Harry Potter 7, World Premiere

July 5^th

I arrive at Trafalgar Square at night and my name is placed on a list of people who are arriving early (so that, I am told, Warner Brothers will let us go into the actual red carpet area first, in order of longest-camp-out to shortest-camp-out). I am told that the list was actually organized by the Canadian fans who have been camping out for the entire week, and that Warner Brothers isn’t even here yet. I am told that Warner Brothers likes their idea and will be using it instead of whatever they had planned earlier. I sleep in a small tent with 2 friends, around others who are in similar circumstances. This is what I imagine a refugee camp feels like. I have a blanket, but the heavy rain manages to seep into the tent somehow anyway, leaving me damp, cold, and with a mild fever in the morning.

July 6^th

I leave the camp to go get Bianca from the hostel in the morning, and come back to find that everyone has been herded into a pen like animals. There is little to no room to sit, and I am told that wristbands will be handed out “soon”. 5 hours later, someone starts calling out names from The List, in an attempt to let those who were here longer get into the area sooner. The man doesn’t have a microphone, and it’s hard to hear my name. After a few minutes of trying to listen, I just go get my wristband and go inside to find a camping spot. We end up about 5 people away from the railing in front of the red carpet, so it’s a pretty good spot, I might not be able to see them but I might get their autographs. It rains throughout the day and night, off and on, but the excitement pulls us through.

July 7^th

Anyone who likes anarchy is a fool.

At 5 am, I feel feet stepping on and around me, people from the back were already starting to push forward. With no regard to the people who actually slept here in the rain for 2 (or more) nights, people who arrived this morning are just stepping over and rushing the red carpet at 5 am. The premiere doesn’t start until 5pm, do they expect to just stand here for 12 hours? We power through a few hours, but standing and struggling in a crowd that will not think twice before punching and kicking their way past me (which they spared me from, but others were not so lucky) is not how I wanted to spend the day.

At noon, I realize that the only way I’m going to get closer to the carpet and past this human wall is by being just like them—violent and just rude. When I was a child, I was taught that cutting in line is bad. I was taught that kicking and shoving to get what I want is bad. These, along with other components, constructed what my parents called ‘manners’ and ‘politeness’, neither of which I planned on losing today. And as much as I love Harry Potter, people I’ve never met who live thousands of miles away don’t have that much control over me. Besides, if it was Harry Potter I had a chance to see, then I might pull through, but it’s not. It’s Daniel Radcliffe, a person just like any other person who happens to play a part in one of the best stories ever told.

When in dilemmas like these, a good rule of thumb is this—act with grace, and you’ll never be disappointed in your actions.

Instead of “doing what it takes” to get to the front-ish area (with over 7 hours left until the premiere starts), Bianca and I peeled ourselves out from the wall and examined from afar. We sneaked around on the red carpet and took photos around the area.

20 minutes later we found ourselves at Pret, an incubator of good coversation.

“J.K. Rowling is seriously such a genius,” I say, taking a sip of my mocha, “the amount of time and effort that she put into creating a whole new world that ties everything together so seamlessly… gah I love Harry Potter so much!”

Bianca nods, and the conversation moves to other brilliant people we like. I bring up Titian, the painter who painted one of my favorite paintings (Bacchus and Ariadne), and then realize that the National Gallery was right there. As we walk past the growing herd of people slowly shoving into Trafalgar Square, girls screaming, people crying, people shoving and kicking and punching their way past each other, I'm reminded once again--

“All this for people who play characters that are cool?” Bianca says. 

We don’t go into Trafalgar Square, instead, we go to the National Gallery.

After 2 brutal nights of sleeping on concrete in frigid rain, I ended up leaving before the premiere ever started because I didn't want to have a miserable time fighting people over silly things. I took a few moments to watch the premiere while walking through some rooms with large windows (Emma Watson’s dress was just as pretty in person), knowing that I might not have gotten to see anything if I was still down there in the hovel.

Today, I chose to value Monet over Tom Felton, Van Gogh over Daniel Radcliffe, Da Vinci over Rupert Grint. And I regret nothing.

Modern Art (read at your own risk)

As I mentioned in a previous post, I’m not a fan of modern art. I like it sometimes (well… okay, rarely) because I think a great majority of it is complete BS. But, a day at Tate Modern finally showed me the light. Modern art is just so profound, how could I expect to understand it without the helpful descriptions next to the pieces explaining why I should feel awe at this means of expression? Just looking at art doesn't cut it anymore, I have to be told why I should appreciate what I'm looking at. And my usual reaction—any combination of eye-rolls, deep sighs, shaking heads, and traces of rising vomit in my throat—is as outdated as the styles of art I enjoy.

No. No, this was too deep for a mere plebeian like me to understand. Take this, for example:

It's a ripped, plain, framed canvas. Upon reading the description (I'm not making this up) I was informed that "the tear took so long to plan, but only a moment to execute", which "speaks to the enthralling feeling of rebellion"

Oh, or how about this?

This is a white piece of paper, cut into an uneven hexagonal shape, and taped to the wall. Brilliant.

