Hampstead part III: Kenwood House

(part two is posted directly before this. i am posting in quicker succession than usual, so read the two preceding posts to catch up to where i am now, if you feel so inclined)

I begin to the left, as told, and it’s not long before I come to their library. It’s beautiful. I love libraries. It wasn’t enormous and it was ornate enough to be inviting but not too intimidating. I wanted to sit down and read a book. No photos were allowed but I’ll try to find a photo online or I may go back for some postcards or souvenirs.

(taken from the kenwood house section of english heritage's site. this is a shot of the library) 

I move onto the next room where I hear creepy music like some man is just singing some sketchy drinking song in a nearby room. I thought they must have some odd historic video playing upstairs until the man guarding the other room came in to try to figure out the music as well. We both looked at each other and kind of shrugged and laughed. We had a moment. Then I went into the room he was guarding, one of the main art rooms. In addition to some nice portraits by Gainsborough, Reynolds, and Romney there were two non-english works worth mentioning.

First is the self-portrait by Rembrandt which is widely thought to be one of his best, apparently.

Second is, and the one I am more interested in, is “The Guitar Player” by Vermeer.

I can’t recall exactly what the man said but either there are 6 Vermeers in the UK and 4 must stay at all times, or there are 4 Vermeers in the UK and 2 must stay at all time. I think it is the 6/4. But this one NEVER moves. Never.

Vermeer’s wife/lover had used this to pay off a debt and the person at Kenwood back in the day (I don’t know the whole lineage. You’ll find I don’t know the full story to a lot of things this trip as it was quite the whirlwind adventure, but hopefully I give enough info that you could google it if you want to know more). Anyway, she used it to pay off a debt, and this guy bought it from a dealer. She later tried to buy it back, to no avail; it was the only one she ever tried to buy back, which led people to believe that the girl in the painting might be one of their daughters.

vermeer's "guitar player" from the kenwood house site.

The painting itself is quite striking. It certainly fits in with Vermeer’s use of light and putting a girl in a domestic setting, but it looks different, more casual almost. In some ways it looks less detailed, but it others it seems more so. Like the guitar strings, for example, appear to be vibrating like they were just strummed. The girl glances to the side as though someone just called her name while she was practicing. A framed landscape hangs in the background (I love stuff like that: a painting within a painting). Evidence shows Vermeer possibly used a camera obscura. He has cropped the painting at her arm, but the canvas was not altered. This is how it was painted, which is unlike the style at the time. It was nice, and I learned quite a bit from my new ‘what’s that weird music’ friend.

I moved throughout the lovely house, to a room that had paintings by my boy JMW Turner.  I love him. There was also a portrait of a man whose name I forget already, but he was an inventor as well and the Skeleton Clock he had created sat directly across the room from him.

Kenwood House had a great decorative arts collection; much of it made possible by the Victoria and Albert Museum, one of my favorite museums of all time. Another painting looked like it easily could have been my mom as a kid, and a different one in the room like pretty much exactly like me.

I walked through a music room containing a piano, harp, organ, etc. and then made my way upstairs. The second level had portraits of the people and the family related to Kenwood House in some way. Some were pretty awesome. One artist seemed to do things very much like Holbein (of the famed Henry the  IIV portrait). Another room contained jewelry (including some crazy iron stuff from Berlin), and a bunch of mini portraits –not really my thing. BUT there was a wall of shoe buckles. YES cases and cases of shoes buckles. I love shoe buckles now. I want them. Bring back shoe buckles!

I ended with a trip to the museum store, almost bought many many things, but actually bought a book for two pounds on sale that highlighted the free English Heritage sights across London and the UK. Worthy, I think, of 2 pounds.  Then I take myself to the other side of the building , past the orangery under repair and into the Steward’s Room – a little café where I buy a huge and delightful cheddar and tomato sandwich. With mayo of course. Yuck. Why the mayo, England? Always. Mayo.

gas leaks and 'the damp'

Nov 9

So let’s go back, way back to that original Wednesday. I do believe I left off with the mysterious and exciting gas leak. Yes.

A quick tour of jenna’s flat. She had a surprisingly spacious room and a big bed, which was good considering I was sleeping in it, and this was when my personal space bubble was surprisingly far bigger than it is now.  She showed me her roommate colin’s room, which was quite tiny. Poor colin. What a champ, giving her the big room. She had a bed, a table, some drawers, etc, as well as a slightly mysterious closet. ( HINT: FORESHADOWING)

I have no idea what time we went to bed. Maybe 2? Maybe 3? After many strongbows. That is all I know. But I DO know that we awoke at 7am to a phone call. Apparently it is colin’s old roommate, a dapper South African named Sean. He has some news for us. “ohhey, by the way, jenna ,there’s a gas leak.” “Really?” says jenna, “ When did you find this out?” “Last night,” says sean. “Where’s it coming from?”  Oh just that closet in your room. No worries.”  “OH OK COOL.”

