Morning of the magicians

About a year ago, in an effort to find something to do with my then-new apartment mate Nate, I did a little investigating into the game Magic: the Gathering. I had distant recollections of Steve Jones and Sam Stranmo playing Magic on the baseball field during recess, but the game had never interested me enough to watch them play. When, years later, I finally gave Magic a second look, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it has little (other than player demographics) in common with Dungeons and Dragons. To the point: Magic doesn't require the player to pretend anything. It has a fantasy theme, but one need not imagine oneself to be a wizard (walking through yon dungeon, in which obvious exits are North, East, and blah-blah-blah). The game is essentially a math game, with systems of fantasy-themed mnemonics. I'm sure even that may not sound like fun to everyone, but certainly caters to one of my many ideas of fun.

It's confession time: I gave it a try. Years after giving up Star Trek and daily use of a graphing calculator, I started playing a pretty nerdy game. The complicated interactions between relatively simple parts plays on my interest in complex systems, and I've come to view the moments where the fantasy cloak conforms beautifully with the mathematical mechanics as architectural. I might even conjecture that I like to analyze Magic more than I like to play it; I've kept my playing pretty low key, and I go for weeks without playing. I've rarely had the opportunity to play with someone more experienced than myself.

Today, however, I did something that—for me—was a little radical: I attended a pre-release event. Long story short, Wizards of the Coast releases a new Magic deck four times a year, and about two weeks before each release they hold a pre-release event, which occurs simutaneously at comic-book shops, game stores, and even convention centers across the world. Here in London the event was hosted by The Games Club at the Royal National Hotel, which was my temporary home during the SU orientation week. I showed up, and upon payment of my enterence fee became player #102. Without much further ado, I was given a tournament pack and two "boosters" of the new Lorwyn cards. From that pool of cards I constructed my deck, which I used to compete in my "flight." I was one of 32 people in Flight 2, which ran concurrently with with six other flights (meaning over 200 people were playing at any one time). In the first of four rounds, #76 (Fletcher, Geoff L) put me away rather handily, but he was kind enough to help me tweak my deck afterwards. I managed to beat #106 (Marks, Joshua), who was experimenting with two different "Planeswalker" cards and still developing his strategy. In round three #85 (Simmons, Brian) and I each won one game and were pushing the time limit on the third. I thought I might manage a draw, but a during a surprise time extension I lost. With that my hopes of a prize were extinguished, but I played my final round anyway, being shut-out by #94 (Mayall, Alex).

Honestly, managing to win a third of my games was a pleasant surprise, since I was prepared to loose each time. After all, I went for the cultural experience as much as the playtime. Granted, the "culture" (or perhaps 'sub culture' is more apt) isn't too exotic, and the demographic of awkward, slightly unwashed white males isn't a glamorous one, but there's a sincerity that permeates an environment in which enthusiasm and and competitiveness is allowed to show. Evenings at the local comic book shop are probably not part of my future, but I hope I'll be able to attend more Magic events. I may have more in common with the design crowd nowadays, but I have roots in the culture of math whizzes and the 12-sided dice owners, and I think losing that connection would be forgetting a little part of myself.

Not an American capitol

Two hundred twenty years to the day after the United States Congress voted to send the newly drafted constitution to the states for ratification,* I set foot in the Palace of Westminster, home to Congress's British analogue. Although the Parliament traces its roots to the thirteenth century, the building itself is for the most part much newer than the U.S. Capitol, having been designed in the nineteenth century, and partially reconstructed after World War II. The building's relatively young age was frequently hard to remember. The Gothic ornamentation, the relative implied significance of the monarchical presence, and general lack of space for the Members spoke strongly of days gone by.

I don't feel sufficiently knowledgeable to speak much about the specifics of the Gothic ornamentation other than to say that it is quite evident, and no significant architectural knowledge is necessary to recognize it. I can, however, easily explain the "monarchical presence" since the enormous golden throne and canopy at the head of the House of Lords. Apparently Queen Elizabeth joins them one day a year, but her seat certainly conveys her importance in her absence. As for the lack of space, there isn't enough space for all of the Members, much less space for a notebook computer or any of the other things I would imagine U.S. Senators use constantly.

I'm not exactly sure how any real work gets done in the place, but after eight centuries, I guess this organization knows what it's doing.

