I just finalized the logistics of my return, mostly the part between the bus ride and the plane ride. I feel terrific as a result. Now I've just got a few hours and half a suitcase to fill. I already had my fortification meal, the rest of my various viands thrown together with pasta. That was done early to give it a chance to settle before I drag bags. And the bus station is only two blocks away, the bus leaves me two blocks from the Tube, which takes me directly to Heathrow for three pound fifty—oh, oh, it’s so great to have this all figured out. I hope nothing horribly derails it, but even if it does, I’ve got a several hour buffer.
Alright, calm down, tell stories. I made my final forays into Edinburgh today. First I spent several hours in the National Museum, mostly just wandering. It’s a heck of a museum, but I had taken some decongestant (just to be clear) that made me feel kind of spacey. That cleared up by the time I got to the fourth floor. “For my safety” they closed the rooftop garden, which was alright, since I’ve gotten some great views of the city already.
I looked hard for an exhibit or sign or note about the college kids who stole the Stone of Scone from Westminster, but couldn’t find anything (but it’s a big museum). Looking for the name of the stone just now on Wikipedia, I found what I was essentially looking for.
After the big museum, I walked up near the castle to visit the Scotch Whisky Experience. I’ve tried a few Scotch whiskies while I’ve been in the UK, and a couple were like nothing I’d ever tasted before, so my curiosity about them carried me to this quasi-museum. The normal exhibit, which is like an over-21 It’s A Small World (you ride along in a barrel), was closed for renovation, so all I and my four fellow tourists got was a PowerPoint in their corporate meeting room. This was good enough for me: We got to hold some peat, see pictures of distilleries at work, and have it all explained to us by a charming Scottish girl. Then she led us through a brief tasting. I know others have done this with wine, but I got to do the whole swirling-and-smelling-and-sipping thing. I tried to stifle my smile when she described noticing about ten different flavors in the two whiskies we tried. (I have a hard time taking that so seriously as some do. Only one flavor had affected me greatly in my few tastings prior to this: campfire. A few of the distilleries on the island of Islay [“eye-la”] go all out with the drying of the malt over peat, and the final product seriously tastes like a peaty, earthy campfire.) Anyway, they gave each of us a free glass that I will try to bring back in one piece.
That was the end of my tourism for the day (the first museum was a long time). I finished my Christmas shopping (oh! no, don’t get too excited), then came back to the hostel and did the rest of the stuff I already told you about.
I guess this is the end of my trip. Many of you helped make it happen, either through financial or moral support, and I am very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very grateful. So grateful that I actually typed out each of those twenty veries. I hope my connections are all successful so I can come back and thank you in person.
Thanks for reading this blog. I might write on it a few more times if I have more to say about my trip, and I’ll probably keep the username and password just in case I get lost abroad again.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
View from the Top
It was a little colder today, but that didn’t stop me from accomplishing that task which I set myself in the blog yesterday; to scale the large hill in the Holyrood Park. The little map I’ve been using, which labels forty-odd places at which to shop, eat, or be entertained, shows only a sliver of the edge of the park before it ends in a border of ads. So I had a general direction, but no sense of the place.
First I climbed another hill, a smaller one, that I had seen rising between buildings on my regular walk into the busy district. This is Carlton Hill, which features a staircase and paved pathway to the top, where one can look at a few monuments and oversee the city—or look south toward the great crag and all 251m of Andrew’s Seat, rocks which would tower over the city if they weren’t set in the midst of comfortable acreage of grassy highlandish terrain. Once I got to the top of Carlton and saw this, I thought, the heck with this hill, I want THAT one.
It was some job finding it, because as you may know (or will soon learn as I harp on it continuously upon my return) none of the streets here are straight. Grids were invented after Europe was invented. When I see the city maps of Oxford, London, or Edinburgh, I see no sense behind it, in other words, nonsense. Try it, see for yourself. (Let alone the fact that street names change every block. I’m used to that now, and it really couldn’t bring any more order into the system if it were otherwise.)
