Pygmalion and Other Wonders

Hello all,
The past two days have been somewhat overwhelming but such a tremendous blessing! Yesterday morning, we set off for Greenwich led by one of my professors (whom I leave persistently unnamed for privacy's sake) leading the way. It was my first trip on the London Underground, affectionately known as The Tube, also my first trip on light rail in the country. I have to say, the Tube is efficient, but the light rail made me feel rather ill, and that detracted from the fact that I got to walk across the Prime Meridian several times through the course of the day. Learning the seafaring origins of Greenwich Mean Time was fascinating, though. If you get a chance, look up the story.

Anyway, after touring the National Observatory, a group of us wandered around the charming pocket of the city that is Greenwich for a bit, had lunch, and rode a double-decker bus back to Waterloo (I rode on the bottom deck, for the record, but at least I can say I did it). From Waterloo, we walked across the Thames, enjoying the glorious view of the houses of parliament and Big Ben, and wandered up to Leicester (pronounced Lester, as a friendly native so bemusedly informed us--I've realized I need to take more time to talk to friendly natives. They detract from my busy tourist mode, but they are a blessing from God) Square to see if we could get cheap tickets to any shows for that evening. The previous day I had seen a marquis for Pygmalion starring Rupert Everett and Diana Rigg, and I was hoping against hope to find affordable tickets for that event.
As it so happened (and it must have been a special providence), the tickets cost 27 pounds and 75 pence, which was exactly the amount of money I had in my wallet at that moment. For the rest of the afternoon, I was walking on air, but also carrying the weight of that terrible feeling that the wonderful opportunity is too good to be true, and something dreadful will happen to avert the blessing before it actually takes place. Just me? I don't know. Definitely something I need to talk over with God.
Anyway, after buying the tickets, we rushed back to Westminster Abbey to meet our group for a tour, which was lovely. It was incredible to be at a service in the abby the day before, but getting to really see every nook and corner was equally exciting. I saw the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots, and of course of my favorite historical figure, Elizabeth I. What a powerful thing to be so close to someone so fascinating to me. I had to sit and process for a while.
The most moving thing for me, however, was the part of the abbey called the Poet's Corner, where many famous authors are buried or commemorated. While the magnificent monuments to Milton, Spenser, and Shakespeare thrilled me, the tiny plaque in honor of Jane Austen delighted me, and the stained glass window with the names of authors such as Christopher Marlowe (who had a question mark carefully affixed to the date of his death so as not to rule out the idea that he might have been Shakespeare) and Elizabeth Gaskell fascinated me, my favorite were the inscribed floor stones to commemorate certain authors. I didn't copy down all the quotes on them, but suffice it to say I was bleary-eyed by the time I got to the memorial for Caedmon in the back corner.
So, after our tour, a group wandered off to pick up dinner someplace and ate in St. James' Park, which borders Clarence House, Downing Street, and Buckingham Palace. It rained cats and dogs, but we found a terribly convenient little tree to shelter under and barely got wet at all.
Because we had extra time to kill before the show started, we stopped in at a beautiful five-story book-store called Foyles. It's supposed to be the best store for books in England. I purchased the Centenniel Edition of The Wind in the Willows with illustrations by Ernest Shephard, who did the Pooh Books (If you really know me, you know how entirely thrilling this is for me), and the 50th Anniversary Edition of Paddington Bear. So that was a happy thing.
We departed for the theatre 25 minutes before the show was about to start, and I have to confess that I travelled about as steadily and quickly as a horse on the way back to the barn. I was so terrified that somehow we would arrive just to late. However, we got there with more than enough time to spare, settled into our seats, which were excellent (Rissa got to sit in the front row. Ours were in the dress circle, but had a perfect view), and waited for it to begin.