*also twenty years to the day after Star Trek: The Next Generation debuted

The Scottish play

My foray into British theater commenced this evening in excellent style. The production of Macbeth, which was developed at the Chichester Festival Theatre, recently arrived in London at the Gielgud Theatre in the West End, and has been well advertised with posters in the Underground featuring the play's star, Partrick Stewart. Like many people, I know Mr. Stewart best as Star Trek's beloved Captain Picard, so I was delighted to find his stage presence to be equal to his screen presence. The cast was strong all around, but his performance was stellar. Macbeth's motives are complicated—murky even—but Mr. Stewart conveyed the conflicted character convincingly, and hit just the right notes as his character descends into madness.

Other aspects of the production are equally worthy of mention. The setting of the play was transformed into the Soviet Union of the late 1940s. Using the costly victory in World War II and Stalin's cruel reign as a softly-referenced historical background made the play significantly more accessible, and allowed clever use of film footage taken from that era. The set itself was brutally utilitarian, with dingy tile walls, a boxy fiberglass sink upstage, and a old TV and an accordion-gated elevator downstage. This room easily became the hospital in the opening scene, the "hall" of Act II (re-imagined as a kitchen), and at times, with the use of digital projectors, a forest and the frightening otherworld of the Weird Sisters. Perhaps most impressive of all was the perfect use of the intermission, wedged into the middle of a slightly modified act III, scene iv, which burns the image of Banquo's apparition into the minds of the audience and delays the resolution of the moment.

If the other plays on my list for the semester are half so good, I'll be in for a very good time.

A rustic paradise

There was no tarrying in town today. After a hearty English breakfast (during which classmates expressed disdain for my letting the baked beans, sausage, mushrooms, eggs, and tomatoes co-mingle on my plate), we piled into a comfortable motorcoach for the not-too-long drive to Cragside. Once the home of inventor and businessman Lord William Armstrong, the house and estate is now part of the National Trust, a non-governmental organization that protects, maintains, and promotes historic places throughout the island, much like the Minnesota Historical Society and other state-level organizations do in the US.

The estate is expansive and amazingly beautiful, furnished by the impressive Craghill with uncountable observation points. The landscape includes one of the largest rock gardens in Europe, a pinetum, a children's labyrinth, and numerous bridges criss-crossing the stream at the bottom of the slope. Upon arrival, I plunged ahead of the slowly-dispersing group and was rewarded with a hour of exploration in complete solitude.

Also notable in the lands was a powerhouse, which used water power to generate electricity for the house, the first in Europe to install electric lights. The house itself was impressive in size and tastefully modest outside. No classical or Gothic ornament interfered with the idea that this was a rustic palace. Architect Robert Shaw instead implemented a pallet of stone, stucco, and half-timber that speaks of comfort and leisure. The inside, however, shows little such imagination and talent. Most of the rooms are simply boxes (now cluttered with historic decor), and the few rooms at the top of the house that strive for grandeur each have significant failures in the architectural language.

In some ways I think that all architects should pay a visit to Cragside. The poorly resolved interior should insight students to avoid such failings and the amazing grounds should remind them that landscape must not be neglected.

Towards Polaris

Our class ventured north to the formerly industrial city of Newcastle upon Tyne, not far from the Scottish border. Prior to departure I had a bit of time to look around King's Cross, which has been so familiar to me from reading Harry Potter books. The real item was significantly more contorted than I imagined, a little less monumental, but no less intriguing. Our train from Platform 4 made good time as we left London but was seriously delayed halfway along by a failed train on the line ahead of us. My table played a game of hearts to pass the time, and the sandwich and yogurt I packed kept me fueled without resorting to the dining trolley (which served no pumpkin pasties).

We arrived, took taxis to the Tulip Inn and more taxis into the town of Gateshead, Newcastle's neighbor across the river, taking a brief look at the Gateshead Sage before heading over to BALTIC Centre for Contemporary Art, which, like the Tate Modern, occupies a respectfully refitted industrial building. Work at the BALTIC is pretty edgy (one work is currently being investigated for breaking child pornography laws), and some of it I found to be unpleasant, but even many of the unpleasant pieces had sufficient thought, insight, and/or wit to be worth a serious look. Although not what I perceived to be the deepest work, Kendell Geers Irrespektiv will probably be the most lasting memory for me. The massive room full of artifacts of riot and protest included police lights, spiked fencing, and a still burning wreck of a car. The building itself seemed to attempt to be as generic as possible, providing little more than a series of large vertically arranged rooms. The narrow west edge of the building was the only one that seemed to have seen significant alteration, being mostly glazed, therefore allowing a rather impressive view to occupants of its two glass elevators.

