Floating through France (actually just Paris)

The Eiffel Tower at dusk

Into the tunnel we shot at almost 200mph. Suddenly, everything was black and quiet. Our own faces stared eerily back at us from the windows, a whole other coach of ghosts riding the same train just outside. But we, the flesh and blood travelers, were bundled safely in our thick, metal train, flying hundreds of feet below the ocean’s surface on our way to Paris.

Half an hour later, we shot out the other end of the tunnel into France. The countryside surged by in great, rolling waves. Trees were a solid blur of green on either side, telephone poles barely visible flicks of shadow on the glass. Almost in the blink of an eye, we arrived in Paris. The morning was still young, and I was ready to hit the ground running. We only had four days to pack in the true Parisian experience and didn’t want to waste a second of it.

Boy, did Paris have a lot to live up to: from everything I’d read and seen my whole life I just knew this city would be the height of cuisine, music, art, and basically anything else cultured and elegant. I knew simply visiting Paris would make me cultured and elegant too. The only problem was, so did everybody else.

The streets were filled with surging hordes of tourists, the metro filled with even more. We were just a few dozen tiny dots in this ant’s nest of people frantically, desperately trying to “experience Paris” for themselves. But what did experiencing Paris even mean? Was it the food you ate? The art you saw? Could the experience be forced?

The only answer was to try it and see for ourselves. So we joined the mad rush of bodies and began cramming pastries with the best of them. Back and forth we went in the hot sun, down the metro stairs to smash ourselves into a sweaty crate and rattle under the city—then up again, snapping pictures left and right.

The Mona Lisa, I was there. Arc de Triomphe, I was there. The Love Wall. Sacre Coeur. The Eiffel Tower. See my photos? It was magical.

A bakery near our hotel

Sacre Coeur

Stairs going up the inside of the Arc de Triomphe

Winged Victory overlooks the mingling horde at the Louvre

Looks like it, right? But frankly, it all began to feel a bit thin. The monuments and grand sculptures and paintings flew by in such rapid succession that none of them were making an impact. I wondered what being a tourist was for if one came, saw, and left again without feeling a thing. It was time to slow way down.

With a new outlook in mind, we went to the Tuileries Gardens and just wandered. Their irises were in full bloom. The air was still and cool, sweetened by hundreds of flowers. I ate a salted caramel crepe really really slowly, letting the buttery topping and the gentle vanilla flavors of the batter slowly spread across my tongue. I chatted with someone nearby. We swapped tourist stories and watched pigeons hop along the walkway.

Caramel crepe in an outdoor cafe

The slower I went, the more I experienced. The city came alive, Paris lighting up between the crowds.

We visited other museums and moseyed through the displays. We read the placards if we felt like it and didn’t if we didn’t. We spent a long time just sitting and savoring. One of my favorite experiences was eating a take-out lunch down by the Seine, watching little waves lap the pillars of a bridge and waving at the big boats of tourists floating past. Another was talking with a native Parisian on the metro and hearing about her job interviews and all the languages she knew. A third was lying under some trees in Luxembourg Gardens, feeling the sun filtering through the leaves and listening to the musical rise and fall of French from café tables nearby.

Along the Seine

A muskrat in the gardens at Versailles

Flowers at Luxembourg Gardens

I came to some conclusions. As sappy as it sounds, in order to experience Paris as the city one always dreams of, one must take the time to dream. Some cities, like New York and San Francisco or even London to an extent, are cities to do. But Paris is a city to wander, to sit, to watch. Less is definitely more.

Because of the sheer number of visitors, in some ways Paris is more a city of the world that it is a city of France. The people who watch and cheer as the Eiffel Tower begins to sparkle are all guests. The people who haunt the bakeries and crowd the street performers are also more likely to be tourists than not. And that’s why it seems safe to say that an authentic Parisian experience is the tourist experience.

As I discovered, some ways of being a tourist are more enjoyable than others. So for those planning their own trip, the point is don’t be so eager to have a Paris adventure that you miss the fun in getting it. Sometimes an adventure is a climb through the catacombs, and sometimes it is simply a wonderful nap on the grass with a croissant in one hand and bunch of grapes in the other.

An almond pain au chocolate, a.k.a Joy

Savory and Sweet Southall

The Sikh Temple in Southall

Looking at a Sikh altar through the grilled barrier of the terrace around the prayer room 

The free meal at the Sikh temple (Langar)

Typical clothing store around Southall

Traditional Pakistani dinner at Gifto's Lahore Karahi in Southall

Of Sheep and Sleepy Things: The Slow Life of Stourhead and Stonehenge and Tintern Abbey

Mr. Darcy in turmoil: Pride & Prejudice (2005)

Rain streams down Grecian columns, announcing a storm with turbulence paralleled only by Mr. Darcy’s fervent, and Elizabeth’s anguished, emotions. The garden behind them is a drowning mass of green. Under the protective porch of the garden’s decorative Roman temple, the tension is thick enough to cut.

