Tag: History

Britain, Holidays, Humor

St George’s Day, Let’s Talk About Dragons

“God for Harry, England, and St George!”
– Shakespeare, Henry V

It’s St George’s Day, celebrated with bunting and pub crawls (like an awful lot of British feast days). What’s not to like? I love a good borderline mythological figure as much as the next medievalist, but truthfully it’s the dragon that gets me. I’ve had a thing for them ever since childhood.

My first ever published short story was composed at the tender age of about 13 and was titled, “The Guide to Saving Princesses,” an instruction manual for prospective heroes about choosing suitable princesses, negotiating with dragons to make sure the climatic fights look real, and general career tips for knight-errantry. It was terribly clever, she said without a hint of bias.

In university I conducted a bit of research into how St. George’s victim in the middle ages is often portrayed with female genitalia as his legend shifted to include ideas about romanticized chastity and virginity. Since in the middle ages it was the female sex that was considered particularly susceptible to lust rather than the male. Hm…

Tolkien’s Smaug is one of my favorite characters ever, but my favorite dragon-slaying story of all time has to be his historically satirical and incredibly clever, Farmer Giles of Ham. The vintage copy still in my mother’s possession was illustrated with medieval style drawings and she read it to me as a child and animated the dog Garm’s hysterical “Help, help!” cries in a way that still makes me laugh today. I might have to reread it in honor of the day. Anyone else celebrating?

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Britain, Friends, History, Humor, London, Weekend

Sunday In the Park With Katie Pt. 2

“London was so rich, and also so green, and somehow so detailed: full of stuff that had been made, and bought, and placed, and groomed, and shaped, and washed clean, and put on display as if the whole city was for sale.”
― John Lanchester, Capital

Regent’s Park is the brainchild of George the Prince Regent, later George IV, but the land on which it sits had been in royal hands since Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and snapped up the property for himself. As he was wont to do.

George (who it must be said is being hilariously downplayed in the poster campaigns around the city as a number of exhibitions and events celebrate the 300th anniversary of the rise of the house of Hanover) was pretty useless as a regent and monarch. In fact he consistently ranks down among the worst king in British history in the sorts of polls that historians run. Corpulent, lazy, unimpressive, and obnoxious, we nevertheless still need to thank him since a number of his building projects helped create London as we know it today.
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That’s not snow on the ground, it’s a natural carpet of daisies. I know, right?!

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A flock of herons (which I’ve never seen associating in a group before) flirted with tourists and followed likely looking crumb droppers, looking for the world like a pack of spindly dinosaurs.

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Gorgeous.

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This garden was cordoned off. But I saw enough people meandering through it anyway that I hopped the barrier and joined them for a close up of a fountain of a frog spitting at a child. Which clearly is a lot more charming than it sounds on paper.

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At some point you just get the feeling the park’s showing off.
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So, thanks George IV! We’re still iffy enough about you 200 years down the road to awkwardly disregard you on signage, but frankly you helped make London gorgeous. For that, we thank you.

You were still a terrible king, a bad father, and a truly hideous husband.

Expat, Humor, London, Travel

A Brief History Review and a Puzzle

“Accordingly, I determined to pass that by as unknown, and to proceed at once to treat of his character, his deed, and such other facts of his life as are worth telling and setting forth, and shall first give an account of his deed at home and abroad, then of his character and pursuits, and lastly of his administration and death, omitting nothing worth knowing or necessary to know.”
– Einhard

He’s the first Holy Roman Emperor, and yet we have no idea where he was born or even precisely how many siblings he had. He conquered huge tracts of Europe, founded the first great institutions for learning and study since the fall or Rome, but remained almost entirely illiterate. He had masses of illegitimate children and refused to allow his daughters to marry, but let them carry on with their paramours and common-law husbands and enjoyed the bastard grandchildren they gave him openly. He campaigned against the Moors, who most people don’t know sent their armies deep into France and Germany in the 8th century and might have taken the continent but for him. Despite being absolutely brutal in warfare, he became renowned in the later age of chivalry for his deeds. He was crowned emperor of the Romans by the Pope himself, mostly to try and shake claims to the Byzantine Empire’s claims of cultural and authoritative inheritance, but which largely contributed to the destabilization of both the East and the West in the end. His power and commitment to art as well as war ushered in the first (of several, for what it’s worth) Renaissances.