From the Baltic we walked across the famed Gateshead Millennium Bridge into Newcastle upon Tyne. We ended our walk on Grey Street, voted "best street in the United Kingdom" by public radio listeners. The street was indeed beautiful, curving gently down the slope towards the water. Since we were most unfortunately without our guidebooks, we found food and drink by wandering alone, and both the food at Coco Mos and the atmosphere at Bar 38 was disappointing. I did finally getting around to trying a Strongbow, which I hadn't realized was a cider. The Strongbow I could recommend.

A way with words

Peaking over the shoulder of another Underground rider, I saw this quintessentially British headline in this morning's Metro.

Cold and wet

Today was our first rainy day in London, although it didn't rain much. The tube was a little more crowded, and the feel of autumn was in the air. This would have been more welcome had I been able to take a warm shower this morning, but, alas, the boiler was on the fritz, and I had to make do with straight cold water. I'm hoping the plumber did a good job this afternoon.

Gems above the Thames

Tonight I witnessed the best fireworks display I have ever seen. It wasn't as big as the Independence Day display I saw in Manhattan, but it was far more beautiful than anything I've seen stateside. Gone were the smiley faces; the hearts; and the red, white, and bluish-purple pom-poms. It their places were showers of crisp whites, golds, greens, and fuchsias; blinding white flashes; and enchanting champaign streams twinkling with pure white specks. The pyrotechnicians working tonight had taste.

Spin city

Day two of the Syracuse stay-at-home weekend wasn't quite up to the previous day's standards, but was an enjoyable experience nonetheless. We started at London Bicycle on Gabriel's Wharf, peddled west to Buckingham palace and Hyde Park, where we rested briefly before making our way back via Trafalgar Square. The journey was frustratingly slow because of the size and general inexperience of the group. Fortunately the day was nice, and being outside on a bike, even at a standstill, was a welcome diversion.

On still water

When I went through the orientation process on the Friday before class started, I was accosted by some orange-shirted workers who were distraught that no one in A-F (and so far no one in G-K) had signed up for the Picnic in Little Venice. They were so adamant that the trip would be great, I forked over my £5 deposit without asking any questions. I got an email confirming my reservation and giving me instructions to come to Warwick Avenue station with a camera and a beverage, but beyond that I was pretty much riding into the unknown when I boarded the northbound Bakerloo line train this morning.

Boy was I in for a treat. My £5 note was returned to me upon arrival (meaning my participation cost nothing above the fixed program fee), and I had a chance to meet a number of students and SU employees including Brian Nocella, the special projects coordinator and Christopher Cook, a communications professor leading the excursion. We started out with a walking tour of Little Venice, the area of London surrounding the junction of the Grand Union and Regent's Canals. The canals (like most canals, I think) were nothing beautiful on their own, but the eclectic mix of houseboats mored on both sides, the large white quasi-neoclassical houses surrounding them, and the quaint bridges spaced every quarter-mile or so made the whole place rather charming. Christopher's charm was even greater, and he gave us a general history that was both informative and light enough to be enjoyed as we took in the sunshine and fresh breeze.

After an hour's wandering, we settled in at a park for a homemade picnic lunch, prepared by Christopher himself. I was apparently the only one who heeded the email and brought my own drink, a bottle of Biddenden sweet strong Kentish cider I bought Friday at Borough Market, so I had the chance to sit and talk with Christopher and Linda, the trip organizer, while Brian shuttled everyone away to buy a drink from someplace in the vicinity. Lunch, it turned out, was poached salmon, steamed asparagus, and a herbed mayonnaise that added a welcome saltiness to both dishes. We followed up with a raspberry jam tart with a shortbread crust, also by the good professor. All was delicious.

