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."
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