The reason I went to London this summer was to present a scholarly paper at an international conference. The morning of my presentation, my classmate and I hit the British Museum, because everyone had been telling us to go see the Egyptian mummies. I thought it sounded cool, and we had some time to kill.
It wasn't until I got there that I realized what mummies really were. These were dead bodies, human remains, laid out under glass for annoying tourists to gawk at.
Now you're thinking: Uh, Savia, that's what mummies are - dead people. Didn't you know that before you went?
Well, sure. We all know mummies are dead people. But do we think about what that really means? We view them as archaeological artifacts, tourist attractions, objets d'art, but we don't see them as people. If we did, they wouldn't be on display.
Yes, it's an ancient civilization. Yes, there aren't any relatives coming out of the woodwork to claim the bodies. Yes, the whole mummification thing is all kinds of cool.
But these are still people. Dead people. Human remains. From the other side of the world. They deserve respect. And being preyed upon by tourists with camcorders doesn't fall into that category.
As I went from display to display, I got more and more angry. Angry at the idiot archaeologists who unwrapped the mummies in the first place. Angry at the British Museum for putting them on display. Angry at the complicit tourists taking hundreds of digital pictures to show the folks at home.
The longer I took in the scene, the more enraged I felt. I began to see the British Museum in a different light. As a monument to colonialism. As a structure that encompasses the idea that Britain is the centre of civilization and had the right to go into other countries, impose its culture on the people living there, and take artifacts home to London to put on display (can you tell I took a postcolonial theory class right before my trip?)
And I fucking hated all those tourists. (Yes, I know I was one of them, but I was nowhere near as annoying.) Uh, asshole, the sign that says, "Do not touch" actually means that not only should you not touch that, you certainly shouldn't grope that ancient artifact with your greasy paws. Hey, we all want to touch it. Maybe some of us even want to lick it, but we don't.
I spent the morning in a mounting state of pissiness, fighting the urge to liberate everything in my sight back to the countries from which they came, and trying not to elbow the infuriating tourists in the head.
When I couldn't take it anymore, I went up to my classmate and told her I had to get out of there. "Why?" she asked. I gave her a brief rant of my position.
"But if they weren't here, how would anyone see them?" she asked.
"Why do we have to see them?" I responded. "They're dead bodies. What gives us the right to see them? And if they should be anywhere, they should be in Egypt, where they came from. Where do they get off putting dead bodies from the other side of the world on display for a bunch of tourists?"
We agreed to disagree. She wasn't seething with rage and, thus, was having a really good time and wanted to stay to take in a few more exhibits. I had get ready for my presentation anyway, so I left on my own.
In my state of righteous indignation, I got turned around and exited from a different door than we had entered. I didn't realize it until I was wandering around aimlessly, with no idea where I was. In the rain.
I didn't have a map, because my classmate had brought hers and I didn't think we would be separated. And I hadn't brought my umbrella, because the museum was only half a block from the residence where we were staying.
When I say it was raining, I'm not talking about a smattering of rain, or pouring rain, or raining cats and dogs. No, this was far more hardcore than anything I had experienced. This was a torrential downpour.
I know what you're thinking (because I'm a mind reader - just go with it). You're thinking, Savia, you're from Saskatchewan. It's so dry there that anytime a farmer spits in the wind, you consider it a torrential downpour.
True. I am a
prairie princess, but this
was a torrential downpour, even by Londoners' standards. The next day, it was on the front page of all the papers, labelled, "Midsummer Monsoon."
Granted, these are London papers, so they're prone to exaggeration - it's what they do. The first day I was in the city, I saw a story with the title, "Killer Ladybug Plague Hits the Capital!" That certainly caught my interest. But when I read on, I discovered that some foreign ladybug species had come in and started cannibalistically eating the local species. And also bit humans when it was especially hungry.
