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December 2004—Brooke Christensen
Travel Writing Seminar
Like
most days in Britain, the weather was a bit precarious
this Friday as I suited up to take an old friend to
Greenwich to see the home of Greenwich Mean Time. The
weather forecaster had indicated that it was to be sunny
with a chance of rain. This is one of the most common
forecasts in Great Britain—the other being rainy
with a chance of sun. Needless to say, I decided against
the umbrella as it looked sunny. I was excited to be
heading back to Greenwich, as my last visit there had
been one of my best days in England. Granted it had
been my 21st birthday, so my peers treated me like a
distant second cousin of the Queen all day. For instance,
a close friend of mine split a rhubarb crumble with
me at Goddard’s Pie Shop and I didn’t even
have to pay for my half saving me a whole 90p. What
luxury!
All
week long I had been hosting my old friend’s trip
to London because I had been living in London for almost
three months. It made me feel like I was a professional
Londoner as I managed the public transportation with
such ease—she “ooed” and “ahhed”
at my ability to throw caution and the underground map
to the wind and still manage to locate our next stop.
But I was a little apprehensive to navigate our way
to Greenwich as on my last visit I arrived via the Thames
River with my peers and professors. We had been shuffled
up the hill to the famous line like school children,
lacking only buddy assignments. This time I had to be
the leader and teacher, and somehow I had to find the
park with the big hill that leads to the red line. Sounds
easy—or at least so I thought.
We
left our lodging at 10:15 in the morning and headed
in the direction of the Fulham Broadway tube station.
I decided that it might be best to ask a tube worker
which would be the fastest route, so I headed up to
the gate where the tube monitor was stationed starring
into space. “Umm, could you tell me the fastest
route to Greenwich?”
“Tube
pass.”
Pulling
it from my back pocket, “Here’s my travel
card, but…”
“Just
slide it though over there and”
Cutting
him off, I forced a smile, “Yes, I know, but I
was wondering…”
“Well
if you know how, then go ahead, miss, and you can be
on your way,” he said in and almost robotic tone
of voice. Sliding my card through the machine, I began
wondering whether the tube monitors were actually computers
disguised as humans, only able to deal with travel card
issues, not yet equipped to deal with giving directions.
Maybe that is a part of the next upgrade. Looking back
before heading to the stairs, I thought I saw some smoke
billowing from his mouth and ears; I must have forced
him into a malfunction, poor guy. Standing in front
of the map I decided to take the District Line to Westminster,
hop on the Jubilee line to Canary Wharf, and then take
the DLR to Cutty Sark (for Maritime Greenwich). Thank
God that the British know how to label.
The
first section of the journey was easy as I had been
on both the District and the Jubilee line before. Arriving
at Canary Wharf, we jumped off the train and I instinctually
walked towards the DLR signs. Quickly, I realized we
were heading outside instead of into a different subterranean
level of the earth. Emerging outside confused we stood
there, me looking around like a bobble head doll and
she looking at me, wondering what to do next. “I
wonder where the D...”
“DLR
train, follow me,” said a British businessman as
he scurried past us. Not really considering the ramifications
of following a strange man to an underpass and up a
forbidding staircase we bounded after him as he was
almost sprinting out of sight. I am always surprised
at the sprightly nature of the British. He looked to
be at least 60 years old but was side stepping and darting
through the crowd like a 15-year-old boy. We eventually
lost sight of him but managed to arrive at the Docklands
Light Rail platform. The Docklands Light Rail was an
entity of its own outside of the London Underground
System. It ran quite a bit above ground, in—not
surprisingly—the areas around the Thames, south
and east of the old city. There were signs for Cutty
Sark and I again thanked God that, for the most part,
the British do an excellent job in labelling their surrounds,
and we jumped on a train.
At
last, we made it to Maritime Greenwich. Greenwich, though
located on the outskirts of London, is a charming area
of its own accord. Home to University of Greenwich,
the Old Royal Naval College, the Royal Observatory,
the National Maritime Museum, as well as the Fan Museum,
Greenwich also boasts a very nice market with discount
prices on top quality items. Quaint and friendly, the
park and shopping area before you reach the Prime Meridian
is worth at least a couple of hours of meandering. Reaching
the top of the Cutty Sark station, my memory (and stomach)
thankfully kicked in and we passed Goddard’s Pie
Shop where my friend and I had split the rhubarb crumble.
I made mental notes that we must come back in this direction
to eat lunch as Goddard’s is inexpensive and exceptionally
tasty. Veering to the left, we headed into the Greenwich
Market. As all markets are constantly changing, it seemed
drastically different from my last visit in October.
The booths seemed to be more spread out and the merchandise,
though a notch up in price, seemed a bit higher in quality.
The people working the booths also seemed a bit friendlier
and I marvelled at all of the benefits I have been able
to reap from my visits to Greenwich. Arriving at a corner
patch of green I knew we had successfully made it to
Greenwich Park, London’s oldest Royal Park.
Preparing
my friend for the hike of her life I told her we had
to climb a small mountain in order to reach the Prime
Meridian. I remembered the hill as being the longest
trek of my young life, yet within two minutes we had
reached the top with my friend shaking her head at me
knowingly. I love how anticipation tinkers with one’s
perception of time. We collected our free entrance tickets
and took all of the classic pictures one must take when
standing where the Eastern and Western Hemispheres meet.
We took one straddling the line, one waving at each
other from opposite sides, and, if you are a bit of
a daredevil like I am, place one foot on the line, heel
on one side toes on the other and feel the power of
standing on the dividing line. It is quite magnificent.
Shuffling
into the Royal Observatory, I remembered that the museum
was all about time because it housed John Harrison’s
prize winning longitude watch. I still found it a strange
conglomeration of astrological equipment and timepieces
that helped to determine Greenwich Mean Time. It also
contained Maritime information because it was the Mariners
who started the need for the specificity of time and
location as we view it today. Being there a little later
in the day this time, I got to watch the Time Ball drop
that is located at the top of the Observatory. It has
been dropping at exactly 1 PM Greenwich Mean Time to
help the Mariners in the Thames River to set their chronometers
since 1833. “What fun,” I thought, “
It’s like watching the New Year’s Eve ball
drop in New York City, and it happens everyday!”
Maybe they should have a party and throw confetti everyday
at 1 PM, but that probably would be a little too excessive
for the British. I again settle in on the fact that
it is the small parts of British life that makes me
adore it in everyway. With one last salute to the great
read division, we headed down the hill for lunch. It
started to rain in true British fashion, the light spitting,
just enough to be annoying. Oh well, maybe next time
I’ll remember to bring my umbrella.
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