Full, we piled into a boat run by the London Waterbus Co. and headed up the canal (up being relative since there is no current) toward Camden. We were dropped off right in Camden market, which, although daunting at first, turned out to be easily navigable, and a rather cool place despite the general kitschiness of the merchandise. I was partly pleasantly reminded of the Minnesota Renaissance Festival, and partly longing for the craftsmanship of the Minneapois Uptown Art Fair. An hour of wandering ended with icecream at Marine Ices, where I tried the Knickerbocker Glory I've wanted since reading of Dudley Dursley's in the first Harry Potter volume nine years ago. Truthfully, I didn't trust it completely, and I had chocolate icecream swapped for vanilla, but I think I got the general idea of it anyway.

The tour done, I hopped on the Northern line headed south and to home.

The one that got away

We, of course, can't get around to seeing everything cool that happens over here. This evening Chris discovered that we missed Abbots Bromley's horn dance.

The Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, performed at the Barthelmy Fair in August 1226, is one of the few ritual rural customs to survive the passage of time. Today the Horn Dance, which takes place annually on Wakes Monday, offers a fascinating day out attracting visitors from all over the world.

After collecting the horns from the church at eight o'clock in the morning, the Horn Dancers comprising six Deer-men, a Fool, Hobby Horse, Bowman and Maid Marian, perform their dance to music provided by a melodian player at locations throughout the village and its surrounding farms and pubs. A walk of about 10 miles (or 16 kilometres).

You can visit the Abbots Bromley website for more on this.

Oh, it's all very British…

I've got to say, Londoners just aren't as brash as I was hoping. I know the Sex Pistols are decades gone, but I still see Beefeater ads showing Londoners as a stylishly edgy lot, and the Spice Girls in Union Jack platform shoes were not that long ago.

Truthfully, this was not something I had consciously noticed until today, when I sat across from a lady who did live up to my expectations. Note if you can in this oh-so-small photo:

1. four inches of height gained through hair gel alone
2. green eye shadow
3. think plastic glasses
4. hoodie printed with the words BROWN BLONDE NEON in their respective colours
5. ring with numerous sharp points
6. watch the size of a Sony MiniDisc
7. jeans with horizontal seams at the knees.

I noticed that she wasn't all that young either, so I wonder if this generation is just quieter. I certainly get that impression back stateside. But I'm not worried. Once it cools off, I'll break out my blaze orange Puscifer hoodie, and I'll have all the brashness I need.

Wiltshire

Our Survey of English Architecture under the guidance of architectural historian Jeremy Melvin began today with a trip to Salisbury and its neighbor to the north Stonehenge. The coach ride was about two-and-a-half hours from our school in the heart of London, which provided time read up on the sites and catch a little sleep.

The five thousand year old earthwork was our first stop. We spent some time exploring the oldest and most subtle features of the site, including a cursus, which looks like nothing more than a long shallow groove and ridge running through the sheep pastures. Stepping carefully we made our way to pair of barrows. The sunshine made the place merry enough, but a Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadildo! or two drifted through my thoughts nonetheless.

Back across the road, we started our slow orbit of the stones themselves, sketching as we went. We were there over the lunch hour, and it seemed to me that the flow of tourists lightened briefly. I was surprised by how many of the elderly visitors were natives of the island. I would have figured that in sixty years of life in Britain, a trip to Stonehenge would have been inevitable, but perhaps the place draws repeat visitors. I certainly wouldn't mind returning, perhaps in some colder weather, when the place might be further vacated.

Our second destination was the much newer Salisbury Cathedral, which, at a mere eight hundred years of age is practically contemporary. The Gothic architecture somehow seemed perfectly at home in the comparatively squat town, and I appreciated the perfection of so many complicated intersections of form and geometry in the ornament that covered every surface save the floor. I wish I could attend a Sunday service or two. Whatever I saw in my too-short stay today would be a drop in the bucket compared to the observations I would make if I was trapped in a pew for the better part of a morning. That would teach me something.

Eastern exploration

Both studio leaders are sending their students eastward. Alan has his class going almost an hour a way, but Nick was easier on us, and our site is only four tube stops down the central line. Today my partner Jenna and I set out after class to do some photographing and attempt to locate a specific urban "room" that might be suitable for our project. We were both hungry, so, after ascertaining that Jenna was for the most part herbivorous, I struck a path for a well reviewed vegetarian restaurant in the vicinity of our destination.