And of course, the one which really speaks to the viewer was this:

A mirror. The ever changing picture.

Pieces by Constable, Waterhouse, they can't even compare to the brilliance I saw at Tate Modern. 

I can't even type this with a straight face.

I think I need to visit the National Gallery again and cleanse myself. Here's some at-home ointment for you, dear readers:

Haywain, by John Constable

Bacchus and Ariadne, by Titian

I hope that helped. I had entire day of modert art "experiences", and would appreciate a consolatory hug once I return. 

Soho

“This way,” I say, “I think…” not completely sure of my sense of direction. I must have sounded convincing enough, because Hermes followed. The irony that I was the one leading Hermes through this land was ironic, but I’m certain I was the only one who noticed.

Soon enough, we were at the gates of a land I had never heard of before he informed me of its existence. People were waiting outside; two nymphs guarded the door. They let us through after Hermes informed them of who we were. I was observing this new place, quietly following my guide.

The stars twinkle red here. The weather is like a warm, oceanic breeze. The earth begins to shake as a most unexpected voice greets me. It sounds like a machine, a robot. A vine slithers out from behind me and wraps itself snugly around my arms, lifting me up and carrying me carefully.

“Come”, the voice says, “let me show you around.”

I have no choice—my arms are tied—and I begin observing the collection of machines housed in this place. I  follow the voice as it leads me through hallways and rooms.

Hermes whispers “We’re in a different room now.”

I hadn’t noticed.

“Now we’re back!” he continues, thoroughly impressed. He frequently gasps in delight, but I can’t see any walls so I have no idea what’s so impressive. Like a child taking a walk through a modern art gallery, I don’t know what I’m expected to feel about all this, nor do I care. I’m enjoying this ride for what it is—a jazz concert in Soho. 

The National Gallery. Or, how much I like offending other artists.

“It’s bullshit on canvas, that’s what it is,” I say, hoping the noise of the subway drowns out the scene my friend and I are making.

“No way!” he responds. I’m not sure if he truly believes this or if he’s disagreeing with me for the sake of argument. Either way, I don’t mind.

“It totally is. Renaissance paintings, classical paintings… they need so much technique. They’re not just random brush strokes on a canvas—“

“RANDOM BRUSH STROKES?! Grishma, they’re expressing what the artist feels!”

“Who cares about what the artist feels? I'm the one who has to look at it!”

2 months ago, we were having a similar conversation, where I was arguing that it was all about expression, not interpretation and he was arguing the opposite. A few months prior, we were arguing the inverse.

We walk off the subway and begin our ascent to the street.

“I just don’t want people 1000 years from now looking back in time and thinking Pollock was the best we could do. We’ll be dubbed the double-dark ages or something,” I complain.

“Grishma, are you really letting the opinions of other art historians shape the way you view modern art?” he says, his eyebrow raised as it often is.

“No, I just agree with them. Realism is just… on a whole different level. It’s so brilliant.”

20 minutes of debate later, we enter the National Portrait Gallery. A short walk into a hallway, and we’re staring at a horrendous finger-painting of a man and a house. Made by a grown man, no less.

“See what I mean?” I say, drawing out my words so he knows I’m implying I was right all along.

“Okay, but there are realistic paintings that are boring!” he says, and our debate echoes down the hallway as we make our way past other paintings.

Then, we come face to face with the most realistic painting I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s a close up of a man’s face, and it looks like a photograph. Black and white. Acrylic on canvas. Both of us stop talking and stare. It is the most brilliant painting I’ve seen that was made after I was born.

About a half an hour later, we’re strolling through the National Gallery, looking at pieces by Monet, Van Gogh, Titian, in awe.

“This one,” he says, pointing to a portrait of some cardinal. “This one’s realistic but I wouldn’t want it in my living room.” It was a pretty boring painting, I admit. I’d much rather have modern art pieces in my house than the Ugly Cardinal Painting.

But, of course, I don’t admit concession when I debate with this particular friend. So, I say “You wouldn’t? Oh come on, you could talk to it every morning with a cup of tea… pretend the cardinal is right there with you…”

We laugh, immersing ourselves in all the different brilliant paintings this building houses. Hours later, we finally finish and head outside in search of a café. I’d been craving a mocha all day, and he was hungry.

We finally end up at Pret, a café just a block away from the Gallery. I sit down on a counter with my mocha and fruit bowl, he sits next to me with a pasta dish and sandwich. The rising steam from my coffee draws my eyes to the view in front of us.

“Where else can you have this view while you eat?” he says

“Only in London,” I say, taking a sip.

My cup is 80% full.

“And he brought out a book and showed me this equation, and he told me that it’s up for debate, that it’s just a theory. It threw me off… how could a human construct invented to make sense of the world  (math) not make sense of something? I wish I could just be okay with not having any real answers…”

My cup is 60% full.

“First day of class—he just sat there. And he didn’t say anything for like the longest time. Then he says ‘I always like to start the class off with an awkward silence.’”

My cup is 40% full.

