Webbready

Given the extraneous commentary within my words and length of this entry, the text I present will probably be the most abridged so far of the excepts. However, all errata (and ignorance) within the words will remain.

January 17, 2000

…[I] headed out the door with the rest of the group…En route to St. Paul’s, the group found out the Central line at Holborn was closed, due to a potential bomb threat. (Someone left an unattended package in the Tube and as a result, the bomb squad was called in.) Instead of backtracking and riding the Tube around to St. Paul’s or the nearest available stop, Dr. Adam decided we should walk the distance…It was a relatively long walk, although not nearly as lengthy as the commute last week….Finally we reached the church and the sight was amazing; little did I know the real journey had yet to begin.

Once everyone was accounted for we went inside, and my eyes beheld one of the most wonderful sights I had ever seen. Words cannot describe this place; the amount of detain in the ceilings and on the floor and the number of statues were incredible. The most surprising thing, at least so far, was that a small part of St. Paul’s was dedicated to the American soldiers who died in World War II. That gesture was especially generous, considering that I know of no other such corresponding memorial for other Allied troops in America. After this, we passed a photo on the wall, a photo that Dr. Adam had described. In the bottom half of the picture, a thick black cloud, the aftermath of the destruction, hung over London. Over the cloud in the sunlight shined St. Paul’s cathedral, rebelliously standing tall in the midst of peril. I had never seen this photograph before and while it didn’t bring me to tears, it was indeed a beautiful photograph. Still, no photograph could match what was to come.

A large portion of my group, including myself, decided to go upstairs. Upstairs was not merely a flight of stairs; it was the longest staircase I had ever climbed, winding upward to the left. A few students joked that we were in a staircase that never ended, but after climbing the staircase stair by stair — we made it. We reached the mysterious quiet level where it was rumored that a whisper could travel from one end of the level to the other. The rumor was an exaggeration, of course, but not by much. I could have stopped now and have been satisfied, but there was still a higher goal, and I intended to pursue it.

The next group of stairs was circular, but the steps were uneven and they curved in the opposite direction. Up the spiral I went and after the first break (there was a small area where one could sit) I felt a sense of accomplishment., As I climbed the stars, though, passing the second, third, fourth, and fifth breaks, I wondered once again if there was an end to these stairs. Somehow, I managed to make it to the end of these stone steps and reached a critical point — more stairs.

Just looking at the black, metallic spirals made me want to cry. I thought I had reached the top, and yet there was still so much to go. Nevertheless, I forced myself on. After all, I told myself, they’re only stairs. Stairs that like the paintings in the Tate Gallery overwhelmed me by their sheer numbers. A few flights up, I was desperate for water. I would buy anything to drink at this moment. Someone offered me some water, and I was highly tempted to drink of it, but no, I had to do this on my own. I began to climb the stairs again, hoping that my journey would end soon…

At last I thought I had reached the top. There were a few more stairs, yet these stone steps were much more dangerous than all the ones preceeding them. Up I climbed, the space getting tighter and tighter and I growing more tired and tired. Finally, there was an opening, and the air was cool and full of light from the outside. All I had to do was go a little further.

Upon stepping on the balcony and feeling the cold air hit my face, a complete and utter sense of awe filled me. For an instant, I fantasized of staying up here in this spot forever and never coming down…Who would want to go down when one has the sky at one’s leisure? If this is what the clouds bring, I bid the earth farewell to spend the rest of my existence from the heavens.

Yet I am a human, and the earth still has a hold on me. She bade me to come down and while I loved the sight, I had to return to the ground safely…I went down the the same stairs I had climbed before, and ironically I thought the set of stairs was too short. I wanted a long journey, a journey which I could inwardly or outwardly sing a tune, tell a story, or imagine a scene to come to life. None of this would happen, for I reached the bottom all too quickly. The ground reclaimed me, but it was not a reunion as happy as I expected. Will this be the same way when I return home?