Once I had traversed the web of street between the two hills, I could clearly see the crag rising above me, but I saw no signs that said, Park Entrance This Way, or any such thing. I stopped to ask some policemen if I was headed correctly and they said yes, just keep going, on up into the hills if I liked. I guess I expected a sign-in/sign-out thing, or a stop-to-make-sure-you’ve-got-what-you-need station, or a ranger, or something. Nope. I could hardly find the park bathroom, but I did. That was the extent of my preparation.
The rest was just hiking. I don’t know how long it took, probably an hour and some altogether. I aimed for the higher peak first, and wound around on various branching paths until I got there. Since it was all uphill, I steamed on up, and at the top, sweaty under my six layers, I didn’t stick around in the wind. Plus, there were a lot of people there with me. I tried to figure out how to get to the crag, a lower area with a better view and less people, and took a more direct route than was probably advisable. I did a little slipping and sliding (it was cold enough that where there hadn’t been sun very long, there was frost, which makes rocks slippery), some sitting on my hands and lowering myself down—stuff that I did that time I was lost in the Cascades. But I wasn’t lost, found a better path eventually and made the crag in short order. I took some pictures, a few panorama movies. From these peaks, one can see all of Edinburgh’s old stuff, like the castle and the churches and generally all of what I would call ‘old town’, which in a place like Europe can be very old. But to the opposite direction, one can see the Firth of Forth, the water which Edinburgh fronts. From the big hill, you can even make out one of the Isle of May, which I believe is one of the Hebrides. It reminded me of Chicago, it reminded me of San Francisco, it reminded me of Port Townsend. It was some view.
Then I climbed down and walked to High Street, where I (finally) bought a scarf from a very jovial shopkeeper. I asked him how he would recommend wearing it and he said, “There was actually something about scarves in the paper today.” I was a little surprised to see, in the pages turned on our way to the scarf article, some full-page full-frontal nudity. Clearly I wasn’t in Kansas.
As much as I’ve complained about prices here, I was also surprised today by the price of my recovery dinner. I went across the street from the hostel to a little shop and bought, for 56p, a serious amount of Brussels sprouts and some carrots. Sprouts cost too much where I shop in America, so I rarely get them, or I get them frozen. But these were fresh, and best of all, I didn’t need a knife to prepare them. I added them to my recovery meal—as you might imagine, I had a hankering for some pasta after all that walking.
Tomorrow I’ll hit the museums, have one more bigdeliciousexcellent pasta party, and hop on the night bus to London. Then I travel for 24 hours, and then I finally stop traveling. But you’ll hear from me again before that.
First I climbed another hill, a smaller one, that I had seen rising between buildings on my regular walk into the busy district. This is Carlton Hill, which features a staircase and paved pathway to the top, where one can look at a few monuments and oversee the city—or look south toward the great crag and all 251m of Andrew’s Seat, rocks which would tower over the city if they weren’t set in the midst of comfortable acreage of grassy highlandish terrain. Once I got to the top of Carlton and saw this, I thought, the heck with this hill, I want THAT one.
It was some job finding it, because as you may know (or will soon learn as I harp on it continuously upon my return) none of the streets here are straight. Grids were invented after Europe was invented. When I see the city maps of Oxford, London, or Edinburgh, I see no sense behind it, in other words, nonsense. Try it, see for yourself. (Let alone the fact that street names change every block. I’m used to that now, and it really couldn’t bring any more order into the system if it were otherwise.)
Once I had traversed the web of street between the two hills, I could clearly see the crag rising above me, but I saw no signs that said, Park Entrance This Way, or any such thing. I stopped to ask some policemen if I was headed correctly and they said yes, just keep going, on up into the hills if I liked. I guess I expected a sign-in/sign-out thing, or a stop-to-make-sure-you’ve-got-what-you-need station, or a ranger, or something. Nope. I could hardly find the park bathroom, but I did. That was the extent of my preparation.