So could somebody please explain what Charlemagne is doing with this highly unexpected piece of domestic equipment in this Paris statue? Inquiring minds want to know.

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Expat, Food, Friends, History, Humor, London, Travel

Saturday Night In Paris: A Short Trek and Sean Penn. Seriously.

“Paris is the only city in the world where starving to death is still considered an art.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón

After a gorgeous day at Versailles, we convened at Katie and Adam’s quite-nearly-as-gorgeous-and-only-slightly-less-gilded hotel room to pick a place for dinner. It was a bit late in the day to be sorting this out but Katie (as ever, the best travel planner I have ever had the pleasure of frolicking around a major European capital with!) had already created a whole list of recommendations and hot spots. We settled on a restaurant that sounded promising and, after trying and failing to make a reservation online, got the brilliant idea to ask the concierge service to make a reservation for us since we figured a top-notch restaurant would be more willing to accommodate the request if it came from the front desk of the Le Meurice hotel rather than tourists. We we right. We know our cultural limitations, and how to work them, kittens.

Reservation made we made the trek across the river, found the right area, and then got a bit lost since we’d marked the address on a map but believed that we left Katie’s all-important list in the hotel room, containing the precise address. As it happened, we found the list the next day. In my camera bag. (Thunks head on her desk. I’m wincing just remembering it. Carry on, I’ll meet you at the next paragraph.)
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Anyway, we were late for our reservation, but managed to find the joint Le Coupe Chou, which might be one of the most ambiance-rich place I have ever had the pleasure of dining in. I’m not surprised we got a bit lost, really. We were in the Latin Quarter, the old medieval heart of the city. The ruins of the Abbey of Cluny (once the largest building in the world, and the site where the Crusades were first kicked off a thousand years ago) was a mere stone’s throw away.

Don’t let the humble exterior lull you into a false sense of security, Le Coupe Chou is fearfully and wonderfully made within! In it’s 17th century past it began its current incarnation as residential spaces, which means that you have to be led through multiple rooms and levels of dining, drinking, and lounging spaces to get to your tables; complete with old wooden stairs, knocked through stone walls, heavy stone fireplaces, delftware tiles, and dark timber beams in the ceiling. The effect is very cozy and elegant at the same time.

Apparently both medieval and Roman site elements were discovered during upgrades and renovations. Which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, it’s rather par for the course in a city as ancient as Paris, but excites me all the same. The remains of a 16th century well can be found in the basement along with 12th century pottery, and a piece of graffiti from the Revolution has a place of honor behind the bar. My little history heart was melting with contentment.

Late as we were, we were shown to our table and got to peruse the menu and talk all we wanted while waiters kept the bread and courses coming. Jeff chose best with the veal, by the way, which we both heartily recommend. At one point Adam excused himself from the table and when he came back, he was wearing an expression of complete delight masked by false nonchalance – a sort of widening of the eyes with the corners of the mouth turned up ever so slightly against his will.
“Guys, I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure Sean Penn is sitting three tables away.”
Naturally this meant that throughout the evening (spaced well apart) we all excused ourselves to confirm or deny the news.

And team it’s confirmed. I googled it later, just to verify we weren’t blinded by the Romantic lights of the city (or perhaps still slightly winded from our dash to find the restaurant in the first place), but yes. Sean Penn was in Paris, and he was definitely sitting thirty feet away from us that evening. More googling later informed me that other notables to have dined at this spot include Brigitte Bardot, Marlene Dietrich, The Beatles, and most of the great and good of French theatre over the last half century.

I herewith surrender any rights to complain about my life being uninteresting for the next six months at least. If I do, minions are encouraged to slap me across the face.

Expat, History, Humor, London, Travel

A Day At the Palace (Or All Gold Err’thang: A History Lesson)

“Marie-Anoinette: This is ridiculous.
Comtesse de Noailles: This, Madame, is Versailles.”
– Marie Antoinette, 2006