That’s my version at least. Jenna was probably more eloquent while at the same time being more profane. Something only she can do really. So around 8:30 sean comes in with a man from National Grid. I am still in pajamas. Most likely still in bed. When the come in the room.  Fun! Good morning strangers! I wish we could have met on better terms. Such as. Not in bed. And not during a gas leak. But here we are.

So it seems that the National Grid man found several problems, including gas leaks and switches and levers that won’t turn off. To elucidate: if there is a house fire or something of that nature, there is literally no way to switch off the gas seeing as this man could not physically move it at all.  The man seemed like he could have at some point been the inspiration for a Billy Bragg song. A very nice, hardworking, blue-collar, Cockney man probably in some kind of union somewhere.

Well anyway, since jenna doesn’t officially live there yet (it’s complicated) and sean was the one who called in the Grid man (actually it was another guy the day before who called the Grid guy because he smelled gas when he was there inspecting “The Damp.” Yes, it seems they also have a horror movie growing in their little flat:

“THE DAMP”: In a woooorld where your towels never full dry, where your skin will always be dewy, where you life is ruled by….THE DAMP. When you least expect it: an unseemly water stain, an innocent drip from the holes in your skylight that the ivy tries to fight through, it’s THE DAMP. Coming soon to theatres near you this holiday season.

This film is not yet rated”

Ahem. Excuse me. So yes. The  Grid guy’s damsels in distress radar must have gone off, because about ten minutes after he leaves because he doesn’t have the necessary part, we hear a knock on the door. Still in our pajamas mind you. Jenna answers the door and I overhear the same man explain that he has a friend who fixes this kind of stuff, that he called him, and he is coming in 45 minutes. The man then said that he would wait outside for him, and refused our offer to let him wait inside. He really was awesome. What an upstanding human being.

We take this time to each shower and get changed into presentable clothing and out of pajamas. The two men eventually come back in. They clearly enjoyed one another’s company and they were laughing and joking the whole. I believe a direct quote from one was: “I think I am actually sweating. What is this? I am leaking!” Then we all enjoy a cup of tea together in the kitchen.

GAS LEAKS ARE FUN AND HIP AND COOL. You should try it. all the cool kids are doing it.

Our newfound teatime buddies fix up the leak and put on some new levers, warning us that the heat might not work for a while ( They were not fibbing).

I used all this time to plan and research, seeing as I hadn’t actually booked a bunch of trains or hostels…a bit last minute this time… so all that time certainly did not go to waste.

The men leave us a note telling us what was wrong with the gassy closet so that jenna and colin can explain it to their jerk landlord, and then the men leave without even attempting to bill jenna. Saints. They must have daughters, we decided. Daughters that they didn’t want to die in gas leaks, as we very well could have. (not really, I couldn’t even smell it). I think they are nice, kind, helpful men. Jenna says it’s because all British men are misogynists who think girls can’t do anything.

Either way. Pretty sure we couldn’t have fixed that gas leak. BUT it was a very exciting way to start the day. And jenna’s claim that she her London luck is much like my American luck is proven.

Leak free is the way to be.That sounds like a tagline for one of those overactive bladder commercials. How gauche and inappropriate. i apologize.

there is a concern for safety at least. this is where it all came from.

 one of the free papers they give out in london, wine glass, and the many thanks i believe is part of the note from the gas leak fixers. 

oh yeah. we also found out who our new president was when we woke up. britain was really very very happy about this. as witnessed from the many strangers who discussed the new president with me on my journey. everyone i spoke to thought there was really no other option. just like my tube friends' "it's got to be obama" statement emphasizes

tube rides, british men, and near death

Nov 4/5

I really did almost cry when I landed in London; how weak is that? I was just so happy. Ew. Everyone go throw up. I will now. Ok back.

