Friday evening, at about 6:45, I was found myself standing in the basement of Waterstones, amongst stacks of books and complimentary glasses of wine, marveling at the series of events that had lead me to that particular spot.
Although I'm here seeing the sights and eating the food and (un)consciously immersing myself in British culture, I still attend the mandatory 16 hours of class per week and complete the accompanying homework (sometimes [a lot of the time] begrudgingly). Class itself is awesome. It involves sitting in on sessions of Parliament, wandering the exhibits of the British Museum and the National Gallery while taking notes on the works of little known artists like Botticelli and Da Vinci, and at least once a week (sometimes twice), hitting the West End for a night at the theater and then (on Tuesdays and Thursdays) bringing thoughts and interpretations to my professor's charming house in Muswell Hill to dissect the evening's performance over tea.
This aspect of the London program's curriculum is ultimately why I decided to apply to go to London. We are exposed to a wide range of shows, all plays- from titles in glowing marquees in sight of Trafalgar Square, to fringe productions in tiny second story theaters. Last week we saw Thomas Pinter's The Homecoming (hauntingly bizarre and reminiscent of plunging one's feet in cold water on a warm day, and the sudden shift in temperature spikes an unsettling chill from the nerves in your feet to the top of your head via a discomforting shiver in your spine), and the week before we witnessed a rather artistic and quite overwrought interpretation of Herons by Simon Stephens. Tomorrow we've got tickets for Pink Mist by Owen Sheers, which was published first as a poem about three young Brits who go off to fight in Afghanistan and has since when translated to the stage.
Every student is assigned to present on one show, which requires that they A.) see the show but also B.) read the original script, so that they may compare, contrast, and decide whether the "heart of the play" as intended by the author was adequately justified by the director on stage. I volunteered to present on Pink Mist, which meant acquiring a personal copy of the poem/play. Aside from deciding to go to London and signing up for the Advanced Theater course, this is Important Event #1 That Lead Me To Waterstones at 6:45 PM Wondering How I Had Gotten There.
Since Pink Mist isn't exactly main stream, I quickly learned it wouldn't be available in every bookstore. Or most bookstores, for that matter. After perusing the Poetry, Drama, and Fiction sections (to no avail) of the Waterstones across the street from my school, I was informed by a lovely employee that the last (and only) copy had been nabbed from the premises just a few days earlier. Important Event #2.
She said they had a copy at their Picadilly and Trafalgar Square locations. I decided an early evening jaunt to Trafalgar Square sounded just fine (ehem, #3).
Upon arriving to the store, I saw a chalkboard sign advertising upcoming visits from various authors. John Irving's name topped the list (to my delight) with the words "Sold Out!" in thick chalk lettering right next to it (to my dismay). So I continued on in my pursuit of Pink Mist.
Which required going to the basement, only to find the whole between the Biography and Art and Hobby sections blocked off by chairs and guarded by the speculative eyes of clipboard clutching Waterstones employees. Fully focused on my quest and Poetry section in sight, I fumbled past one woman and clumsily avoided collision with a table of wine glasses, in which complimentary chardonnay was being served and offered to the people with names on the aforementioned clipboards.
It appeared I had walked into an intimate event. An intimate sold out event? An intimate sold out event featuring John Irving? An intimate sold out event featuring John Irving that I hadn't bought a ticket to and wasn't on the list for but it didn't appear as if they were kicking casual bystanders and shoppers out of the basement so maybe if I pretended to be reading or looking for more books or something I could hang around until it started and listen to the author of one of my all time favorite literary works (A Prayer for Owen Meany of course, in case you were wondering) talk about his latest literary work, all the time reflecting on the series of events that lead me to this basement in this bookstore in Trafalgar Square in one of the greatest cities in the world?
Which is, of course, exactly what I had walked into. Important Event #4.
I had unsuspectingly dropped into a reading and moderated question and answer session with John Irving, just a mere ten minutes before it was scheduled to begin. When he walked out and took his seat, a copy of Avenue of Mysteries in his hands, I shyly ducked out of the Poetry section and edged closer to Biography until it didn't appear they were telling people who hadn't accounted for a name on a list to leave. I could have probably even taken a seat next to someone who had actually paid for the event as opposed to myself, who had just been in the right place at the right time.
Which is what I would believe if I was Thomas Pinter, an expert in the absurd who thinks that nothing happens for a reason and everything is random. Well I would like to inform Mr. Pinter that this particular occurrence was not random and I have documentation of the chain of events to prove it. So blah blah blah everything happens for a reason. Fate. Horoscopic stuff.
Whatever it was, it was really cool and I felt very lucky. Irving read from his latest novel, and answered questions about grief and sex and why disastrous things happen to his characters at the most impressionable points in their lives, and whether it's better to know our fate before it happens or to be proven wrong once it does. He told us about auditioning for Romeo and Juliet multiple times hoping for the role of Mercutio, only to be repeatedly scorned with the part of Tybault. He went back and forth with the moderator for a good hour and ten minutes and told us he couldn't do a book signing because he writes all his books by hand and, as a result, has had multiple surgeries on various ligaments and tendons and likes to save vigorous scribbling for his novels at the expense of personal signatures and signings at events. Which was okay. We forgave him. There were a bunch of pre-signed copies available.
After it was over, I paid for Pink Mist and left the bookstore. I wandered until I found a Turkish restaurant, where I ate some lamb kebabs with grilled vegetables and rice, cracked open my newest purchase in an attempt to get some reading done (the thought of the presentation in four days too distant to be real), but was distracted by kebabs and recent Important Events. I wondered if I was really lucky or if I was just where I was supposed to be.
No comments:
Post a Comment