The rest was just hiking. I don’t know how long it took, probably an hour and some altogether. I aimed for the higher peak first, and wound around on various branching paths until I got there. Since it was all uphill, I steamed on up, and at the top, sweaty under my six layers, I didn’t stick around in the wind. Plus, there were a lot of people there with me. I tried to figure out how to get to the crag, a lower area with a better view and less people, and took a more direct route than was probably advisable. I did a little slipping and sliding (it was cold enough that where there hadn’t been sun very long, there was frost, which makes rocks slippery), some sitting on my hands and lowering myself down—stuff that I did that time I was lost in the Cascades. But I wasn’t lost, found a better path eventually and made the crag in short order. I took some pictures, a few panorama movies. From these peaks, one can see all of Edinburgh’s old stuff, like the castle and the churches and generally all of what I would call ‘old town’, which in a place like Europe can be very old. But to the opposite direction, one can see the Firth of Forth, the water which Edinburgh fronts. From the big hill, you can even make out one of the Isle of May, which I believe is one of the Hebrides. It reminded me of Chicago, it reminded me of San Francisco, it reminded me of Port Townsend. It was some view.
Then I climbed down and walked to High Street, where I (finally) bought a scarf from a very jovial shopkeeper. I asked him how he would recommend wearing it and he said, “There was actually something about scarves in the paper today.” I was a little surprised to see, in the pages turned on our way to the scarf article, some full-page full-frontal nudity. Clearly I wasn’t in Kansas.
As much as I’ve complained about prices here, I was also surprised today by the price of my recovery dinner. I went across the street from the hostel to a little shop and bought, for 56p, a serious amount of Brussels sprouts and some carrots. Sprouts cost too much where I shop in America, so I rarely get them, or I get them frozen. But these were fresh, and best of all, I didn’t need a knife to prepare them. I added them to my recovery meal—as you might imagine, I had a hankering for some pasta after all that walking.
Tomorrow I’ll hit the museums, have one more bigdeliciousexcellent pasta party, and hop on the night bus to London. Then I travel for 24 hours, and then I finally stop traveling. But you’ll hear from me again before that.
Monday, December 8, 2008
The People Speak (in people-speak)
True to predictions, a pair of Americans came through Edinburgh yesterday. We went to pub last night, and found a dark joint with live jazz. Today, one of them went home early, and the other and I went to see the Scottish National Gallery, which comes in three flavors: New, old, and portraits. We skipped portraits, and went to the other two. I was quite moved by one of Rembrandt’s self-portraits. Aside from that, I had a great time reading the signs about the religious paintings. Saint stories and symbolism are things I should learn more about.
Talking to the visitors about their plans made me more excited to make my own. I hear there’s a really cool park here with a big hill—I plan on climbing that tomorrow with my camera. (I remember that I’ve forgotten my camera every time I see a beautiful building, which is pretty often—so you’d think I’d remember soon enough.) That climb will also give me some reason to have eaten as much pasta as I ate today. YUM.
The kitchen saw more use today. Most people just heat stuff up from cans. One guy insisted on eating his dinner out of the pot he cooked it in. The hostel provides many plates, I don’t know what he has against them.
I’m using my computer in the dining room outside the kitchen, which features a vending machine. (Actually, it features two, and the second is another thing I can’t forget to take a picture of: A pop machine, it says on the front, Thirst for Knowledge, and pasted over that is an 8x11 that says, Out of Order. OK, maybe I don’t have to take a picture of it now.) I think there’s a youth soccer team staying here now, maybe more than one, and their players keep coming in and buying many bags of chips (known here as ‘crisps’--’chips’ are fries). I’m glad I’m old enough to know to ask where the grocery store is. Go away, children!
Oh, my latest visitor in this room is one of the chaps from Leeds. He says he’s just been in ‘West End’: “I don’t know where that is, but it’s where we’ve been.” Also, “Very dear drinking there”--has anyone heard this expression in the States, ‘dear’ for ‘expensive’? I’ve heard it a lot here, first in the mouths of my hosts in Gloucester. That meaning comes naturally from the etymology of the word as we use it, that’s why I ask.
He’s been joined by the old man who sleeps a lot. It’s like a room party. I’ll liveblog their conversation, if possible.
I says to my mate, I’m gonna get fish and chips if it kills me.
Where’d you get ‘em?
Just round the corner. Five pound fifty. [He told me, “At ‘ome; two pound fifty.”]