“Might I ask why, with so little endeavor at civility, I am thus repulsed?” Darcy’s voice is stony, his face strained.

Elizabeth’s eyes flash. She stands her ground in righteous fury, the goddess of the storm. “Do you think that anything might tempt me to accept the man who has ruined, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”

Excruciating. Thunder crashes. The audience writhes in agony.

This declaration scene in the 2005 adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice, starring Kierra Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen, is perhaps the most thrilling romantic scene of all time. When Darcy’s and Elizabeth’s personalities clash, sparks fly, and set against the stunning backdrop of Stourhead Estate in southern England, the scene is even more passionate.

But desperately romantic gardens aren’t included in this movie just for the sake of good visuals. No, gardens and the life within them have been a critical part of the British identity for centuries upon centuries. Jane Austen herself makes ample use of them in her stories as ideal places for socializing, self-reflection, and revelation. And, thanks to our excursion this past week into Bath and Wales, we had front row seats to see how British people today treasure and enjoy the beautiful natural world around them.

Driving out of London on the left side of the road

Our first stop on our pilgrimage to Wales was Stonehenge. I love the way the nation has managed the site—restrooms, gift shop, and visitor information are down the road and over a ridge from the stone circle to give the ruins privacy. We had to take a shuttle from the parking lot to Stonehenge itself. Posters inside the shuttle encouraged patrons to visit other heritage sites afterwards, to experience more history. That drove it home for me, we were on our way to Stonehenge! We were going to see history!

The first sight of the ruins was thrilling. How can I even describe the majesty of dark-green fields rolling to a horizon all around, while under a foreboding sky these vast monoliths weighed down the Earth?

The mighty Stonehenge

Me at the mighty Stonehenge. This photo captures the feeling of the sky better.

A light rain began to fall, and wind whipped our hair back and forth. The drama of it all was enough to give you chills, inside and out. Looking out from Stonehenge, across the way, was a field of sheep, and farther beyond that, a field of yellow flowers. Far different from the Dippin-dots stands and the hydra-headed public drinking fountains I can picture surrounding heritage sites in Utah, Stonehenge had the feel of a national park—rugged, untouched, left in the wild to be looked at and wondered at. It was easy to see the pride the security officer and other workers took in guarding the site. When we asked them questions about Stonehenge, they eagerly responded with an enormous amount of knowledge, not just about the ruins but also about the surrounding area. It was clear that, in terms of heritage, the natural area around the site is just as important to the British as the stone ruins.

There was something so evocative about the wild stones and landscape that I thought Stonehenge would be the highlight of our trip.

But then we went to the Stourhead Estate.

My, oh my.

Hold on to your britches folks, ‘cause there’s about to be some seriously unmanageable beauty up in here.

Stourhead Mansion

Stourhead Chapel

Approaching the lake from the entrance

Looking out over the lake. I love the different shades of green.

Established in the 18^th century by a banking family, Stourhead is home to a Palladian mansion and acres upon acres of naturalized gardens. Different than the crisp topiaries, tidy flowerbeds, and sharp-angled paths of Enlightenment era gardens, Stourhead’s gardens embody more Romantic ideals. Though the gardens are man-made, they’re meant to look like they’re not, which means the plants are tangled and sprawling, the paths meander to and fro, and the flowers are left to overgrow.

A garden path along the lake shore

A stone tunnel covered in moss

After the tight, boxed city, I felt myself breathing easier just by being there, and I think other people felt that as well. Though not crowded, the garden paths were busy with walkers. And life slowed down. There was no rushing here, only a gentle mosey-on-by, a break to feed the ducks, a few-hour rest on a bench by the lake. Everyone was smiling and peaceful.

One volunteer told me, “I lived in the city for a long time, but I keep coming back out here to the country. Meh, the city’s not for me.”

Over the years and even today, people have spent a great deal of money recreating a look that nature does naturally, but it was obvious to see that they value it even more because it is an escape from city life that they can keep working in. Stourhead is still a working estate, and we passed many gardeners and volunteers who said they had worked there for years and had no plans of leaving.

On the final day of our expedition, we stopped at the famed Tintern Abbey.

Tintern Abbey

 Of the land near Tintern Abbey Wordsworth wrote,

"Five years have past; five summers, with the length 

Of five long winters! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 

With a soft inland murmur.—Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky."

And I can see why—the fluting birds, the insects, the smell of every green thing come to life. The landscape around the ruins was nothing but an emerald carpet, sweeping up the hills on either side.

It was strange to wander through the empty skeleton of the abbey and try to imagine how it must have been back in the day. Someone remarked that if King Henry VIII had not passed his dissolution of the monasteries, then Tintern might be a busy bustling city today.

Inside the ruins

As it was, the ruins were busier than I would have thought. Conservation efforts have been set to with a zeal seldom found outside the British, and this too was a heritage site where people came to ramble with their dogs and take life slowly. With the amount of people, I began to think that, though sites like these had done well for Romantics in the past, modern day romantics would need to forge farther afield to find their solitude, since now the population at large has come to appreciate what Romantics have been telling us about all along. Romantics, in the field, are the hipsters of the natural world.