The English are no strangers to hyperbole. However, they weren't kidding about the midsummer monsoon. A month's worth of rain fell in one hour that day. And lucky me, it was this hour I was wandering around lost without an umbrella-ella-ella-ella, a map, or any inkling of where I was or where I was going.
It was way worse than this. And I didn't have one of those brollie dealies.
I tried to shield myself with the plastic-wrapped "Mind the Gap" onesie I had picked up for my friend's baby. But after awhile, I just gave up. Getting soaked was inevitable. I didn't have the luxury of standing under awnings with the native Londoners to wait out the rain. I had a conference to get to. I just had to find a tube station, because once I was there, I would be able to figure out where I was and how to get back to the residence.
As I walked down the street, the Londoners smart enough to get in out of the rain pointed at me and laughed. I am not making this up. There was actual pointing and laughing. I wondered where the stereotype of overly polite British people came from. A street merchant selling cheap umbrellas asked me if I wanted to buy one. I started laughing, threw my waterlogged arms up in the air and said, "I don't really think it's going to help me now!"
I still had no idea where I was. Nothing looked familiar, and I was starting to get nervous. Fortunately, I came to a major street and saw a drug store. Surely someone there could help. When I walked in, people turned and stared. I must have been a truly pathetic sight. My hair was plastered against my head and my stylish trench was so soaked that it was dripping all over the floor.
I dripped my way to the cough/cold aisle and bought some British version of Tyl@nol Cold and Flu, because did I mention that on top of everything, I was already sick? I figured being soaked to the skin would just make it worse. That, and I might as well buy something to make up for the fact that someone was likely to slip in one of the growing puddles I was leaving in my wake.
The woman at the till looked at me sympathetically. While I wasn't in the mood for pity, I was just happy she wasn't pointing and laughing. I asked if they sold those full-body plastic rain ponchos. She said no. Then, I asked if she could direct me to the nearest tube station, which I thought was Russell Square. She gave me a blank look, and asked one of her co-workers where that was. He didn't know either, but told me how to get to the station he knew. It was a name I hadn't heard before, but I went anyway, longing for something, anything familiar so I could get out of this downpour and off to my conference.
I looked at the map once I got to the station and realized why no one at the drugstore knew what I was talking about - Russell Square was nowhere near there. I'm not sure how I wandered so far in the wrong direction, but I did.
I left wet spots on the seats of two trains and walked back to the residence. I peeled off my trench (soaked), my pants (soaked), my shirt (soaked) and my bra and underwear (soaked). I slid my feet out of my (expensive) leather walking sandals and cringed at the squooshy noise they made. I towelled off, put on dry clothes and a fresh pair of sandals, grabbed my conference paper and an umbrella (Hah! You're not going to soak me again, you bastard monsoon!) and stepped outside into...
Motherfucking sunshine. Not a drop of rain anywhere. If it weren't for the wet pavement, you wouldn't have guessed there was precipitation at all.
I didn't have time to swear at the weather - I had to get to my conference. I ran back to the tube station and took another two trains to the station nearest the conference, which was not really close to anywhere. I wove my way through the multitude of streets, narrowly missing getting hit by a bus not once, but twice. I knew I was going to be late, so I ran, trying not to trip on my sandals, hoping that I wasn't going to get lost again, and then getting lost, because this was a recurring theme of my trip, and pretty much anywhere I go.
I finally found the place, rushed to find the room my panel was in, and noted that all of that running had dried my hair. Sweet. At least when I walked into my own panel 30 minutes late, I wouldn't splash any of the other presenters when I turned my head.
Fortunately, one of the other dudes presented in my time slot. Once he was done, the chair asked, "Is Savia here yet?"
"No, I was doing research for my next paper, which is about the quintessential London experience of getting stuck in a rainstorm."
Everyone laughed. I gave my presentation. It was alright. But nowhere near as interesting as the rest of my day.
other social bookmarks
Weird Al's next big hit,
It's a bum! A nice one, too.
Oh Noes! I has broke wanger!