Well, I’d liveblog this if I could understand it. They’re talking about where the best fish and chips are found. Northern Scotland, one says. The other says he’s had great shark and chips. “The shark are lovely.” Now they’ve moved on to fishwives. I think the sleeper is an old Scot. He’s eating sausage and chips, and talking about how once he was in some place where he and mates couldn’t get into some pubs, because the men of the place wanted to kill the strangers, but the fishwives didn’t mind them.
The Leeds fellow comes back from pub and has coffee, and then goes to bed. This is his ritual, as far as I have seen. He and his coworker go home tomorrow, he told me, so maybe tonight was a bigger night out than usual, necessitating the late meal. “I’m about to go home to kids and wife tomorrow,” he just now said.
I guess my company is leaving. I hope you’ve enjoyed this scene from Edinburgh. It’s what I’m here to bring you, my fair readers and four followers.
Talking to the visitors about their plans made me more excited to make my own. I hear there’s a really cool park here with a big hill—I plan on climbing that tomorrow with my camera. (I remember that I’ve forgotten my camera every time I see a beautiful building, which is pretty often—so you’d think I’d remember soon enough.) That climb will also give me some reason to have eaten as much pasta as I ate today. YUM.
The kitchen saw more use today. Most people just heat stuff up from cans. One guy insisted on eating his dinner out of the pot he cooked it in. The hostel provides many plates, I don’t know what he has against them.
I’m using my computer in the dining room outside the kitchen, which features a vending machine. (Actually, it features two, and the second is another thing I can’t forget to take a picture of: A pop machine, it says on the front, Thirst for Knowledge, and pasted over that is an 8x11 that says, Out of Order. OK, maybe I don’t have to take a picture of it now.) I think there’s a youth soccer team staying here now, maybe more than one, and their players keep coming in and buying many bags of chips (known here as ‘crisps’--’chips’ are fries). I’m glad I’m old enough to know to ask where the grocery store is. Go away, children!
Oh, my latest visitor in this room is one of the chaps from Leeds. He says he’s just been in ‘West End’: “I don’t know where that is, but it’s where we’ve been.” Also, “Very dear drinking there”--has anyone heard this expression in the States, ‘dear’ for ‘expensive’? I’ve heard it a lot here, first in the mouths of my hosts in Gloucester. That meaning comes naturally from the etymology of the word as we use it, that’s why I ask.
He’s been joined by the old man who sleeps a lot. It’s like a room party. I’ll liveblog their conversation, if possible.
I says to my mate, I’m gonna get fish and chips if it kills me.
Where’d you get ‘em?
Just round the corner. Five pound fifty. [He told me, “At ‘ome; two pound fifty.”]
Well, I’d liveblog this if I could understand it. They’re talking about where the best fish and chips are found. Northern Scotland, one says. The other says he’s had great shark and chips. “The shark are lovely.” Now they’ve moved on to fishwives. I think the sleeper is an old Scot. He’s eating sausage and chips, and talking about how once he was in some place where he and mates couldn’t get into some pubs, because the men of the place wanted to kill the strangers, but the fishwives didn’t mind them.
The Leeds fellow comes back from pub and has coffee, and then goes to bed. This is his ritual, as far as I have seen. He and his coworker go home tomorrow, he told me, so maybe tonight was a bigger night out than usual, necessitating the late meal. “I’m about to go home to kids and wife tomorrow,” he just now said.
I guess my company is leaving. I hope you’ve enjoyed this scene from Edinburgh. It’s what I’m here to bring you, my fair readers and four followers.
The People Have Spoken
At least one person asked to read my last two essays, so I've posted them below. I encourage you all to read Lucretius.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Pay No Attention to the Man with the Knife
Well, here I am in Edinburgh. The hostel is nice, and, as the online reviews said, "Not much fun." I wasn't looking for fun then, and I don't so much miss it now.
I went out for Indian food last night because I wanted to treat myself for making all connections and finding the hostel in good time. It was good. I didn't order rice, so they didn't bring any.
Some mental math told me that I couldn't eat out for every meal if I wanted to come home with any money, so I scouted out the kitchen facilities here at the hostel. They have a very clean, nice looking room with four stovetops, three sinks, two fridges, and a set of cubbyholes for keeping dry food in. For all that, the place doesn't seem to get much use. (No, you wouldn't be able to tell, but I've been in there most of today.) I popped over to the local TescoLocal to pick up some goods, and made myself scrambled eggs. And yes, I will be able to get part way to my dream of making a delicious pasta meal at home by making a pretty good pasta meal here.
