Blizzards, bugs, the Bard, and a case of the bends

Yesterday it was mild and lovely, much like the days preceding; today, I awoke to a blizzard outside my window falling at a nearly horizontal angle and a line of white rooftops and slick roads sliding off into the distance.



I suppose this is what non-Angelinos call "weather." It's quite lovely. Although the face gets a bit numb and the tops of the ears raw and throbbing. Despite the Dickensian conditions I girded myself with tea and cereal and headed out, looking for something with more caffeine and then on the National History Museum and the Globe Theatre.

I didn't realize until I got to the former that today is Sunday and that that museum in particular caters to children. Dodging grommets and perms and various permutations of the species insipidus touristus I made my way swiftly through many of the rooms, admiring the birds and reptiles and bugs and bones, in no particular order, drifting with the current, as it were, but not particularly awed. I suppose when one has watched as many Discovery Channel specials on bugs and dinosaurs, et al., hearing the same spiel at a museum does little for one.



After a quick triangle-packed sandwich and an espresso in the tyke-flooded cafeteria, I asked for directions to the Globe and made my way out and back down into the South Kensington Tube, transfered at Westminster to the Jubilee line and got off at Southwark (pronounced "suthuk"), made the 20 minute walk down to the Thames past the Tate Modern (which I now regret not prioritizing as I am heading to Brussels tomorrow) in the freezing snow (ears beginning to burn) and lo! there it loomed in all its iconic glory. I was only mildly disappointed to discover that this Globe is a replica of the original, which was pulled down by the Puritans in 1644. But everything about the building is apparently identical, right down to the use of pegs instead of modern nails, etc. Not a single modern tool or material was used in the construction.



I am now back at the hostel, warming up and killing time until the bar mitzvah party tonight. Hopefully part 2 of this weekend extravaganza will be less dramatic than part 1. To wit: Asher, the bar mitzvah boy, fainted during the service yesterday morning, sending all the Jews in the place into fits of schvitz, sending up gasps and sighs of despair and confusion. Even I was taken away by the unexpectedness of the incident, which I witnessed in its entirety. As the cantor sang one of many traditional Sabbath morning prayers, which she would alternate with Asher and various friends and family who came to the podium periodically to do their part, I watched as Asher, leaning forward rakishly as he is wont to do (I recognize a bit of the 13 year Adam in there, which is only eerie bc his mother, Francine, is a bit of a doppelganger for my mom), stood silent when he should have been speaking, then slouched forward slowly, his forehead resting on the microphone, then slid down the length of the mic stand on the podium, then crumpled like a house of cards onto the floor behind him. The mom screamed, the grandmother began crying and wailing softly, I gasped "Oh my god" then instantly thought about saying to Hannah, Racheline's goyish friend who sat next to me and who has never been to a bar mitzvah before, that this was not traditional, inclined as I am to make light of even the most grave situation before it has even had a chance to settle in. Of course, several others bum-rushed the small stage and spirited the limp but now partially-conscious Asher out of the sanctuary and into the stairwell (though lord knows why they brought him to an even more claustrophobic space, pressed in the center of a ten-person-strong support group). My first thought thereafter was to the effect of, "I hope there's still a party tomorrow." I'm an ass, I know.

The rabbi very gracefully continued the service, assuring everyone with his gentle air that he was certain Asher would have his wits about him again presently and would read his Torah portion in good stead, which indeed the little battler did. Although he neglected to sing the portion, opting for obvious reasons to merely read it--something I think he will look regretfully upon later as he realizes that he spent the previous 6 months practicing and fretting over just that element of the ceremony, only to abandon it altogether at the last moment. He had little choice, I suppose.

Within minutes, everything regained its equilibrium and we all proceeded to eat and drink merrily--Racheline, Hannah, H's boyfriend Alistair, and I ducked out shortly after and went for a few drinks near Portobello market.

I must get ready now for part 2. Stay tuned...


Racheline (left) and Hannah "hamming" it up.


For the Withnail fans. Recognize this pub? It was called The Mother Black Cap in the film, now the The Tavistock.


Deirdre McNamara, friend from Thailand travels 6 years ago, in her borough Stepney Green, near Brick Lane. My first night in town.