Scientology protest: way more epic than I thought it would be

So the day after having tea at Primrose Hill (beautiful sunset, gorgeous view of London) and watching Cloverfield I woke up at 8, wrapped a scarf around my face, put my jacket hood on, dropped my camera in my pocket, and took the tube to Blackfriars to attend the Scientology protest.

IT WAS CRAZY.

Things started off kind of slow before the scheduled start time of 11, so people found creative ways to pass the time:

But things got rolling pretty fast. By noon:

It was amazing. At its peak, at least five hundred people were massed on the sidewalks outside the Scientology building on Queen Victoria Street, across the street, and on the open balcony of the building facing it. Signs were carried. Chants were shouted (”Knowledge is free! Scientology is not!”) — with a megaphone. Pedestrians took fliers and listened and gaped. Cars (including black cabs and red buses) honked as they drove past. Also a guy in a horse mask played the ukulele:

Rick Astley (rickrolling, for you meme illiterates) and the Fresh Prince theme (because Will Smith has shown sympathy towards Scientology in the past) blared out of a boombox, amplified by the megaphone, and people whooped and danced and sang along.

Posters about Lisa McPherson got taped over window displays of Dianetics books.

Policemen, mounted, on foot, and in cruisers, turned up to amiably keep order, joke around with protesters, and flatly refuse to cooperate with angry Scientologists.

The whole place was crawling with camera crews and reporters interviewing people. Some of them looked pretty official:

And while most of the protest attendees were guys with long, sometimes greasy hair and slightly awkward clothing, I did manage to befriend some surprisingly cool people — a camera crew of two recent uni graduates and one wonderfully crazy Venezuelan professional cameraman, making a documentary for their small company on the protest. We trooped up to Tottenham Court Road together.

On the tube ride there, one insane masked man kept sticking his head out of the doors at every stop and yelling to the people waiting outside, “SCIENTOLOGY IS A CULT,” then hastily ducking back in just as he was about to get decapitated.

Police had shut down half the road across from the Scientology place, and about three hundred Anonymous crammed into the fenced-off section to cheer and jeer:

I watched one of my new friends interview the UK spokesman for Scientology, on camera, with an impressively articulate pretense at neutrality. After they’d gotten as much footage as they needed, we all headed to the French House in Soho to drink and celebrate and argue about whether or not a political point of view should and could be effectively edited out of a documentary. After a few pints, we wandered around Chinatown, which was still in a tizzy from ringing in the Year of the Rat, and I had the following exchange with one of the cameramen, whom we’ll call Polo, for his shirt:

“So how are you liking London so far?”

“I LOVE IT. I mean… it’s very nice. I’m having a really good time.”

“How long are you staying here, then?”

“Until June.”

“Ahh, I see.”

Short pause.

“So … do you have a boyfriend back in the States?”

“No.” Blush. Is he … what … I’d been talking mostly to his friend (whom we’ll call Plaid, for his amazing pants) up until this point, and honestly, I’d thought Polo didn’t like me — he seemed to have a bit of a chip on his shoulder, and was quiet much of the time. But his next question cleared things up a bit:

“And … have you met anyone in London yet?”

Well, that was subtle.

“I, ah, haven’t really been looking …” I mumbled, beet-red.

He appeared satisfied, and we talked about other things (taste in music, plans for the week) until I lied and said I had to meet Flatmate for something and went my own way. Polo, Plaid and I swapped numbers, and they promised to invite me to their next filming. On my way back, I passed the best bookstore ever. I’ve always wanted to photograph the neon sign in the window, but have never had the guts to do so because it seems so aggravatingly touristy to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and take a picture of a bookstore. But yesterday I thought, Fuck it:

See? READING IS SEXY. And England is maybe not as classy as we Americans like to think it is.

I went shopping at Sainsbury’s while still slightly drunk, bought all sorts of things I didn’t really need, got home, tore the boots off of my aching feet, and uploaded my photos of the protest onto a new flickr account to share with the internet. (Within a day I had 1,500 photo views and people on forums calling me a hero. It was sweet.)

Fifteen minutes later Flatmate knocked on my door to invite me to the J Dilla Changed My Life tribute night at Cargo … and I put my boots back on. But that’s a story for another entry.

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