But during my time in the kitchen, I gradually saw through the veneer of ‘great kitchen’ that first presents itself to the eye. I tried to make some broccoli for lunch, but could find no knife. I looked and looked, and it occurred to me that maybe they didn’t keep sharp knives there for safety. I inquired at the desk about this, and the man there confirmed my guess, and suggested I ask at the little hostel cafe for knife from the kitchen. But those fellows seemed never to have done this before. “Did you check the kitchen?” they asked me. Yes, of course I had, and why would I be anywhere else looking for a knife? They fetched a knife from their kitchen, no doubt deliberately seeking the bluntest knife, and handed me a nine or ten inch blade.
So I walked around the hostel with that for a little while, cut my broccoli, ate it (with the knife at my side, for safety’s sake), and walked back upstairs with it. Strolling into the lobby with a giant blade, I tried not to make any sudden movements or make eye contact. The man in the cafe was different from the men I had borrowed it from, and when I set it on the counter, he was quite shocked. I could tell he was running through every possible comment in his head as I explained why I had this and why I was giving it to him. “No blood on it, at least,” he said.
Anyway, that happened.
I’m in a room with four other men, all older than I. Two are in town, up from Leeds, delivering phone books or phone booths or phone boxes, I’m not sure which. The Leeds accent is very strong. And the man of this pair to whom I talked more almost never uses the word ‘the’. He had left the other man “at pub,” they only had enough books/boxes/booths “on van” to do four jobs, despite being contacted about five. When talking with his significant other on the phone, he also said, “I love you and all,” and, “I miss you and all.”
Of the other two guys in the room, one is Australian, and I don’t know why he’s here, and the other is a very strange fellow, and I don’t know why he’s here either. The latter I’ve seen a dozen times today, in the lobby, dining room, kitchen, and we haven’t passed a word between us. The guy from Leeds told me that he sleeps all day and stays up all night watching TV. I did see him watching TV once, and he is now in bed again (it was 4:30p when I saw him there).
I’m not sure what I want to do in this town. I hear there’s a good museum, and there are probably a lot of other old places I could tour. A big castle sits in the middle of the town on a hill, looking down at the rest of us peasants. Maybe I could see that view. But I’m rather enjoying having nothing to do, and I’ve done some reading, writing, and cooking, which could fill all my time here if I so chose. I might hear from two of the Oxford Americans who will be in Edinburgh tonight and tomorrow morning.
This kitchen is only making me more excited to get back to my own kitchen, where I have a VERY sharp knife that I don’t have to wield in any lobbies. If only my kitchen were so clean...
I went out for Indian food last night because I wanted to treat myself for making all connections and finding the hostel in good time. It was good. I didn't order rice, so they didn't bring any.
Some mental math told me that I couldn't eat out for every meal if I wanted to come home with any money, so I scouted out the kitchen facilities here at the hostel. They have a very clean, nice looking room with four stovetops, three sinks, two fridges, and a set of cubbyholes for keeping dry food in. For all that, the place doesn't seem to get much use. (No, you wouldn't be able to tell, but I've been in there most of today.) I popped over to the local TescoLocal to pick up some goods, and made myself scrambled eggs. And yes, I will be able to get part way to my dream of making a delicious pasta meal at home by making a pretty good pasta meal here.
But during my time in the kitchen, I gradually saw through the veneer of ‘great kitchen’ that first presents itself to the eye. I tried to make some broccoli for lunch, but could find no knife. I looked and looked, and it occurred to me that maybe they didn’t keep sharp knives there for safety. I inquired at the desk about this, and the man there confirmed my guess, and suggested I ask at the little hostel cafe for knife from the kitchen. But those fellows seemed never to have done this before. “Did you check the kitchen?” they asked me. Yes, of course I had, and why would I be anywhere else looking for a knife? They fetched a knife from their kitchen, no doubt deliberately seeking the bluntest knife, and handed me a nine or ten inch blade.