As per usual, good old Great Britian was a bit skeptical about letting me in. The man at the desk eyed me suspiciously as he asked me many detailed questions such as why was  I there? Vacation. Who am I staying with? My friend. What is her name? jenna . Why is she here? School. What school? Christies. For what? Uh. Grad school. For art history. When are you leaving? Well I am leaving in a few days, traveling, then coming back and flying out of here. Where else are you traveling to? Uh  Germany, Austria, Prague… But you are leaving the UK? Yes. When do you leave go back to amercia? Um in two weeks. What airline? Continental. When? Where is your ticket? What is your flight number? Where does your friend live? What is her number? Uh.. well…I cant find the piece of paper with her address right now, it’s somewhere in my bag. I know I am meeting her at chalk farm and I wrote down her street I just don’t remember the house number. You don’t have her address? No not at the moment. And how are you getting to Chalk Farm? the tube. And what happens if she doesn’t meet you there? Uh…well I think she’s a better friend than that. Fine. Well don’t do that again. Always have an address. Go on.

I omitted many other questions. I do think the fact that I studied abroad confused them. and maybe someone had written some note in code about my plan to use the last of my money to come live there if I need to become a hobo. All I know is they are soooo onto me.

Anyway. Back to the main story.

Unfortunately despite my thinking London was home, I realized I really didn’t live here when a couple in the airport asked me how to get tickets for the tube. I had my two year old oyster card in my pocket and decided to see if that still worked, only to find out that not only was it functioning but it had 7 pounds on it! yay! However, when the couple in the airport tried to get me to help them I could not. They wanted a three day pass or something like that and the machines didn’t seem to offer it. I hope it was the machine’s fault and not mine.

Another man – who happened to be the man sitting in my row on the plane – came down with his daughter and was having an equivalent amount of trouble. I swiped my oyster card and walked through the gates, while my new friend pushed my luggage through to me. There was a train waiting to depart but I refused to leave my comrades behind. They couldn’t get the machine to take their tickets (it was too late at night I think – 11pm due to our flight being delayed), and try as I may I could not assist. Finally a tube worker shows up out of nowhere and tells them that they have to go through this other gate as he just glances at their ticket. They were very pleased that I waited for them for some reason “you’re too kind,” one of them says. (Those kind of phrases always make me a little nervous…too kind? Why not ‘you’re just kind enough’? or ‘your kindness has been wholly sufficient in this situation’. it makes me second guess myself to be called ‘too kind’.

We sit in the nearly empty car, joined only by another couple who sat across from me, and participate in some lovely small talk. It is my airport friends’ first time to London so they ask some things to do, if I like being there, etc etc. All was fine and dandy until they started asking me about their hotel or if I knew the best way to get to Buckingham Palace and I for the life of me could not remember. Nor did I have my awesome laminated London map. Just a guide book. With junk maps. I failed again. Sigh.

We ride for a while before  it starts to fill up in central London. I am sitting awkwardly straddling a huge suitcase with my legs so it doesn’t roll and holding onto my huge backpack that is on the seat next to me. At one stop a guy on the platform looks in at me and waves enthusiastically through the window. I kind of look around in a who else can you possibly be waving at kind of way before I halfheartedly and very confusedly raise my hand a bit to acknowledge this.

My other airport friends from across the way (who are the only ones left from the heathrow troupe) laugh as they watch this kid chat me up for the remainder of his ride. He sat down two seats over and immediately began talking to me about I don’t even know what. He’s sloshed. Which of course explains the rest of his behavior. He asks me what I think of his friend James, who went and stood some 7 feet away at least, and then proceeded to try to get me to admit he was a ‘sexy beast.’ As in ‘isn’t james there a sexy beast?’ “hmm. Well I don’t know james,’ I say ‘ you seem interested though, perhaps you should talk to him? Want me to get him to come over here?’ He of course states ‘oh I know him. I’ve had him many times.’  Don’t you just love drunk british men? Because I do. He gives up on his james mission for a while and then all of the sudden lights up again and asks about the election.. “it’s got to be obama right? it’s got to be” Did I vote, he asks? ‘Yes’ I say, ‘absentee ballot before I came over.’ Then he goes on to say “it will also start a fun game of when will he get assassinated.” Then he apologizes a bit and says he’s sorry, that it’s an awful thing to say but it’s true. This is a common thing I found. I had several Brits say to me that they were both extremely excited about obama and that they think he is going to get assassinated within a matter of time.

I ask him why Bush hasn’t been assassinated then, clearly enough people hate him. He then explains ( I keep saying he because I don’t actually remember my new friend’s name. he may not have told me. Though we did shake hands all formal like)… he then explains that it’s because rednecks love bush. And that’s who will do it. the rednecks. The US is not gonna let crazy fundamentalist terrorists get to your pres, he says, but the rednecks will do it. He’s got a point, unfortunately.

