I was so tired that I slept almost the entire chunnel ride to England. But oh, how I needed it. The sleep was lovely.
We finally got to London, figured out the metro situation, and arrived at our hostel. Our hostel was in Camden, notoriously artsy. I have never seen so many tattooed, pierced, dread-locked rebels in my life. It was kind of a cool vibe. Not ghetto-ish at all. Just lots of young people trying to express themselves through dress, music, and attitude. Our hostel was above a pub (reception was actually at the bar and that's how we got in). I felt like I was really living in London. It sounds strange, but I really liked Camden.
We spent this first day in London just wandering around Camden. We went shopping. I bought a couple things for Formal Hall.
For some reason, the internet at our hostel wasn't working on our laptops, and we PANICKED because our showing of Les Mis was at seven, and we still had no idea how to get there. We RAN to the local McDonalds, which does offer free wi-fi (thank you thank you thank you), and figured it all out. We booked it back to our hostel, and went from sloppy train-riding look to appropriate theater look in under thirty minutes.
We did make it to the theater with time to spare.
It was interesting to compare this version of Les Mis with the Spanish version. Both had very different strong/weak points, as far as actors, singing, set, and interpretation goes.
But you know, sooner or later, you kind of forget about those things and just get lost in the story. I can't really explain why it touches me so much, but it does. Words don't do it justice and there are some things you just have to feel with your heart.
The Jean Valjean in this production was extraordinary. Just extraordinary. I cried and cried and cried and it was a good cry. It felt good. I think that we're all seeking redemption, searching for some sort of validation for living. I think that there's a huge overarching human story and that there have been a million and one reinterpretations since the world began--and not a single interpretation is the same. Sometimes you're the miserable one, and sometimes it's your neighbor, and nobody can explain why and no matter how you take life, nobody really feels human emotion the exact way you do. And I think that's incredible.
For however long we were in that theater, it was Jean's story, Cosette's story, Eponine's story, Javert's story, Fantine's story, Gavroche's story, Enjolras's story, endless stories. Stories that don't sugarcoat the way life plays out. Whether it's prostitution to save your daughter or unfairly wasting your life in prison, sometimes life doesn't offer you many choices. And sometimes life does offer you choices and they're both lose-lose situations. Do you suffer in silence under a heavy-handed monarchy or do you die fighting for freedom and liberty? What if half-way through the battle, you realize that you're fighting for a losing cause, that you're going to die and nothing will change? What then? Is it better to be forgotten or a martyr? Is it possible to find redemption and happiness in circumstances of misery and death? And the questions just go on and on and on--and I realize that none of this makes any sense, but somehow it all makes sense in my head.
When I was in the theater, I was living their story. But as soon as I walked out, I realized the momentous-ness that awaited me in living my story. And I couldn't wait to just experience everything that I possibly could. To make conscious decisions and take control of where my future was going. To still embrace the uncontrollable and spontaneous. To learn and to grow and to burst.
Anyways, we walked out of the theater in awe, and obviously, an experience that epic deserved some McDonalds. I exercised my conscious decision-making skills and ate chicken nuggets. Ten, in fact. Katelyn and I split a box of twenty.
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| YUM. |
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