Maggie, Christine, and the Sun

You know that feeling of freedom you get when you finish and turn in a big paper? Well, this Wednesday, I took that feeling and turned it into an entire day's worth of out-of-the-ordinary London-y exploring. In describing it, the day wasn't all that exciting or special, but whether because of the endorphins from handing in my paper or the fact that the sun was shining for what seemed like the first time since I was about fourteen years old, I had a really great and very British day - and I thought I'd tell you about it.

From the start, this Wednesday was bound to be more interesting than the average one, for this Wednesday was the day of Margaret Thatcher's funeral. Honestly, I think that, in the days preceding it, this event scared many of us more than it excited us. Tensions are high when it comes to the British public's feelings on the Iron Lady and, in particular, her expensive Ceremonial funeral, and after the events in Boston on Monday and the extensive safety warnings and guidelines our program sent to us on Tuesday night, we were a little nervous about going about our day in these places that would be so caught up in the proceedings of the controversial day. We were advised to take an alternate route to school on Wednesday, as our usual path takes us straight across the Strand and through Trafalgar Square - two of the most high-profile areas of the path of the funeral procession that would come through at almost the same time we would. I, however, have a particular taste for adventure (read: had a paper due so was obviously running horribly late in leaving the dorm), so I decided to (read: had to to avoid being late and lost) throw caution to the wind and go about my walk to school just as I usually would.

This, as it turns out, was exactly the proper thing to do. (Sorry, program directors.) All the things that made Wednesday's festivities nerve-wracking in our heads actually made it extremely safe in practice. With riot and even terror fears at an uneasy high, the police presence was massive. Trust me, parents and Notre Dame administrators - nothing bad was going to happen to any of us with that many cops lining about half of our daily commute. Similarly, since the funeral-affected areas of our path had to, of course, be cleared for the procession, not only was there no imminent danger; there weren't even cars to avoid as we crossed the street. All the roads were closed, and the barricades and police force around the square meant that it was almost completely free of people who weren't walking to work or starting to form the small crowds that lined the procession route. Many of us were joking in class that, really, that set-up would be the perfect way to walk to school every single day. Cross the street without even checking the traffic or heeding the lights? Waltz through Trafalgar Square without dodging screaming children or creepy street performance? If you ask us, Great Britain needs to hold ceremonial and state funerals more often.

About halfway through my first class of the morning, my classmates convinced our professor to let us out into the square to see if we could catch the procession driving past. We missed it by about five pathetic minutes, but hey, we can still say we were in Trafalgar Square on the morning that Maggie Thatcher's funeral drove past it. Have I mentioned lately, for good measure, that my life is still entirely not real?

By the end of my last class of the day, the traffic patterns made weird by the funeral had gone back to normal, and to the surprise, delight, and relative confusion of everyone in the ND London Program, the sun had come out.  With the sun out, the temperature in the sixties, and my fifteen-page paper officially out of my hands, I decided I would take a detour on my way home and do some shopping in the Covent Garden area that I so often walked past.

THE BEST IDEA. I discovered a whole new treasure trove of shopping that will probably destroy what remains of my bank account here in my last two weeks, I bought a khaki pencil skirt because by God it's April, I navigated a new neighborhood successfully, and I found this:

Thanks for the photo, interwebz 

This insane-looking, brightly-colored little mini-neighborhood is Neal's Yard. It's filled with small health food cafes and other various hippie shops. As I already had my khaki pencil skirt-filled Banana Republic in hand by the time I found this place, the death stares from the flower children ensured that I didn't stick around too long - but I had a great time for those few minutes looking around at all the pink windows and yellow bricks and flower boxes lit up by this weird thing called the sun. If you ever doubt that foggy London town can be sunny and colorful, I entreat you to look no further than the extremely cool Neal's Yard. 

Even with my lovely impromptu shopping spree, though, the uncontested highlight of my Great Day in London was my evening activity: going to see Phantom of the Opera on the West End. As we had both been wanting to see the show all semester without ever actually planning a night of it, one of my spring break buds and I decided last week to buy tickets for this Wednesday to reward ourselves for finishing that aforementioned paper. Obviously, I knew that Phantom was a great show and I loved its soundtrack - after all, I had technically seen a professional production of it before, in Toronto when I was seven years old and totally capable of remembering everything about it - but, people. It. Was. Incredible. 

From the very first notes of "Think of Me" to the final thrilling moments down in that labyrinth where night is blind, I was geeking out like a weirdo at Comic Con (sorry not sorry, anyone reading this who's into Comic Con). I pretty much had my hands at the level of my eyes for most of the second act, out of sheer excitement and a tendency for excited jazz hand that eventually reached the point of medically diagnosable tic. The girl playing Christine had an unidentifiable and strange accent that was occasionally distracting, but even with her occasionally off-kilter vowels, the talent of this cast was off the charts. Every time Carlotta opened her mouth, I wanted to just yell out, "How do you do this eight times a week? Are you a human?!" When "Masquerade" started, I, for obvious reasons, thought I had died and gone to costume-loving heaven. So many rhinestones. So many colors. So much yes. As uncreative as it may be to see and love Phantom in London, this production was absolutely amazing. It's had me reprising my old voice recital performances of Christine's big numbers in the shower all week, and it is threatening to unseat Matilda as my favorite of the shows I've seen this semester. As of right now, at least, I have only one show left to finish off my semester-long tour of the West End, and it's one that, knowing me, could take them all: Wicked. My roommate and I are seeing it on Monday, and as it is something like my seventh time seeing the show, I have a feeling I'm going to like it. 

It may have been a day of state-sponsored mourning for the UK, but Wednesday in this long-term visitor's book was one of the best days of the semester. Here's hoping the next fifteen are all like that one. See you in two weeks, Stateside readers!