The palace of Versailles is just a hop, skip, and a half hour train ride outside of central Paris in a way that belies the income, cultural, and geographic divides of the 18th century it represents. In the 1700s it was a mere 12 miles outside of the city but an entire world away.
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The private domains of the last three kings of France, the brain child of Louis XIV who styled himself the Sun King and developed a court structure and architecture that literally revolved around himself, and no small contributor to the eventual Revolution itself… Versailles is just a bit much. In that glorious Rococo sort of way. Perhaps it’s just me, but wandering through the gilt laden and marbled inlaid, well, everything really, I can’t help looking around and thinking to myself, “Yeah, I would absolutely have revolted too.”
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Versailles was a gigantic feat of social engineering as well as building design. As chief gravitational force of his own private solar system, Louis XIV literally required his nobles to up sticks from their estates to come and wait on him personally hand and foot 24/7/365. Instead of living on and working their properties, managing their own affairs, or contributing in substantial ways to the French economy, the nobility lived almost entirely off of incomes supplied by the King’s government and existed in a perfumed, periwig-ed cocoon of privilege.
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“Come now,” I imagine Louis XIV said of an earlier incarnation of this room, “there is simply not enough gilt and cloth of gold here. What am I, a peasant? MOAR GOLD!”

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The Queen’s, er, equally restrained and tasteful bedroom…

Meanwhile, outside of the (literally) golden gates, wars, economic collapses, and famine were doing their level best to flatten the commoners – who of course paid for all the upkeep since the nobility and clergy were exempted from taxes.
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The justifiably famous Hall of Mirrors.

Our trip to Versailles started off a bit sodden as the morning was gray, rainy, and quite chilly. But by the time we made it through the palace and out into the gardens the sun had burst out to warm us all up. We trekked to the Grand and Petit Trianon minor residences and meandered through the false hamlet built so that Queen Marie Antoinette could play at being a peasant maid (complete with Sevres china milk buckets of course), and then back along the grand canal where crew teams and romantic pairs were rowing on the once royal waters.
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The gorgeous colonnade from the Grand Trianon.

The last time I was at Versailles was about 8 years ago (*clutches self a little to realize that*) when my mother and I came here on a girls only vacation, so it was great to get an updated view of the site. a number of restoration projects are underway and new rooms have been made available to the public since my last visit. It makes for an excellent day trip, but do book tickets in advance if you can – especially if you go in the high tourist season! Katie, our expert traveler, booked tickets for all four of us in advance and we got to swan past the throngs of other tourists waiting in line.
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It costs under 10 Euros for two people to get to the Versailles Rive Gauche station on the RER-C line from the Notre Dame Metro stop, and the palace is a 5 to 10 minute’s walk away.

There are simply too many stunning photos for one blog post so keep an eye on my Instagram feed for more snapshots of our meanderings through Versailles this week.

Britain, Expat, History, Humor, London, Travel, Weekend

Come Creep, er, Peep Into Windows With Me

“Decline is also a form of voluptuousness, just like growth.”
― Iwan Goll

Yesterday  in Spitalfields I ran into the most gloriously dilapidated house. Welcome to 4 Princelet Street!

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Delightful, isn’t it? Spitalfields has an amazing history deeply tied with religious minority immigration and the textile industries. This is one of a row of houses dating to the 18th century where silk merchants and designers largely lived, an industry brought to the area by French Huguenots. Irish linen workers also made this area their home. Later the area drew large Jewish populations (there is also an old synagogue, somewhat hidden on the street that was left disused for many years, but is preserved in a fragile state, that I hope to visit. It’s only open a few days a year to protect the site from wear and tear). Then – like every other area in London – in the 19th century it turned into a horrible rookery and slum. One of the Jack the Ripper murders took place just around the corner, all of his victims were actually from the area, and it was also one of the areas photographed for Jack London’s 1902 book, The People of the Abyss, which not only exposed the plight of London’s urban poor through a popular and successful author of the time, but allowed photography to visually capture the miserable state of one of London’s worst districts.

Now of course the area is home to that thriving market and is fairly trendy, but I like that the architecture of the surrounding areas is intact from time past. Most of the homes and period shops I passed still retain their half shutters and indoor wooden window blinds that fold out from the walls, there are doors still marked for “Tradesmen,” and Edwardian and Victorian era doorbells and knockers abound.

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This crumbling toy in the window is what first caught my eye. I immediately pressed my nose up to the panes and even more glorious decay was revealed.

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The blue and white tiling in the fireplace and the rickety stairs just get me. You can’t see it but there’s also an early 20th century light switch in the wall. Apparently this house is used largely for filming (no surprise there) but has been left mostly untouched and the architecture is all original. From the Georgians to now, elements of design have been added without the history being too taken away.