Oh my word. All I can say is that it blew my mind to see these all-star performers living their parts. Kara Tointon, who played Eliza, was just about perfect. Diana Rigg was elegant and commanding as ever playing Mrs. Higgins. And Rupert Everett. Oh, my dears, Rupert Everett is larger than life. His Henry Higgins brought the true conflict of the play home to me. Previously, I had always been a tad confused by the ending of My Fair Lady. This has a lot to do with the fact that it does not end like the play does--Eliza ends up returning to Wimpole Street and to Higgins. This was always anti-climactic for me, because I did not find Rex Harrison's Higgins attractive or compelling at all. "Pygmalion" on the other hand ended with Eliza leaving Henry forever, which would work in the musical, but was just devastating on stage, because you can't bear the idea of her choosing the eager but pinheaded Freddy Einsford-Hill (who is barely developed at all) over Rupert Everett's magnificently sneering, unfailingly intelligent, devastatingly witty (I'm giving myself away, aren't I...) Professor. The whole tension of the play lay in the fact that at any moment for the last half of Act 2, Henry could relent and admit he really cares for Eliza. Everett makes you really believe that he is capable of such depth of feeling. Suffice it to say, I understood George Bernard Shaw's point much better than I did the first time--because in one sense, the play is a critique of the audience's desire for Eliza to be with Higgins. Just another example of how a good stage performance is the best aid in understanding a piece of theatre. So yeah. I saw Rupert Everett live. My theatre experience will never get better than this. I could die now.
This morning, we took the Tube out to Hampstead, saw Keats' house, and wandered about Hampstead Heath. The house was fine, but the Heath, which was basically a large wooded park, was delightful. I hadn't realized how very badly I needed fresh air and green grass until I got out onto the Heath and the trees and the air brought so much refreshment and joy to my heart. It was such a wonderful stroll up trails and along downs. I took a lot of pictures of trees and drank it all in--and scared Rissa because I walked so slowly that they left me behind.
We had lunch just outside the Heath and returned to the hotel to crash before watching my professors two children. We had a delightful time strolling, eating, and playing soccer in Regent's Park. I discovered I can still at least kick a soccer ball about a bit. It was actually quite gratifying.
We took the Baker Street Tube stop home, which meant I got to stroll by the Sherlock Holmes Museum, which I have every intention of visiting at a later date. What struck me was how artificial it all was. It was truly anti-climactic. We stopped to get the kids ice cream down the street, and I sat with my eyes closed, trying to imagine the sound of hooves on cobblestones and carriage wheels rolling down the home street of the famous detective. But of course, it didn't work--even my copious imagination can't quite drown out the noise of double-deckers and black cabs, and the smell of cigarettes, gasoline, and rubbish. The London I imagine then was dirty, dangerous, but magical. London today is dirty--very much less so, mercifully, than it was, of course--and dangerous, in a different way, but it isn't magical. Because real life isn't magical, most of the time. Moments are: seeing the city from Hampstead Heath, hearing the organ in Westminster, watching Rupert Everett's brilliant and agonizing Higgins. But it will never be the England of my imagination, for it holds no room for the expansive geography of my imagination. You see, in the London of my mind, Sherlock Holmes is still striding purposefully out of his door in Baker Street to capture another criminal, while just across the park, Mary Poppins is taking Jane and Michael Banks out for their afternoon walk. Paddington is waiting in his station with a tag round his neck that reads, "Please look after this bear." Four children just left London to find shelter in a large house in the country because of the air raids, and somewhere far up river, a Mole and a Water Rat are still messing about in boats... or with boats.
Of course, none of these stories ever happened. But they happen in my imagination over and over, and for me, that England is in some ways more real than the England I saw today. But of course, speaking in factual terms, it isn't reality, and that is so disappointing sometimes. Of course, on the whole, London is beautiful and a dream come true, and I am grateful to God to be here. But it reminds me that truly no place on this earth is ever home. It makes me glad that we serve a God who is so beautiful that we can never imagine it---all of the beauty in my imagination is only a mere shadow of His greater reality. And that is intensely reassuring.
Good night, all. I have to go sleep and do the devo I meant to get to four hours ago...
Rejoice in the Lord!