Personally, I think naming a vegetarian restaurant carnivale is delightfully ironic (bitingly funny even), but I couldn't tell if the name was intentionally witty. The place bills itself as a "Mediterranean vegetarian restaurant and deli," and our friendly waiter seemed to be from a lower latitude, but then again, his English was perfect as he joked that usually only Japanese tourists take photos of the food.

The food was quite good. We both opted for the evening's fixed menu, which included this excellent leek soup, a tomato and zucchini pasta entrée, and slices of a chocolate log accented with fresh, ripe raspberries. I had a Vintage Roots organic lager, which was easily one of the better beers I've had on this trip.

Our surveying work was reasonably productive, and we found a few areas worth pursuing as we continue through the project. On our way home we were rewarded with a lovely view of the often-visible but usually-obscured 30 St. Mary's Axe.

Wayfinding

With the tube down I'm walking everywhere and becoming better acquainted with the streets surrounding my main route to school. My mental map expands, as does my appreciation of the intuitiveness of London's rather organic road layout. The grid of New York is rational and understandable, but the web that is London seems to guide to the undirected to identifiable points of interest.

I'm also becoming better acquainted with the local grocery store. On the previous trips a number of foods managed to elude me. The most frustrating of these was sesame seeds, which I could not find even after I searched among the spices and the Asian food products. Today, however, I had an epiphany as I walked past a towering display of crusty baguettes, and, sure enough, sesame seeds were between walnuts and poppy seeds in the baking aisle. As if to crown my modest but satisfying achievement, I had the opportunity to help another shopper—a young Moslem mother—find "powder you put on baby after bath." Fortunately for me, Johnson & Johnson is over here too, and the bottle wasn't too hard to spot.

Last train west

For reasons which are beyond my current understanding, the London Underground is mostly closed due to a strike by workers of Metronet. What matters most to me is that the fastest route between home and school has suddenly been severed, as service on the Central line has been entirely suspended. The walk is manageable, and there are buses, but the tube has been my first choice, and, to add insult to injury, the strike eats the last three days of my seven day travel pass, so I almost certainly failed to get my money's worth out of it.

The strike had been announced for 18:00 today, but less publicized was the fact that service reductions were to begin at 16:00. By the time our field trip returned to Liverpool Street to board the central line, the trains were few and far between. Minutes before our train arrived, we were told that it was to be the very last westbound train on the line, and was already quite full. Some of the group opted to walk, but I, anxious to meet up with Elizabeth, crammed into the already packed cars. This picture probably doesn't show anything too extraordinary, but the atmosphere of uncertainty and frustration, compounded by the unusual slowness of the train made the experience a pretty exciting one.

'Nuf said.

A party spanning two circuses

Today was the annual Regent Street Festival, the theme being 'An Indian Summer.' Syracuse has festivals of a similar ilk around this time of year, but I think this one saw more people than Syracuse contains. As we walked from Oxford Circus to Piccadilly Circus I counted four simultaneous music performance, including one that taught the audience to dance along and one that had mimes on stage beside the performers.

The other attraction was, of course, the food, which was supplied by marsala zone. Chris, Beth, and I all went for wonderful vegetarian samosas. Only I was there to eat a full meal, so the ladies had another appetizer while I dug into a serving of curried chicken and rice. The mango lassies had, alas, sold out for the day, so I kept the heat at bay with a Cobra, which was at least sufficient, if not anything spectacular.

I feel like I'm conveying too little of the experience, but to be satisfactorily successful I'm sure I would have to share the wonderful tabla piece that was pounding through the air as we ate. It was the necessary touch of the exotic that made the experience remarkable.

Cheese, Gromit!

This morning we took a ride down to the Borough Market, the oldest food market in London (it's newest incarnation predates the American revolution). I wasn't yet shopping for groceries since my move to the flat wasn't quite complete, but I did enjoy a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of New Forest Cider. The place itself wasn't much to speak of in that shows no signs of its long, rich history, but the craftsmanship in all of the products was magnificent. The second of my two sandwiches was a grilled cheese. The cheese was being cut out of the wheel in front of me, the bread was fresh, and the healthy dose of onions and leeks giving the sandwich zest were from the vendor next door. I'm looking forward to numerous return visits.