I Found the 19th Century!

On Saturday, the group went to Bath, England for our last group trip. I've mentioned feeling mired in a depressive funk lately, but I drew some strength from this city. It is so rich with the vibes of Regency-era husband-seeking snobs that it made me positively gleeful. The thing about Jane Austen, overrated as her books may be, is that all of that schmaltzy ball and carriage and fancy cravat culture actually took place at one time. It is believable, when you're in the right setting.

We toured the Roman baths, which were steamy and the water looked as poisonous as it probably is after all these years (our guest lecturer for the BCA class mentioned something about "meningitis bacteria"--I didn't lean too closely over the water.) We also briefly surveyed some other Roman architecture and ate odd puffy buns at a tea shop built in the 1680's which is notorious for the things.

Then, we broke up into various mini-groups for the afternoon. As some sort of curse for daring to become happy about being in a 19th century setting, I fell into a group of very squealy...(but nice, very nice, I'll shut up now) people who wanted to see things like "PRINCESS DIANA'S GOWNS AT THE FASHION MUSEUM! OHEMGEE!" This was okay. I like fashion. Not normal fashion, but anyway...

The group was chosen based on their willingness to visit the Jane Austen museum, and fortunately we did that first. The museum was a pocket-sized house, which had adorable souvenirs but charged a ridiculous admission fee for the "admitted only" content (a tiring lecture and access up a flight of stairs to see several mannequins in Regency clothes). It reminded me of the Beatrix Potter house in Gloucester, which was adorable but really a glorified souvenir shop. I did, however, briefly locate the 19th century outside, in the form of the Dickensian guy I had a photo taken with (shown above). It was apparently his full-time seasonal job to dress up like that and hand out coupons to some restaurant. "God bless us, every one."

We proceeded onward to the Fashion Museum, after some of us paused to squeal in several shops about how adorable things were. At the door of the fashion museum, the sarcastic, quiet girl I liked in the group decided to wander off and do other things. My stomach sank, with no one there to defend me or make witty commentary. "ABANDON HOPE ALL YE THAT ENTER HERE." I was getting ticked off by the time we got to the museum. I was hungry and dehydrated. The admission fee was again, ridiculous, but at least this place was an actual museum. I started to sigh internally when I came to the first display case of mannequins clothed in Louis Vuitton and other modern designers I could care less about. Honestly, one of the examples of men's fashion from the 90's involved a ripped t-shirt and parachute pants. Bleh. However, my withered, moldy historical heart began to beat when I saw cases brimming with 18th century silk polonaise gowns, hand-embroidered gloves, and little tiny slippers. I stood in awe for moments, until the rest of the group pranced away.

Once again, my efforts to make myself happy were rewarded with angst and irritation. The rest of the group found a room with "play" corsets and crinolines and decided to try them on and complain in trite ways about how much the 19th century probably sucked, while giggling about how sexy they were, and having the fat girl in the corner snap copious pictures of them like a very worn out and angry paparazzo. Given that the major shreds of happiness in my life come from history, I was a wee bit sick of hearing whining about corsets for the 900th occasion, and ready to jump back in time if possible, accepting small pox and death in childbirth as mere ripples in otherwise calm water.

Fortunately, we put aside our fake garments and moved on after that. Prior to the Hall of Diana (I have nothing against her, it just wasn't that interesting to me), I wearily dragged myself through more rows of fashion displays. In the midst of my stupor, I noticed a dress that wasn't like the others, in a display of black clothing. It was conservative and plain, with much wider proportions than anything else in the museum. It was also made for a very, very short person.



It was Queen Victoria's iconic dress. The dress she wore as an angry old widow, proclaiming "we are NOT AMUSED" to the masses. I almost cried. The 19th century came to find me.

And then I dutifully trotted off, and viewed someone else's happy royal fantasies.