Before our trip I hadn’t realized how deep the British love for these historical sites went. I’m grateful for the nationwide efforts to preserve them and grateful for the chance I had to see them in such pristine condition!

For a Ball and a Bard: West Ham United's Football Match and Twelfth Night at the Globe

Waiting in the London Underground

     Riding the tube is quite the experience. Sometimes there is room to breath, and sometimes, well . . .
     On Saturday, packed together like skittles in a jar, with just enough room to rattle around violently when shaken, our study abroad group filled the subway car--our study abroad group and what felt like half of London. For today was West Ham United's final home match of the season, and we were on our way to see in!
     The air in the tube was hot and muggy, a sharp contrast to the clawing cold we'd had all day outside.
     When we finally pulled into our station, the platforms were packed. Grand rivers of people moved inexorably toward the stadium. I couldn't have gone the other direction if I'd tried. Though the crowds were much like I'd expect at a Real Salt Lake game, the general spirit of the thing was totally different.
      Don't get me wrong--the anticipation was there. You could feel it humming like a beehive just below the surface. And plenty of fans proudly wore blue and maroon accessories, the colors of West Ham United. But there was no shouting, no carousing, no wacky headgear or giant foam fingers. It could very well have been nothing but the hallways during class-change at BYU.
     I was beyond excited to see the match. In addition to being a die-hard soccer, ahem, football fan myself, I knew how important the premier league is to the British people. I knew that for some, team loyalties stretched back over generations, like a second type of patriotism. I had heard there would be riot control officers guarding the game. I was eager to see the true colors of the native Londoners around me emerge in the heat of battle.
     And, as the tensions mounted going into the stadium, massive hordes of people pressing through claustrophobic turnstiles one by one, the true colors did emerge as . . . exactly the same polite, friendliness I'd seen from the British all along.
     From the border control agent at Gatwick airport who was almost more excited for my English study abroad than I, to the nice gentleman in the tube who offered to lug my 50 lb suitcase down three flights of stairs, everyone so far had been courteous as a way of life. Sure, you only had to listen to hear the British people's comfortable and well-loved epithets flying around in the background. But even while swearing, they were polite--voices never raised above a pleasant moderate.
     The soccer match was no different. Beer sloshed around in plastic cups as old men gathered to gab with their friends. Families hugged each other and reunited, discoursing agreeably. It was nothing but another afternoon, and the 66,000 person stadium nothing but a great, communal drawing room.
     "Let me help you will that, miss," a kind gentleman said as he fixed the ticket I'd been struggling with and let me through the gate ahead of him.

Seated near the top in London Stadium

     The game itself was fantastic, the British spirit strong throughout. Spectators clapped and cheered for any good show, from either team. When giant bubble machines began releasing flocks of the soapy pearls into the sky, they cheered heroically and jumped to their feet for West Ham United's anthem, which is also about . . . bubbles.
     And when the game was over, everyone clapped each other on the back and made an orderly exit back to the tube. It was by far the most relaxing, and almost rejuvenating, soccer match I've been to.

After the match

The clan. Photo cred: Kerry Soper

     I'd like to compare the experience of the match with yet another deeply rooted cultural experience we had just a few hours later: Twelfth Night at the famous Globe Theater.
     It was getting even colder as the sun started to set and great clouds to move across the horizon. Wind whipped its chill through our jackets and gloves. But like the football match, the show at the Globe stops for no weather. These hearty English people are not afraid of a little rain. Or of a big rain. Or really anything for that matter. So we knew we were going to get good entertainment, despite the ominous sky.

One beautiful moment where the sun came out while we were crossing the Thames. I thought the water sparkling on the metal bridge was lovely.

Looking across the Thames at St. Paul's Cathedral

Wind blowing up waves on the Thames

The illustrious Globe Theater in the last patch of sun

     The crowd here was a bit more touristy, as you might guess. But the wide variety of English accents from the seats around told me we far from outnumbered the natives. There was an air of well-behaved anticipation, a lot of "Pardon me's" and "Thank you's," and, once the play began, dead silence. The actors didn't even have to use mics! I had a hard time imagining that working in any city back home.

The interior of the Globe, taken before employees came around with the "no photography" signs

     We had the diverting experience of being groundlings for half the play--the people in Shakespeare's day who bought the cheapest tickets and stood on the ground right before the stage. I must admit, I was expecting something a little more uncouth from the experience. I'd always pictured groundlings pushing and shoving and yelling at the stage. But, if things ever were that way, that ship has sailed. These groundlings were British. There was no shoving, no calling, and barely any noise at all. It was fantastic.
     So, though the content of the entertainment in both venues was very different, the spirit was the same. And I am looking forward to experiencing many more things in this respectful, courteous culture.

Shakespeare quotes in the lobby of the Globe. In my mind London, especially theater in London, is definitely "the brightest heaven of invention."