The London Dead

Clearly, I have abandoned my duty of blog making and voted upon adventure taking. Since the last time I was here, the trips I have taken are 1)to Florida for an Alumni soccer game 2)road trip to Murfeesboro, NC for a soccer game and 3)London to visit my cousin and her husband, and Melissa (a college soccer buddy).

For warm-up into the blog world again, I am supplying an assignment (due tomorrow too) from my creative writing class. We had to do a 1 page story that included the words: fragrant, hazy, frosty, coo, and nutty. Perfect words to describe London, right?

Alright, have fun and do a wordsearch!

The London Dead

Behind me I let the door to the flat slam closed. Since my arrival in London, a few days ago, I have acquired the stride of a prison escapee. There is no particular reason why I need to rush at all, but I certainly feel like I fit in now and it seems to be more exciting this way too. It’s a hazy morning—typical London air for November.

I walk a block to go to the Maida Vale Tube station. The tubes are generally frequented by both people and pigeons alike—if these people would slow down once in awhile they’d probably realize their inner desire to put a bb gun to each and every one of those rodents due to their never ending coo. No worry though, the constant scurry of the crowd drowns out all their annoyance—well, maybe not their calcium deposits.


I scan my oyster card and I’m through the gates of the underground. The smells of London and the heat emanating from the stagnant air below waft to my nose—what a fragrant whiff; one of sewage and sweat, and perhaps bird pooh too.


By now, I am a tube connoisseur; I am master of tube navigation—then, I have to get off. I probably walked past the road the Highgate Cemetery is on three times before realizing it is the right road after all.

The gate to the cemetery is built of stone and is quite medieval looking; I find my way through and there is a small building past the entrance that looks like an American fair booth. There’s a ticket master for self-guided tours—I was under the impression that there was a guided tour that would include ghost stories and real life stories about the dead people living there. I head on my way through the grave paths and, unmarked paths too, only to crunch the frosty leaves below—I’m careful not to step on the graves just in case my childhood fear of zombies comes true.

While I’m alone in the woods among the dead, I suddenly feel like a nutty person walking around a graveyard with no purpose—taking pictures purely for the sake to make-up my own stories about them later. At the end of my hour or two of perusing for the best written marker, I call it quits. I didn't encounter any engraving that stood out, but I did procure a love for the name "Mabel" and a curiosity for the meaning of "Ruhe Sanft."



Later when I get back to America, my mother is appalled and disappointed at my picture taking because I took more grave pictures than all of London. Maybe what she really wanted was a picture of me next to the graves.


I head back to the tubes much more speedily then my arrival to the graves. I conclude my travels, for the day, at the Museum of London.






Being that the Event/Travel journal doesn't enable me to really post as often as I would like I think I'll be mixing it up a little. I will include random stories I'm working on and a space for dreams, dream places to go, and asilly idea journal.