The Elephant Explained

On the way to Austin Saturday [to attend their satellite Rally to Restore Sanity—I'll be blogging about it later this week] I happened to hear this delightful interview with Sir Michael Caine on NPR.

I would have enjoyed the interview anyway, but what really caught my ear was Sir Michael's explanation of the curious name used to describe the neighborhood where he grew up. I recently had occasion to recall it when I ate at a Washington, D.C. pub that cribbed the name.

It's the Elephant and Castle, and I'd always wondered where the name came from, how two such disparate nouns got combined in the name of a pub, tube station, and neighborhood.

Of course, I could have googled it before, as I did this morning, and found different explanations. (Here's one that refutes Caine's.) But it was much more fun hearing him discuss it. He even plays on this great name in the title of his new memoir, which he was plugging on the radio: The Elephant to Hollywood. Clever, eh?

This looks familiar...

On a recent business trip to Washington, D.C., I visited a new (to me) museum: the National Portrait Gallery. It's a neat museum and I got to see almost all of the exhibits before my legs—and brain—gave out.

The tour reminded me of our rather brief visit to the British NPG, but the sight that really got my London reminiscence juices flowing was the sight of the covered central court (see above). Doesn't it look like the Great Court at the British Museum? (You can see pictures that I took there at the bottom of this page.)

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And that wasn't my only London-themed memory on the trip.

The next evening I had dinner at this DC eatery, the first time I'd seen the phrase "Elephant and Castle" outside of London.

Apparently it's a chain of pubs with locations all over the country (none in Texas, however, which accounts for my surprise). I didn't have fish and chips there, although I was tempted. I went instead with a local specialty, crab cakes.

But I did tip my cap, or mug, or whatever, to my London days by having a Magners cider, which I was happy to find on the menu.

This became my standard pub order when we would head down to the local O'Neill's to watch a soccer game or just have dinner. Of course, there at the corner of Redcliffe Gardens and Old Brompton Road, the Magners was on draft. But I must make do with what's available on this side of the pond. Unfortunately.

Pints and pub food

Something reminds me of my time in London almost every day, but we really had a London-type experience last evening. The only difference was the football they were playing with on the TV in the "pub" was the wrong shape.

Well, maybe not everything else was the same. We were actually at a brewery, that has a pub on the side, and I don't remember visiting any of those in London. Specifically, Blue Star brewery, one of our kids' favorite places to visit when they come home.

We weren't watching the aforementioned football, either, as we opted to eat outside on the patio (another non-London touch). And we were on the banks of the San Antonio River, not the Thames.

But Henry and I shared a delicious plate of fish-and-chips! As good as any I had in London. (Although I missed the mushy peas, the cole slaw on the plate instead was excellent. I know I should have taken a photo of the food, JaPRA, but I didn't think of it until it was gone!)

And we had pints of beer. I know I drank more beer in London than I usually do at home, simply because it's what one does in pubs. Although I would often substitute cider, one of the many culinary discoveries I made while in England. But I do occasionally indulge here, especially when we have guests, like Hal and Carey, spending a few days with us while their Austin house's bathroom gets re-tiled.

Along with the beer and food, we had an enjoyable, relaxing evening of conversation. And, given the high bsq [beer snob quotient] of the younger generation, a good bit of the conversation revolved around the beer we were drinking. The aspect that most interested me, however, was the size of our servings.

I thought my glass held more than the ½ pints I usually ordered in London, which led us into a long discussion of the relative sizes of British and American pints. H&C have had beer all over the world and so there was a lot of experience to draw upon, if not actual evidence. But I was practically convinced that either 1) my memory was faulty, or 2) that I was misled by the size/shape of the glasses.

However, internet research has proved me right! According to this well-researched and referenced Wikipedia article, British pints contain 568 milliliters, while American pints have 473. I also found this historical account, which includes the same figures, plus several others.

A pint, by any other name, or size, would still taste as good. But I was glad to find some hard figures to quantify yet another difference between my life here and now and how I lived during my "Dream Season."

A good result

I got to watch England play soccer in a pub again today!

Now, it was a slightly different experience than the last time. That was in September, 2008, in the Gloucester Arms, in the Gloucester Road. For the duration of that match, I was standing in a crowd of English supporters (supplemented by myself and some of my sports class students)—and I mean a crowd, dense enough to make it hard to hang on to your beer.

Today, it was a much less hectic scene, and arriving at the establishment 45 minutes before game time got us a front row seat. (Unlike at the Gloucester Arms, when all the seats must have been taken long before then!)


However, the fact that an American food and beverage establishment, here in the heart of gridiron football territory, advertised World Cup broadcasts, offered game-drink-specials, and—eventually—drew a nice crowd, means that real football is a lot more popular here than it was even just a few years ago.

This wasn't just any England game, either, but the first time in 60 years that they'd played us—as in USA-us—in a World Cup match. (Readers of this blog might remember my report on the draw that set up this epic encounter.) An exciting, but also somewhat disorienting, situation for Anglophile soccer fans such as myself.

How to behave at such a match? I've never rooted against either of these teams! Normally, though, I do like to root for underdogs, which made it easier for me to acceptably patriotic and shout USA! USA! USA! with gusto. I want it recorded, however, that I did stand for both national anthems.

As it turned out, the game ended with a great result, from my point of view, at least. It was a draw. Both teams got a point to aid in qualifying for the knock-out stages, and hopefully both of them will get to keep playing far into the tournament. And then, who knows?! We might not have to wait 60 years for another re-match!

