The lady tells us that it is a bit of a squeeze so we
may have to double up. Both of the male counselors volunteer to stand.
As we
enter the third bus the lady who is presumably one of the other tour guides is
talking through the elements into a microphone, prattling on about Margaret
Thatcher, stating the British populace as a whole does not like her and is not
very found of her ways. The group of students on Bus number three seem even
more worn out and facially exhausted. A beautiful girl with black hair who I
will learn later is named Jennifer is resting her head on the shoulder of a man
with glasses she has just met hours earlier.
It feels like we have known each other for a filched
eternity.
The tour guide who has finished verbally evincing her
disdain for Margaret Thatcher, thick drapes of rain baptize the newly
appropriated tour bus. She then comments that we don’t have much to worry about
since we should be arriving at Straford-upon-Avon within the duration of the
hour so now lets all get comfy.
There are more females on this bus than males. The
smell is somehow lighter.
I don’t see Mark. He is on bus number four.
Rain continues to seriously pelt against the side of
the bus and the next thing I know I am asleep and the next thing I know I am
waking up and the rain has subsided and we are outside
The lady who seems more uptight than Vivian is stating
that she hopes each of us has had a nice nap.
She again seems to talk in questions by stating that
it is obvious how we are exhausted due to traveling across the continent and
then finding ourselves overseas. It seems like every other British person I
have spoken with so far has referred to the United States solely as the
continent.
The dark haired lady steps into the microphone and
says that this is Anne Hathaway’s house. She then asks us a question if we know
who Anne Hathaway is or why we are stopping here.
There is silence followed by incomprehensible muffle.
The dark haired lady acknowledged that yes, Anne hatchway was William
Shakespeare’s wife.
She notes that this is the house where Anne Hathaway
grew up and that she was significantly older than William Shakespeare.
There is something almost Thomas Kinkadish about the
house.
The groups enter the cottage in their own individual
cluster. Everyone is wearing their PARADE ’93 red coats cosigning a certain
degree of irony since 200 years ago America was constituted by firing a musket
at any attire worn red on above the waist.
“Mind your head.” The Concierge
says as we step into Anne Hathaway’s house, before commenting in a very uppity
monotone that if we don’t mind, we should also mind our hands as well so as not
to agitate anything in the cultural landmark thank you very much.
***
“Shakespeare only married
Anne Hathaway because he knocked her up.” My English teacher Mr. Reents says to
me while perusing my itinerary.
***
The house feels like the interior of an inhabited tree
stump at a Renaissance fair. The tour
guide is pointing to the beds claiming that mankind was significantly shorter
four hundred years ago. She is stating that it was a Shotgun wedding and the for
the bulk of Shakespeare’s life, he hardly saw his wife and had quite a few
other interests, now didn’t he. The photographer
has secluded several of the older groups and out taking group pictures. I look
for Mark. I look for Heath. Behind me
one member of and older group has a camcorder planted into his right shoulder
and is talking documentary style. Dan (
counselor of group #1) is infomring several of the 12 year old boys not to
worry, that our next stop is the hotel, and we will be eating soon.
The disgruntled concierge says aloud that of course
there’s no public double-you-sea, which is British slang for bathroom.
It feels like I am at a sixth grade field trip to New
Salem. The concierge of Anne Hathaway’s cottage is still scrutinizing us. Several groups are firing pictures of
furniture. Trevor tells us that we should ration are film since this only the first
stop of many and we have a long way yet to go.
We board back in the bus. The tour guide sounds like she
is talking about a three second sexual encounter, informing us that that was
fun, wasn’t it?
Our next stop is the hotel.
No comments:
Post a Comment