Here’s another post with more artistic shots of the interiors, and here’s a youtube video (the internet, I tell you, ask and you shall receive!) I found of a film maker who got access to the house for a project and decided to take an impromptu tour.

Britain, Expat, History, Humor, Law Enforcement, London, Travel, Work

London Snapshot

“In this world . . .

It’s Heaven when:
The French are chefs
The British are police
The Germans are engineers
The Swiss are bankers
And the Italians are lovers

It’s Hell when:
The English are chefs
The Germans are police
The French are engineers
The Swiss are lovers
And the Italians are bankers.”
― Hidekaz Himaruya

I worked for five years at a police department on a university campus somewhat renowned for the ugliness of most of its architecture. Alternatively, here is the police office of Hyde Park. Brace yourself, Brandie and Sav. You might cry. I nearly did.

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Britain, Expat, History, Humor, London, Travel

Pub Signs I’ve Met and Loved

Work is the curse of the drinking classes.
– Oscar Wilde

I’m pretty sure this will be a continuing feature (my love of British placards and signage being well established).

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I’m beyond ready for Game of Thrones to be back – as Kerry, once put it, you can tell a lot about a person by who you think should rule Westeros. Your answers to that immortal question in the comments, please. This guy also looks about as cheerful as Kit Harrington does in character – aka, miserable.

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The eventual title of my autobiography, I’ve decided.

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One of my favorite pubs every for reasons that will become more clear in a later post.

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I haven’t investigated this claim as deeply as the Not-Sir-Christopher-Wren-Or-Queen-Catharine-of-Aragon House. But I will say I have seen more than one “oldest pub/restaurant/licensed premises in London” sign in my time.

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Self explanatory. (Or if not, a landmark of a restaurant that had to close in October of last year, but petitions were got up to keep it opening and functioning because it’s a Soho mainstay. Also, the name is cheeky, because it’s Soho.)

Britain, Expat, History, Humor, London

Lies, Damn Lies, and History

“Do you just constantly have your own little side adventures?”
“Yep.”
– Troy and Abed, NBC’s Community

Jeff likes to tease me that I stumble across random historical and cultural things by mistake. He calls it, “leading him into wardrobes,” which I take to be a high compliment. But some of these adventures take the most pleasant of odd turns. Take for instance this charming little house nestled into a quiet spot near Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre on the south bank of the Thames.

Adorable, right?
Adorable, right?

Exactly the sort of historical house I’d love to buy if I had pots of money. It had caught my eye before on many of our Thames strolls, but one evening I decided to wander closer (deaf to the dire warning of Jeff, who said I’d be arrested or at least scolded for venturing onto private property). Which is when I caught site of the stone inscription:

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Which, if squinting isn’t a help, reads, “Here lived Sir Christopher Wren during the building of St Paul’s cathedral. Here also, in 1502, Catherine Infanta of Castile and Aragon, afterwards first queen of Henry VIII, took shelter on her first landing in London.”

Which already would have been cool if it was true, but is even more cool since it’s a pack of lies!

A little historical digging, starting on the internets and confirmed in some more official records, leads you down the most glorious, London-y-est, twisty, and complex turns. First of all, the house on the site wasn’t built until 1710 which was the year St. Paul’s was completed – making it pretty hard for Wren to have lived there while he was building and totally impossible for the long suffering Catherine of Aragon to have stopped by at all.

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But in this alternate historical narrative, Wren’s view was fantastic.

To be fair, Wren did live up the road a few houses, but not at this particular bankside address. But in any event this placard (which as it turns out is a recreation of an earlier one that has disappeared) seems to have originated on a nearby building – which historians are unable to determine was or was not the site of Wren’s house. When the building was demolished, an intrepid local salvaged Placard 2.0 and hoisted it onto his own house.

In the final twist, this area of London was bombed heavily during WWII and was considered to be a less desirable part of town in general (I’ve mentioned before that we live in a former Dickensian slum, yes?) So after the war the powers that be were thinking of ways to improve the neighborhood. Postwar, and currently this usually meant bulldozing the damaged history bits and putting up new developments…

But!

The placard ensconced in the stone made them wary that they might be tearing down a culturally relevant site. And though sometimes weighed down by bureaucracy, the Brits usually bow to their own history.

Thus this Stuart era house – where Christopher Wren did NOT live, and Catherine of Aragon did not break her journey – stands. Impervious to historical accuracy, Hitler, and planning councils!