Day Three: The Old and the New
The wedding of the century and general London observations
On a trip like the one I am currently undertaking; you have to be open to adventure. You have to be able to see adventure when others see hindrance. You must be able to feel the adventure as you walk down the same streets as those preoccupied with work or those who are bustling around with better things to do. In short, you have to be open to wonder, dream of yonder and see the sonder.
It sometimes helps to hold onto something as you attempt to leave behind your brain telling you of mundanity as you seek to see the profundity. Today, I decided to focus on the old and the new. How London was steeped in history yet maintained a modern edge.
Today, I put that into action. I woke up again at a reasonable hour, somehow avoiding the jetlag that plagues so many on such voyages. I went to check out of my hotel room, took a wrong turn and was immediately screamed at by the lovely staff. I backtracked, found my way through the maze and was on my way.
After a lovely breakfast with a man whose name ends with a c, I made my way back to what has thus far been the surprise of the trip: The Tube.
I’m a native New Yorker, so being able to travel to four corners of a metropolis isn’t new to me. What is new to me is the fact that the experience needn’t be filled with the homeless, needles, a stench to make your eyes water and a general dinginess. The London Underground has been quite the opposite of its Subway counterpart. It’s clean, the commuters of a higher class.
I sat down and immediately started people watching. To be honest, there wasn't anyone particularly interesting so let’s pick things up where I alighted: at Tower Hill Station.
I was blown away by the sheer scale of London. The contrasts between the old and the new and the efficiency in which things seem to be run. No place more embodied this than when I reached the river Thames and looked across at the Tower Bridge, sandwiched by modern edifices. The Tower of London who once looked over the Thames with imperial glory is now in the shadows, loomed over by the city skyline behind it. The lazy Thames has borne witness to it all.
I walked over the bridge and paid my surprisingly pricy admission to the Tower of London and started my trek around the ancient fortress.
I checked out the White Tower: not particularly interesting. The Bloody Tower: Eh, cool story, unconfirmed, nothing more. The Black Tower: I’ve seen better. The Ravens: Well, they’re ravens after all, I don’t know why I expected something cooler. The Torture Chamber: I’ve seen more inventive ways of torturing a person on reddit. The Fusilier Museum: sure. Soldiers.
The part I most looked forward to when I planned this expedition was a visit to see the Royal Jewels. You see, I have just in recent months watched the Crown and the regalia of the Royal Family thus intrigues me at the moment.
I made my way amidst a throng of American accents and merriment to the “jewel” of the Tower of London experience. To be honest, I don’t know what I saw. There’s a line between what’s real and what’s a recreation and I didn’t quite follow which was which. Coupled with a thick barrier of Perspex or glass separating us plebeians from the treasures of the British Royal Family, the experience was a little underwhelming. I did enjoy the fact that the giant grand royal punch bowl was so large (8,000 oz) that it was converted into a baptismal bath. There’s a message here but I'm not going to be the one to speculate on it.
I had a look at some nice trumpet banners and was about to move on when I overheard the two women in front of me talking about the brocade and stitching.
“Wow this is some fine work,” one said.
“I don’t think I could do something like this if you gave me a kick in the butt and two months to do it, and I’ve been embroidering since 1965,” the other said.
That was a cool little experience. I would have passed over these little cloths with little thought, being the amateur weaver I am.
I got another fridge magnet, my second one for my second country and then headed back across the bridge and onto the Tube for the trek back to Golders Green for the wedding that brought me across the Pond in the first place. I sat across a man with a battle-scarred body, my mental calculations put the scar that tore through his bicep at an impressive eight or so inches long. He was eyeing me, rather, he was leering at me, and I'm not ashamed to say that I got off at the next station and just took the next train. Sometimes you don’t take risks when you have a beard like mine.
I made it back with time to spare, showered, unfolded my hat and jacket from my little backpack and made my way to the wedding of the season.
The wedding itself was quite strangely structured. There was the regular kabolas ponim, badeken and chuppah, then a buffet, then the first introduction of the chosson and kallah, a couple dances, then we were invited upstairs to welcome the chosson and kallah for a second time. I sort of lost track to be honest.
One point: the chosson did for some reason say the maamer twice. We applauded and sang when he finished the first time but he (and his demanding grandfather) insisted on regaling us twice.
At some point, I helped a young Australian named Adrian put on tefillin. He’s an avid Carlton supporter and when I told him my brother lives with the man (not in that way…) who runs the main Carlton Fan channel he quite literally lost his shit.
Then I met Raf, another Australian. The sort of Australian that makes me question whether I was ever Australian in the first place. His accent was certainly stronger than mine had ever been, and he had the characteristic Australian “interested nonchalance.” It’s a little hard to describe but it’s a thing.
The cool thing is that when we got to talking, and sharing some of our shared interests and hobbies, the conversation quickly turned to books when I revealed my background in journalism and he in anthropology. He asked me what sort of books I like to read and like I have done many times before, I said I love Japanese literature. Normally, the person would ask me “oh, which author” I’d say “Yasunari Kawabata” and they’d say “Oh, I’ve never heard of him.”
With Raf, it was different. Instead, he said “Nice! The ending of Snow Country, Oh my G-d”
I was floored. This never happens. No one reads Japanese literature in my circle. I had even once recommended Kawabata’s other work “The Old Capital” to a friend and his family’s book club and I was met with such vitriol from said family that I almost quit reading entirely. When I tried to explain to them why I loved the book so much (in two rambling voice notes totaling 3 minutes and 33 seconds), one of them said, and I quote: “Wow, bro and I read 2 different versions of the same book” and another “you take what you get from it.” Gosh. Well, at least Raf, the man who wields a Super 8 camera, got it.
Either way, back to the wedding. The drinks were pre-prepared, served in martini glasses and rather stiff (in a good way) and while we waited for the chosson to appear, I regaled his brother with tales of his wild youth.
When the man of the hour finally did arrive, he looked quite the image, resplendent in a tie that looked magnificent and quite expensive. It must have been Armani or Brioni, perhaps Ferragamo. I must ask him where he bought it from.
I sat and farbrenged a little about Aharon Strashelye and then about what it means to be a chosid in the modern day, why we need a Rebbe, the power of niggunim, and Ahavas Yisroel.
The rest of the wedding went by as all weddings do, with singing, dancing and general simcha (and an entertaining fella who may have had a little too much to drink) and in true London fashion, the obligatory series of speeches. Some speeches went better with the audience than others (I’m looking at you Mr. Puerto Rico).
I then headed inland and now make my way to the airport for an early flight to… Well, I guess you’ll have to stay tuned to find out. Thanks for joining me on day 3!
