In London

I have Ulysses class in a little over an hour but I'm finding it far more important to get my fingers on some keys before this weekend escapes my (as much as it can be!) reliable memory.

We awoke even earlier than usual on Saturday, breakfasted some eggs and bacon (ham, not bacon), and were piled on a coach headed for London by 8am. Earbuds blaring, I passed in and out of dozing as the lazy English countryside rolled, a swell of green and gold under a low-hanging morning grey. When the bus eventually halted and swung its front door open I jumped at the opportunity to stretch my legs. The Notorious BIG was loud in my ears as I stepped from the bus, missing entirely the verbal message "unless you're getting off to see the Tower of London, stay on the bus!" I looked around myself to see only five or six other students and by the time my mind was beginning to grip at what was going on, the bus hissed and lumbered away, faces passing like ghosts in its windows.

Disappointed, as I had minimal interest in seeing some Tower, I had just gotten used to the idea when I saw Rob, who listens to Big L and hails from Annapolis Maryland, scooting down an stairwell to the underground. Interest perked, I followed. Turns out he'd made the same mistake as I, and intended to catch a "tube" to somewhere more exciting. I decided to tag along and from there we set off on a ridiculous London adventure.

Very few pubs are willing to serve two Americans sausage sandwiches and Guiness at 11am, but sure enough we found one near the lively center of town after stopping off at Picadilly Circus to see Turnbull & Asser, the shop that custom-makes all the Bond suits and garments. Post-Guiness, we wandered into a casino. Rob already had membership (his father grew up in London and he'd been a number of times, making him an ideal companion and guide on this journey) but they had to take down my information, take my picture, and present me with a card entitling me to "player rewards." We (Rob, not so much me) lost ten pounds at the blackjack table before we really knew what was happening and decided it was probably time to go elsewhere.

We saw some of the important touristy things for a small while and visited the National Gallery, skipping right to the Van Goghs and then peacing out, but the day earned the title "trip" upon our arrival at Camden Town.

The best way for me to describe Camden Town is that it is an inner-city district carnival of alternative subculture, a punk rock shakedown street that plays nice with the ravers and goths. The streets boiled with freaks, at home between and bouncing off each other sparking cigarettes packed with hash at storefronts or bustling through cramped market squares. Everyone and so no one was strange. Supplementing our exploration with beer (from a cuban pub and then from the famous World's End) we delved into multi-tiered ghettos of tapestry-tent shops and glorious novelty stores. You only needed to take a few steps between buying salvia or a waterpipe and a custom-fitted leather corset, knee-high black platform boots and jet lipstick. We passed vendors selling Clash vinyl from milk crates, artists laying their handmade jewelery around each other's necks, homelss psuedo-rastas who pressed incence into our hands and asked us for change. Riding the blacklight escaltor down into the spaceship-greenglow Cyberdog introduced us to the most cutting-edge rave-wear and eyecandy. The bass pumped, dreadlocked blondes bumped. As we prepared to leave I bought a tapestry from The Farcyde which now hangs in my Cambridge abode, a flashback-inducer and a reason to return to Camden.

Now exhausted, we set off to find Shakespeare's Globe, where we would be seeing A Midsummer Night's Dream that evening. With a couple mistakes, at least one of which involved us falling asleep in the underground, we made it. With still a couple hours before the show we perused the Tate modern art museum, its display (appropriately enough) on poetry and dream, and searched for affordable food. We pizza'd and reunited with the rest of our class in time to indulge in a 'cigarette' before the show. Though I had a difficult time staying awake through the first couple acts (no fault of the performers', naturally) the performance was seriously enjoyable. I slept the whole busride home and barely made it the walk back from the bus stop and up the stairs to my bed.

Yesterday was a day of equal pleasure. Rob, Jeff and myself spent the day at Jesus Green, a nearby park, getting down and watching a pick-up soccer (football?) game. Preparatory work for this required us to enjoy the company of a couple local dudes who ended up being really chill; they hung out for a little while before departing to do whatever it is they did. Soon after, we walked around town, picked up some bread, cheese and big bottles of Peroni and returned to JG with Andy and some other fellows. It was perhaps the perfect companion day to Saturday. Quiet to its volume. Calm to its hustle. Chilled-out to its action.

While I feel there must be more to say, I need to give James Joyce a little more of my immediate attention. Writing this helped me go back to the magic that was this past weekend. I hope you feel it too.