Getting to London was more difficult than expected. Storms reigned over every leg of the journey一be they literal, psychological, or emotional. This was for the best, though: by defeating those unavoidable hardships, I felt like I could survive almost anything London might throw at me. In the coach to the Royal National Hotel, I saw a sunbow shining from above, heralding the end of particularly hard times.
From there, memories get a bit… hectic. I remember temporally linked textures and sounds more than any individual visual composition. The hotel was… soft, at first, but with crisp lines cutting into the edges of my tenuous mental state. Eventually, I entered The Rollercoaster: Excitement! “I’m in London! Let’s get the room all sorted out and put away my things and talk and prepare and一…and I’m drifting in and out. But I have to move, I have to… to go somewhere, right? Oh yeah. The Tube. I guess…一
In a haze of images I felt more than saw, I traversed the tube station like a little duckling trailing the adult in the room. This wasn’t the empowering experience taking the tube would later become; it was a reminder of the limitations of any individual human. I was struck by how vigorous the ride was. Its body shaking and wheels shrieking, the tube train works tirelessly back and forth, day in and day out. The sheer scope of stress the tube is under terrifies me. The hours of work put into making the tube were what my sleepless mind tried to grapple with as we made our way towards Seven Dials Market.
Dinner was delicious. I chose a meal within my palette’s comfort zone: mac & cheese. Every meal shared is special, but sitting down and eating that mac, in good company all around, felt uniquely like letting out a long-held breath. Already I was finding the most mundane of meals back home to be an ecstatic little treat in my new setting.
I was in and out of consciousness while watching The Mousetrap by Agatha Christie. During intermission I got confirmation from the rest of the Baltimore Eleven that I wasn’t the only one. We all felt the mild shame and anxiety that comes with committing a social faux-pas, even if none but us likely noticed. That tired state also made interpreting my own emotions during the viewing experience harder to parse. Was I crying so much because I was moved? Or did I just lack sleep? Both are true. Even remembering some moments as I write this makes me tear up. I would speak more on the play, but I made a promise 😉
Stepping outside of St. Martin’s Theatre, I immediately began to shiver. London’s air imparted a different kind of chill, a new uncomfortable experience exacerbated by my poor choice of clothing一lesson learned. While an immediate blast of cool air on wicking tights might wake one up for a few moments, the alertness was gone by the time we reached the tube station.
On the return trip from our first day exploring London, I focused on my fellow passengers. It was a slow evening, but even within a small sample size the crowd was eclectic. In my sleepless state I bet I was staring a bit too hard, but I couldn’t stop myself from inspecting their eyes. I saw green eyes and wrinkle lines, downcast expressions and driven attitudes. I saw frustration with others and peace with oneself. I looked at my own eyes in the dark reflection of the tube train’s wide windows, and saw at first only tired eyes. Then I saw sad eyes, an echo of the evening’s show. Eventually, I saw excited eyes一crinkled from squinting to get a better look一expecting great things from an adventure as yet untold.
Theatre in London U of A 