Friday - St. Stephen Walbrook, St. Paul's Cathedral, and more Coram Boy

So I woke up this morning, and I officially have a cold. I now have some Sudafed but this morning? Oh man. I was so congested I thought I'd swallowed all of the cotton pads that I use for my Proactiv treatment. :x It was not good. At least Allison has the same affliction so that a) I have someone to share in my mistery and b) I don't have to worry or feel guilty about getting her sick.

So today started at St. Stephen of Walbrook church on Cannon Street. It's known as Christopher Wren's masterpiece, although I'm sure that'll mean next to nothing for a lot of you. (Don't worry, I'm sort of right there with you.)

( Yet another Wren church. )

Thereafter, we hightailed it to St. Paul's, which is only a few blocks away. Of course, when you're chasing Sarah and trying not to be run over by Very Important Businessmen on cell phones and double decker buses, you feel like you're playing a massive game of Frogger and it makes the journey much longer. We took a short break, and I was witness to yet another example of how the birds were going to have the last laugh.

( The birds will have the last laugh, you know. )

So Sarah gave us the obligatory history. Previous cathedrals, blah blah blah. The one that's standing now was built after the previous one was destroyed in the London Fire in 1666. There was a brief, half-joking discussion about Wren starting the fire because he wanted to take down the old cathedral in order to build a new one because he felt that if you patched up the one that stood there previously, it would be an eyesore. He was losing in the committee talks, but then the Fire sort of took care of that. Looks sort of suspicious, neh? ;)

( No pictures of the interior, but meh. )

So part of our deal was that we were going to go up. Up and up and up and up into galleries. Despite my misgivings and trouble with heights, I gave it a try. I made it up one hundred and forty some steps to the Whispering Gallery, which is just inside of the inner dome (there are two domes on St. Paul's, the inner one is the one that you see from inside the church and is proportionate to the rest of the building, and the outer one is the one you can see in the skyline). Yeah. It wasn't happening. I was getting vertigo like nobody's business, was in a cold sweat, and had to be helped to the exit by a very nice man who worked at the cathedral by the name of Terry. He basically just made sure that I didn't fall over.

Also, we went into the crypt. Horatio Nelson is buried in the crypt, in a sarcophagus confiscated by Henry VIII from Cardinal Wolsey (I know, I know), although when we were prompted to guess who it had been confiscated from, someone said Napoleon. And I think that would be the most hilarious thing ever. He has a monument upstairs (which Wren was very much against, but by the time they started putting statues in he was in no position to say anything about it, as I think he might've been dead), too, which is pretty nice. Everyone's favorite one-eyed, one-armed admiral. Of course, Wellington is also buried there, and his monument is HUGE. I mean, Nelson has a pretty nice statue of him looking heroic and being shown to two little boys in naval suits by Fame, but Wellington's monument? It is ridiculously huge. I'm sure Nelson's up there somewhere sniffing, "Poncy sod" while Wellington says, "Yes, well, who's got that monstrous column in that bloody square? Overcompensator."

Tonight I saw Coram Boy again. For a moment I was afraid that I had just been particularly hormonal or something and that it wouldn't be nearly as good this time around, but I was so wrong. If anything, it was better. I gave them the standing ovation they deserved this time, everyone else be damned, and. Just, wow. My feelings are so big that they feel uncontainable, like I'm going to fly into pieces. It's like trying to talk about God. I just can't do it.

I did send the cast, crew, and production team a congratulatory thank you via the box office, because I felt that they deserved to be thanked. I noticed a lot of new things, new interactions and tensions that I think I missed in the earlier viewing, and got to look up into their fly tower. I envy them their fly tower. And their budget. But I'd settle for the fly tower. Coram Boy is going to Broadway, and I really hope that it does well and runs for a very, very long time so that I can make it there to see it.

Saturday - Portobello Road Market, Abbey pictures, and a peace rally.

So since I'd done enough lying about the Albert to make even Jabba the Hutt disgusted at my sloth, this Saturday I decided that I'd get up and do something. And after five hours of sleep in a room where we had a mouse sighting, I did just that.

And I was just distracted for forty minutes by Heroes. Woo.

So anyway, being a creature of curiosity, I decided to go to Portobello Road Market. Since I didn't really know where I was going, I hopped a bus to Notting Hill Gate and studied my A to Zed like nobody's business. I got off at the appropriate stop and with the help of the A to Zed, thought I was going to find the market. Not so much. I decided to dispose of the A to Zed (not literally, since it' s the program's) and just go with the flow - literally. I followed the flow of the people and eventually (and thankfully) found myself on Portobello Road walking towards the market.

Much like the song from Bedknobs and Broomsticks (which very nearly came out my fingertips as Bedsticks and Broomknobs), there is pretty much anything and everything. If it wasn't on that street today, I'm not sure it exists.

( You'll find what you want on Portobello Road. )

After I'd had enough to picking through second-hand clothing, brightly colored scarves, and squeezing through people, I figured out what to do next. I remembered that I owe people pictures from Westminster Abbey, so I headed back there. There are no pictures of the inside, but since a) it wasn't open and b) they don't allow photography in there anyway, it doesn't really matter.

( It was the age of the cathedral... )

So at this point it was about a quarter to four, but I didn't want to go back to the Albert yet. So lacking anything else in mind, I walked back up Whitechapel Street towards Trafalgar Square, and figured I'd just go from there, either up the Strand or to Piccadilly. I began to notice a lot of people coming from the direction of the square carrying flags, posters, dressed in army fatigues, that sort of thing. But even that could not have prepared me for what I saw when I reached the end of Whitechapel Street at Charing Cross.

There was a huge. Peace Rally.

I was like AWESOME and got in there and took some pictures. My heart was beating fast and I felt important or something even though I was just a silly tourist trying to be artsy. I have to say that even though I really don't like Bush and don't agree with practically anything that floats out of his mouth without being recycled through his brain, it's somewhat disconcerting to stand in Trafalgar Square as an American and hear obscenities (many of which I have actually used myself, actually, in varying shades of color) shouted about Bush is a little disconcerting. (And Blair. Don't get me wrong, they're pretty pissed off at Blair, too.) Most people are intelligent enough to understand most American's don't approve of Bush, either, but this is a large group of people and you should never underestimate the mob mentality. I'll get off my soapbox and take it to Speaker's Corner now (OOH MAYBE I SHOULD DO THAT TOMORROW), and just show you all the pictures I took.

( Peace Rally in Trafalgar Square. )

So my day sort of declined in excitement from there. I trekked to Charing Cross Station and took the tube home, and have a lot of homework that I need to do and TV that I need to watch. :]