Towards the end of this subject his friend james the sexy beast comes over and apologizes profusely for his drunk friend. To which my new friend says ‘ nah she loves it. you’re alright, aren’t you? I’m sorry’ then apologizes more. And I just laughed and said ‘no no it’s fine’, and the people across the way can hardly contain themselves.

I should point out that NO ONE else on the tube was talking. Granted it is fairly loud as the old trains squeak and creak as they rush along the tracks, but still, there was no other conversation. Most people do not talk on the tube. And you particularly do not speak to strangers. Unless that stranger is me. Lots of London rules seem to be broken for me. But anyway, that adds a little to the visual of this true spectacle that was occurring.

Then my new friend continues with the politics saying things like “obama. Yeah, so abortions, they’re cool? Making love to everyone ? ‘ and as I said um and began to formulate how to respond to this and the word ‘cool’ being used with ‘abortion’ , not something I had heard before. But before I could respond in any way he switched over to asking if I could do him a favor.

I did not say yes. Because by now I knew my new friend well. And I think he has pretty lofty ideas for favors. So I say,’ well, it depends on what you need because I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.’ He made a sad face. And then said ‘call me friend james over here and tell him you want to make love to him’ . ha! I knew it kid. No way. So I tell him no, and after much discussing and puppy dog face making, he still did not win. Too bad. Maybe if everyone on the tube wasn’t watching us like their favorite episode of Footballers Wives… but no.

His stop comes, he wished me luck with finding my friend and her place ( I explained the no address no phone situation to which he replied ‘ ooh that is scary’ nice. Thanks.) and said nice meeting me and then walked off.  I had not even truly arrived in London and I already let a possible british husband slip away. Sigh. He’s probably an alcoholic. But he was a charming alcoholic. If only I had propositioned his friend…

Well anyway, Chalk Farm comes up, I get off the train and go to the stairs where a concerned woman asks if I need help carrying my suitcase up. No thanks I say, and I continue to insist that I am fine (of course I was not really fine, but for some reason I cant accept help in these situations). She looks skeptical but in order to prove myself I just happily trudge up the stairs trying to look like I do this every day. I reach the top of these stairs only to see a sign leading to ‘emergency stairs’ , where everyone seems to walking. I look around quickly. Surely there is another way. And there it is. An elevator! But what’s this. Two really sketchy guys are loitering right outside it..and I just saw one girl almost do an about face in order to avoid these guys and take the stairs. Now normally I am ok with sketchy, but I had so much luggage that I really wouldn’t be able to fight anyone off. Ugh. Stairs it is. So I haul up I don’t even know how many spiral stairs, and pause at the landing thinking my heart is going to explode and wondering if I will ever make it to jenna’s alive, when I look up and see a very nervous looking jenna butler Esposito who looks down and then gets very excited.’ I THOUGHT YOU DIED ‘, she yells. Yeah. I am the worst friend ever. I am an hour late and had no way to contact her. But there she was. What a friend. Despite the fact that the immigration man yelled at me for not having the full address of where I was staying and asked what I was going to do if she didn’t meet me at the station, she was there. That shows you, mean immigration man. maybe he needs better friends. Maybe I should have offered to be his friend.

We get to her apartment down the street at about 1215 am. We check online to see if we have a new president (nope), as we proceed to drink a considerable amount of strongbow. I understand Jenna’s complaints about that drink now. It is too sugary. It will be a while before I choose strongbow again. But anyway. We go to bed in a good state of mind, good enough for me to ignore the fact that there was ivy growing from her skylight (think of the bug possibilities) and that she told me there were loads of spiders in her room.

 But hey. I am in London. and nothing can ever beat the happiness that comes with that. Not even spiders and hang overs and gas leaks.

What?

my old european journal

OK. SO,


i went to europe in november of 2008. thats right. more than a year ago. now for half of this trip i did my best to keep a journal. i transcribed some of this on here last year. maybe two posts. my project now is to transcribe the rest of it, and then try to use my photos and memory to make up for the places that i did not write about. which sadly were some of the greatest times. i have decided its best to do this continuously so i will be starting with the first page of my journal and continuing from there, essentially just writing exactly what is on the page, in whatever disjointed fashion it is in. here is the first:


Nov 4, 2008

My plan was to begin by saying that i am sitting here in the aisle seat of my continental jet listening to music by john coltrane. however, since my music player doesnt seem to be working, i am instead sitting here listening to the movie Henry Poole is Here, making sure to keep my seatbelt on in case things get nuts. But lets start at the beginning.