Flashback

I have good London flashbacks all the time, like any time the Tower Bridge is in a commercial, or when I hear the "news music" on BBC America (which I watch more than I used to!).

But going to and from Buffalo, New York, for a librarians' conference this week, I had flashbacks of another kind, triggered by many hours spent in the Newark airport. Some of my faithful readers might remember our somewhat nightmarish return to the states in December, 2008, which involved an uncomfortable overnight in good ol' EWR.

This year I wasn't there any longer than I was supposed to be, but just happened to have long layovers there both coming and going. No food vouchers this time around, though, and I swear the recurring security announcement that I came to loathe when trying to sleep is broadcast in the same voice! If I ever meet that woman, I won't be responsible for my actions!

In addition to the familiarity of the security voice, an uncanny thing happened when my Houston-Newark flight unloaded, and I stepped into the terminal for the first time. For just a split second, the smell of the place triggered a rather sharp Proustian response. It didn't last, and, I hasten to add, the smell isn't unpleasant, but it was a very strange and unexpected little jolt from the primitive wiring 'way down in the reptilian brain.

There's no avoiding airport layovers, I guess, especially when traveling somewhere as out-of-the-way as Buffalo, but next time I might try to find a flight with layovers somewhere else. I've had enough of Newark.

Closing a chapter

I will never forget my semester in London; in fact, it's never far from my thoughts. But I have now set it behind me in a major way.

I have finally finished getting my photos all organized and displayed, along with reminiscences, links to blog posts and voluminous Flickr sets, as well as appropriate maps.

Whew! What a job, but what fun! I was able to relive such great times while working on this project. And I hope you enjoy perusing My Dream Season: Living in London, 2008.

Westminster Abbey & the Victoria Tower of the Houses of Parliament

I'm going to give you some more details about the project, scattering some selected photos along the way, to whet your appetite, I hope, for more.

The Serpentine in Hyde Park

As I discussed in an earlier post, I've divided up the London photos into several areas like Museums, the River, Churches, Architecture, Everyday Life, etc. Each section has at least one corresponding Flickr set that includes many more photos thanwhat's included on the web pages. The master Dream Season Flickr collection is here. Warning! There are a lot of photos in this collection!

All Souls College, Oxford

Within the web pages, I have embedded links to appropriate blog posts, so I hope they will serve as a sort of index to supplement my labels, should I, or anyone else, be looking for a particular posting.

part of the Elgin Marbles in the British Museum

I also have sections for other places I visited in the U.K., such as Oxford, Wales, and Scotland, and for Germany and Italy.

Wood of the Waterfalls in Wales

Candles in Santa Maria della Salute, Venice

Me & Henry at the Sans Souci Palace, Potsdam

A late-inning addition to the pages is a series of google maps, showing where the sights are located, and places that we visited. These maps were particularly challenging to make for the places outside of London, since I didn't spend as much time there and didn't become as familiar with these locales. But making them helped put all of these trips more firmly in my memory. And the maps might be of use to others planning brief excursions to these great destinations.

Avebury stone circle

And my giant "London Rambles" map is still available, showing every place I could think of that I experienced in London. Let me know if you see any I left out!

Window of St. Margaret Chapel, Edinburgh Castle

I still plan to post occasionally to this blog, when something particularly reminds me of London, on anniversaries, and at other times when the mood strikes me.

Memorial cairn at the Culloden Battlefield

But in the meantime, I hope you enjoy looking at the photos and reading about my wonderful adventure!

Brompton Cemetery

Norwich connections

Recommendation: if you want to read a really good book about airmen in World War II, read Wings of Morning: the story of the last American bomber shot down over Germany in World War II, by Thomas Childers. I just finished it and found it mesmerizing from beginning to tragic end.

The Norwich connection?

In November, 2008, while on his second visit to me in London, Henry took a train (by himself!) to Norwich to do some family history research and had a wonderful time. In addition to the family stuff there, he enjoyed seeing the general sights, including their very impressive cathedral. He wants to go back and do more family history touring, and I'll accompany him this time.


It will have a special meaning for me after reading the book. The airmen featured in this marvelously detailed history were stationed near Norwich at the end of the war.

Mr. Childers is a professional historian whose area of expertise is the German side of World War II. But in Wings of Morning he tells the story of his uncle's B-24 crew. Using large collections of letters, painstaking research into official documents, and interviews with veterans from the same bomb group, he paints a richly detailed, and inevitably heartbreaking, picture of his uncle's time in England and of his final mission.

Reading the tragic story of Mr. Childers' family's loss, I was reminded yet again how lucky I am that my father survived his service (his missions were undertaken in a smaller bomber, but he lived much the same life, and in the same area of England, that was described in Wings of Morning). And also how wonderful that our mother saved Dad's journal, letters and papers, so that I could have the satisfaction of undertaking the same kind of research, on a much smaller scale, that consumed Mr. Childers.

I don't really need another reason to want to re-visit the U.K., but now I have one.

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I actually have read Mr. Childers' books in the wrong order. Some months ago we got a new book of his in at the library and I was intrigued enough to take it home to read. It's called Soldier from the War Returning: the Greatest Generation's Troubled Homecoming from World War II. Since it's also about, to some extent, his family's experiences, I knew a bit of what to expect when I checked out Wings of Morning. I also knew I was in for a good read—although he's not a novelist by trade, Mr. Childers really knows how to tell a story.

The newest book is a very sobering look at the costs paid by soldiers who fought in this "good war." And how there can really never be any such thing.