In The Shadows When I Come And Sing To You

You can pretend you've never done it, but we all know the truth.

It's a distinctly touristy thing to forget to turn off your camera.  And the best part is, you don't even realize it until way after, after you've come back home, and Aunt Susie drops by for a visit and you decide the thing she wants most in the world is to watch the video of your trip to St. Tropez.  And things are going great, until you're halfway through and suddenly there's fifteen minutes of your feet in the sand that you don't remember filming.

Sound familiar?  I thought so.  Don't feel too bad, though.  I mean, yes, I laughed when my folks came back from Hawai'i with footage of the floor of the Bishop Museum, but that doesn't mean I've never done it myself.  The only difference is, now I do it on purpose.

Not the first time.  The first time was definitely a proper accident. Knocked my finger against the record button while stomping through Rome and ended up with a short series of pictures of my shadow on the cobblestones.

Sure, I was embarrassed when I first discovered them, but I kind of like the effect.  Now I do it whenever I remember to.

Here I am with my sister at the top of the Punch Bowl in Oahu, Hawai'i.  

Here I am in Uganda, with my cousin Malia.  It's a bit of a cheat, since we're sort of in the picture, but try getting a toddler to stand still for anything.

Here I am with my sister again, in the courtyard of Salisbury Cathedral.  It was spring break, but FREEZING (C'mon England, be more temperate!), which is why we look that size.  But look!  You can see the outline of my shaved head!

And here I am at the Tower of London.  I've left it on its side so it doesn't look staged, but between you and me?  Totally staged.  And when I stand it upright, it looks a bit too much like the cover of a penny dreadful, what with all the trench coats and cobblestones.

Someday, this will make the best vacation slideshow ever.

On The Outside, Looking In

Salisbury, England.  Spring 2007.

It's just as windy here as it's been everyplace else in Salisbury.  There's a slight whistle as the air moves through the stones, blowing hard enough to pierce the fabrics of our jackets.  Sarah was the lone smarty of the group - she brought a hat.  I take my flimsy silk scarf and wrap it around my head and neck, wishing I had waited until after this trip to shave all my hair off.  Ah, well.  You live and you learn, I guess.

 

It doesn't look quite real.  I keep expecting the light to hit it at that special angle and it will start looking majestic, or inspire some awe.  Instead it looks like a movie set, like I could walk right up to it and knock it with my fingers and hear the dull thud of hollow fiberglass, of plaster over chicken wire.  Not that you're allowed to touch it - like so many other very old things there's absolutely no touching allowed, for it's own protection.  Nevermind that it's a great big block of rock.  Wouldn't want to get it smudgy.  (I know, I know.  Natural oils and vandalism remain the scourge of ancient history.)

(This picture always makes us laugh.  I can't not think of the "Stone Henge" scene in Spinal Tap every time I see it.)

On days when the sun shines I imagine the stones cast long shadows over the ground, maybe they'd even reach our feet standing so far away.  But it's overcast, as it has been so many other days in England, and the sun is high enough to throw short, stubby little shades close to the stone bases.  Not so impressive at mid-day, but I bet it's a remarkable sight when the sun rises and sets.

Apparently, there's a special pass you can buy for an evening tour that will let you walk in between the stones, but we're not on that ticket.  The bus is waiting for us, and we are so very grateful to get out of the wind.

View from the Top (of St. Paul's)

London, England.  Spring 2007.

530 steps to the Golden Gallery at the top of St. Paul's Cathedral, the highest accessible point of the building sat on the highest hill in London.  530 stone steps, wooden stairs, flat rises and winding staircases, all leading to this one place. 

At the bottom of the stairs is a sign with a warning.  "Five hundred and thirty steps," it says.  "Possibly dangerous," it says.  "Be aware," it says.  I don't see how we could possibly resist.

Mom follows us up to the Whispering Gallery, which is considerably less than 530 steps, but that's as far as her knees will take her.  We stand at the railing and strain our ears, trying to pick up the hushed conversations of the other sightseers.  We hear plenty of breathy murmurs, but I can't make out any words.

Mom waves us off with a promise to meet us at the bottom, and my sister Sarah and I follow the handful of tourists brave enough to climb to the top.  We duck under low-hanging wooden beams, squeeze through narrow stone corridors, blink when the air rushing through open windows stings our eyes, and squint through the gloomy near-hidden pathways.  There's a small door at the end of one last steep staircase.  Light streams in around the edges.

The wind blows fiercely this high up.  Sarah's hair whips around her face, and she tucks as much of it as she can under her hat to keep it out of her eyes.  I shaved my head a few weeks before, so I just pull the lapels of my coat close against my neck, fighting to keep out the chill.

There's a high wall to keep us all from plunging to our deaths, so we press our faces against the cut out openings, looking down on the street below.  Little blips of humanity stroll the sidewalks, making way for the technicolor stream of oncoming traffic.

530 is more tiring than I anticipated.  I lean against the wall, and feel the heat of the sun-warmed stone through my jacket.

 

And like all things, because it exists, it's covered in graffiti.  I have no pen.  If I had, Sarah and I might has snuck our initials onto a small corner, for posterity's sake.  In twenty years time we could come back with our own children, discretely point at the little smudge on the side and say, "Look what your mothers did."  If we've raised them right, they'll be publicly embarrassed, but secretly impressed.   

530 is a smaller number going down than it was coming up.  It feels a bit subversive, walking through the not-exactly-underbelly of the iconic church, that hidden place between the outer skin and the inner sanctum.  You could win every game of hide and seek in here, if it weren't for the parade of tourists.

Mom's waiting for us with a smile after 1060 steps.  "How are your knees?" she asks.  Sarah and I chuckle lightly and make half-jokes about being old ladies.  Mom just shakes her head, making small noises about kids these days.

Grab Your Things, I've Come to Take You Home

Salisbury, England.  Spring 2007.

And other such assorted sights at Salisbury Plain, with special attention to Old Sarum.

Not Pictured: Chalk Horse.  But trust me - it was there, and it was great.

Faces

Just a small collection of faces and heads.  These faces come from various locations in France, Austria, Switzerland, Italy, England, and Uganda.