I woke at 5am from one of those sleeps where it seems like you just closed your eyes and suddenly your alarm is going off. My dad kindly drove me to the Newark airport. Airports are interesing i decided. I found myself walking past random groups of people wondering, what business do you and your son have in aruba, sir? or I didnt know St maartens was spelled that way, why are there only two people sitting by that gate do they know each other? will they go the whole journey without talking? Airports are prime people watching locations.

My luck can't seem to decide if it wants to comply with London rules or general real life rules. I got in, checked my bag, no trouble with the backpack as a carry on (thanks again jess)! The lady at check-in eyes me suspiciously and asks how old i am. 22, i reply. And then she just said something about me being “such a pretty girl”. several questions arose here. why is this relevant to my age? why did you give me that look?`what are you thinking? i slept 4 hours? The odd occurrences begin...

I can never seem to get through without some sort of trouble which eventually makes a scene. First I asked the man checking the passports if I needed to put all my liquids in a plastic bag, to which he replied “eh. .. well.. yeah. I mean you’re supposed to ..” and kind of shrugged along with some shifty eyes.  Huh, I think. So I do that, because he was oh so forceful and convincing. Well, mainly because I didn’t want someone else to stop me.  I put my shoes and jacket in the gray box so they can check if I am packing heat in my huge coat. I go to walk through the metal detector and the man on the other side tells me to take off my vest. Then my belt…  a bit forward I thought. But my pants WILL fall down. This could get awkward.  But I make it through, only to have a man whisk me and my bag away to a special kiosk where he pulls out a water bottle I had ( How could I have been so careless??!) . Luckily he just throws it away and lets me on my way.

Walking towards my gate, I stop for some yoghurt (I shall spell things british-ly from now on just to annoy you) at au bon pain (exactly what I wanted to eat and where I wanted it to be from: one point to my London luck). Then once I found my gate, I decide to go to the bathroom so as to avoid the creepy claustrophobic plane bathrooms as much as possible. I walk out and they call my row to board, so I just walk up to the desk and walk on with no waiting ( +1 pt to London).

I sit in my aisle seat on the plane,  next to a British woman whose husband is sitting two rows up. She mentions to me and the man in the window seat about how they are separated and it is unfortunate how airlines do this and blah blah blah. Then an American lady a few rows up just asked some guy to move so that she could sit in the same row as her kids. “That’s how you do it,” says British lady, “English people aren’t brave.” Window man and I just kind of chuckle awkwardly, probably both thinking, God I hope she doesn’t ask us to switch. I felt so torn. I will happily switch seats with someone, but this would be going from an aisle seat to a middle seat. Who knew who would fill the surrounding seats? Smelly people? Small, whiny, kick your seat children? I just didn’t know. Not to mention the lack of leg room. And the fact that if I needed to go to the bathroom I would probably have to wake someone up. No. No, I refused. I try to be a nice person, but I just will not give up my aisle seat. I felt guilty and defeated and selfish. (1 pt for American luck)

But what’s this! It seems the doors are closed and no one has sat next to this person’s husband!  So my neighbor got to relocate, and I was guilt free and left with an empty seat next to me ( +1 to London). I also found out the entertainment was much better than I thought.  I looked online and it said I would get my choice of Space Chimps or Get Smart and that is all. Well luckily I got my own little tv with many tv, movie and music options. (1 to london)  Thus far, continental is ok (though I smell a curry meal (-1) coming my way) but I feel like I am cheating on Richard Branson. I miss Virgin Atlantic. So I watch the movie Bullit while I eat my curry – I got the veggie meal even though I entered this preference online waaaay too late ( +1 to lon). Bullit was my first Steve McQueen movie. He’s quite good. And Daniel Craig reminds me a lot of a poor man’s Steve McQueen.

Unfortunately the kid in front of me reclined his seat all the way for a good chunk of the flight, though he asked me, first so we will say that breaks even. However, whoever was behind me decided it would be fun to kick or punch my seat on and off for several hours (-2).  BUT a lovely British man moved his smaller bag from the overhead compartment so I could fit my big backpack on it (+1).  Then when I was hoping for a snack, I got not only a snack but a second full meal! With another lovely vegan cookie.

Now let’s just hope I can get to Jenna’s. Seeing as I can’t find the piece of paper with her address and phone number written on it. And the phone I have with me needs to be topped up so it won’t work.  All I know is I have to get to Chalk Farm tube station and hope that she will be there waiting.  Boy isn’t life exciting?