“Wait I really like this song. Let’s just listen.”

My cup is 30% full. I’m drinking a little more slowly now because I want to keep the conversation going.

“And I mean, I have this conversation with people a lot, I tell them what I think about art. What is art? Can anyone put it in words? I’m just trying to be okay with not knowing.”

My cup is 15% full.

“It’s so interesting that you one word can conjure up so many different things depending on who you say it to.”

My cup is 3% full.

“That was when I realized that I couldn’t relate to Indians the way I did when I was last here. And it took a lot to be okay with this… hybrid culture I was now a part of.”

The remaining coffee has dried at the bottom of my cup, but the conversation doesn't stop. Here, in front of a magnificent building, I enjoy great conversation with a great friend over great food. And, like any other day I would have had a heated conversation with him, we ended the day in lighthearted conversation and a walk.

Oh, but in London this time.

[Suggested further reading here]

Camden

“All the anarchists live here,” my friend says, as we make our way through crowds of tattooed, pierced Londoners in front of shops and pubs.

“This is where me and Kelly are planning on living,” she says and laughs, leading us to an area which used to contain horse stables, but now has cheap thrift stores and food vendors. A familiar smell hits my nostrils and I immediately begin salivating.

“We’re near Indian food. Good Indian food,” I say.

“Right over here,” she continues heading down a slope to a vendor’s shop and getting a plate of rice, vegetable curry and chicken curry. I take a bite and my taste buds do a double take. This can’t be real. London has been the closest to having provided me with delicious Indian food outside of my mom’s kitchen. Honestly, delicious doesn’t do it justice. 

I think the first minute in this video might do the trick:

We walk over and sit by a canal, enjoying the view. In every school (middle school, high school, whichever) there's a group of maybe 6-10 edgy goth kids that keep to themselves. Dyed hair, studs, lots of eye-makeup, you know what I'm talking about. Some of them decided to come to a borough in London and thrive, attracting others like them to come and live here too. That is Camden.

It’s calm and busy simultaneously. It’s grungy and crowded and amazing. Just when I think I have a grasp on understanding London, when the feeling of newness becomes a feeling of familiarity, I encounter things so new that I feel like it’s my first day here.

That, I think, is what draws me to this city so much—there’s always change, always new. 

Hostel (Still have both my kidneys... so far)

A drop of sweat makes its way past my brow, eager to meet its companion. But their meeting was too much for them to handle. They fell off my cheek and onto the bed.

The fan has a consistent tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat when it works, if it works at all.

“It sounds like an air strike… like machine guns,” Ben says. The Portugese man was attempting to make the fan work in our room—one of the blades had broken last night when the man from New Zealand accidentally tipped it over in his sleep. The Portugese woman and I were trying to make the blinds work so that we could get some light in our room, and get rid of the obnoxious, piercing red color that permeated into everything from these horrendous window coverings.

The light in our bathroom is broken.

At least it’s not noisy on the 6^th floor. And for a group of 20-somethings (and at least one 19 year old), who’re looking for a shower and a safe place to sleep, this is more than enough.  

If you’ve lived in a dorm, you’ve lived in a hostel. Let me clarify. If you’ve lived in Barret, The Honors College, you haven’t lived in a hostel. If you’ve lived on North Campus, you’d be a little closer. I think “dorms” only exist in America, from what I remember, places to live in at school in India are called “hostels” anyway. I wonder if that’s true everywhere else. I wonder what kind of image the word “hostel” conjures up for Americans versus Europeans… the world of semantics is so interesting (and always aggravating).

In any case, there are 8 of us in this room—2 Americans, 2 Portuguese, 1 New Zealander, 2 Germans, and 1 Frenchman. Some are here on vacation, some are using the hostel as a temporary residence while they go house-hunting, the Frenchman is here pursuing a record deal, the New Zealander is from a small town and just up and left to try his luck here.

I have never been among such a diverse group of people in my life. My curiosity is a glutton, and it’s extremely satisfied.

On a side note, whenever anyone asks us where we're from, we always say “America”. Then, they always ask us what state, which is interesting because I don’t imagine people having that much of an interest in American geography. Some know where Arizona is, some don’t, but all ask. Is that a custom? Am I being rude in not asking them which states they’re from in their respective countries?

Natural History Museum

“Wait! Grishma! Come here. Stand right here. Ready?”

“Yeah…”

“Turn to your right.”

“What?”

“Turn to your right!”

“Oh my! What shall we name this mineral?! How about…”

Several bad puns later, my friend and I walk out of the treasure trove of minerals and towards the largest dinosaur-bone collection in the world.

“Hey wait, the world’s oldest human skeleton is here if you want to see it.”

“Yeah, sure.”

These kinds of conversations can only be had in one of my favorite places in London—The Natural History Museum. It's still as grand and wonderful as the first time I visited, and never ceases to leave me in awe. The Nettle Festival has unfortunately passed, but I couldn’t have found a better way to spend my day. The new exhibits were really interesting, and I got a chance to visit some exhibits I missed last time.

Oh, and I found a fossilized Lapras. No big.