gate, yelling "Papa! Papa! I found a frog!" was perhaps the most intruiging part of the exhibit. He was absolutely mesmerized, nose pressed against the metal bars protecting the tree, and staring, wide eyed at the scenes before him. His father was less interested, but happy that his son was so distracted, so he could sit and rest for a moment on the bench.
I wonder why we get so bored, as we get older? As I watched this tiny little boy, fascinated as he was, and his father, tired as he was... I hoped that I would never become too tired to be fascinated. I hoped I'd always be excited about the little things... the frogs, and the fairies.
I continued walking, past the round pond, past the familiar bronze horse, and along an unfamiliar road. I walked quietly, letting the rain do most of the talking, and I looked around the park, through my kaleidoscope.
I stopped when I saw a giant old tree, standing alone, off the path. It looked dry under there, and it had a pleasing asymmetry about it. The way it bowed to the right, and stretched its long arms farther out on one side, made it look like a cave rather than a tree. It was inviting... but I stood there, debating, (much like Poccahontis I suppose), whether to stay on the path, or to diverge.
Of course, knowing me, you know where I ended up. I was right, it WAS dry under there. I stretched out on the grass, and stared up at the tangled branches above me. And I listened to the rain.
It was fascinating, certainly. But the little boy peering through the gate, yelling "Papa! Papa! I found a frog!" was perhaps the most intruiging part of the exhibit. He was absolutely mesmerized, nose pressed against the metal bars protecting the tree, and staring, wide eyed at the scenes before him. His father was less interested, but happy that his son was so distracted, so he could sit and rest for a moment on the bench.
I wonder why we get so bored, as we get older? As I watched this tiny little boy, fascinated as he was, and his father, tired as he was... I hoped that I would never become too tired to be fascinated. I hoped I'd always be excited about the little things... the frogs, and the fairies.
I continued walking, past the round pond, past the familiar bronze horse, and along an unfamiliar road. I walked quietly, letting the rain do most of the talking, and I looked around the park, through my kaleidoscope.
I stopped when I saw a giant old tree, standing alone, off the path. It looked dry under there, and it had a pleasing asymmetry about it. The way it bowed to the right, and stretched its long arms farther out on one side, made it look like a cave rather than a tree. It was inviting... but I stood there, debating, (much like Poccahontis I suppose), whether to stay on the path, or to diverge.
Of course, knowing me, you know where I ended up. I was right, it WAS dry under there. I stretched out on the grass, and stared up at the tangled branches above me. And I listened to the rain.
And then, after about half an hour, I got up again. Brushed off. And headed home.
Of course, on the way, I had the burning desire to start tap dancing in the rain, Gene Kelly style, umbrella in hand. I looked to the right, and then to the left, and seeing I was alone, I started dancing. Tap dancing in the rain is perhaps one of the best activities in the world- the wet splashes are the perfect addition to the gravelly taps... and an umbrella is perfect for adding that little bit of interest in the arms. It wasn't until I started doing barrel rolls that I realized I was being watched. I hadn't seen the group, but I took a bow as they applauded, and then I skipped away to the sound of their laughter
It was another beautiful day in London Town.
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