So I walked around the hostel with that for a little while, cut my broccoli, ate it (with the knife at my side, for safety’s sake), and walked back upstairs with it. Strolling into the lobby with a giant blade, I tried not to make any sudden movements or make eye contact. The man in the cafe was different from the men I had borrowed it from, and when I set it on the counter, he was quite shocked. I could tell he was running through every possible comment in his head as I explained why I had this and why I was giving it to him. “No blood on it, at least,” he said.
Anyway, that happened.
I’m in a room with four other men, all older than I. Two are in town, up from Leeds, delivering phone books or phone booths or phone boxes, I’m not sure which. The Leeds accent is very strong. And the man of this pair to whom I talked more almost never uses the word ‘the’. He had left the other man “at pub,” they only had enough books/boxes/booths “on van” to do four jobs, despite being contacted about five. When talking with his significant other on the phone, he also said, “I love you and all,” and, “I miss you and all.”
Of the other two guys in the room, one is Australian, and I don’t know why he’s here, and the other is a very strange fellow, and I don’t know why he’s here either. The latter I’ve seen a dozen times today, in the lobby, dining room, kitchen, and we haven’t passed a word between us. The guy from Leeds told me that he sleeps all day and stays up all night watching TV. I did see him watching TV once, and he is now in bed again (it was 4:30p when I saw him there).
I’m not sure what I want to do in this town. I hear there’s a good museum, and there are probably a lot of other old places I could tour. A big castle sits in the middle of the town on a hill, looking down at the rest of us peasants. Maybe I could see that view. But I’m rather enjoying having nothing to do, and I’ve done some reading, writing, and cooking, which could fill all my time here if I so chose. I might hear from two of the Oxford Americans who will be in Edinburgh tonight and tomorrow morning.
This kitchen is only making me more excited to get back to my own kitchen, where I have a VERY sharp knife that I don’t have to wield in any lobbies. If only my kitchen were so clean...
Friday, December 5, 2008
Poof (British Baseball Pt. 2)
Just like that, my time in Oxford is over. My roommate and my other mates just left for their Eastern Europe jaunt, aiming for a 00:50 bus to get to another bus to make a 6:15 flight to arrive in Budapest tomorrow afternoon. It was kind of sad, but we've spent quality time together here, and I have honest hope that I will see at least some of them again in the homeland.
Thankfully, my departure will not be at such a forsaken hour--I leave for Edinburgh tomorrow at noon. That's very soon, but the only thing I have to do is pack: Trains are easy to take and I've done it before. Then I walk to a hostel, settle in for four days, see the sights, hear the sounds, and then get on a night bus on Wednesday, arriving London early Thursday morning to catch my flight home.
I will analogize this trip with baseball. All of a sudden, here I am on third, eyeing the plate. When you're on base, you're necessarily in danger (but how would you ever score if you don't put yourself there?). You're in transit even when you're standing still, because there's no staying on base. The prospect of a pick-off, a force-out, a double-up, hang over your head, but all outcomes are braved for the run (on the run). With the fear lives the hope of sweet return--to be safe at home.
And I didn't want to ruin the image with this, but what I'm really eyeing is the plate of spaghetti I'm going to make myself. It will be stacked so tall and wide with semolina, it will be dressed in hot olive oil, herbs, and garlic, and it will all cost me about US$2.50, which is about one pound seventy. I can hardly wait.
But I must. I'm going to decompress in Edinburgh (which I find myself pronouncing two ways, "ed-in-berg" and "edin-bura"--I'll ask when I get there). And I'm going to read calmly.
I spent my last night here with a Welshman and a Kiwi, and then in the JCR playing pool. I gave my friend Ted a great going-away gift--I scratched on the eight-ball with all seven of his balls still on the table. I'm in a gift-giving mood because as term draws to a close, everything here becomes Christmas. There's a tree up in Hall, there's a giant tree on Broad Street, there is a tree in the JCR, there are Christmas lights strung across Cornmarket street, there is caroling on street corners. And it's almost, kind of, sort of, nearly cold. And wet.
Scottish snow will prepare me for my return.
You may or may not read another update on this blog, but I encourage you to check so that I am encouraged to write.
Thankfully, my departure will not be at such a forsaken hour--I leave for Edinburgh tomorrow at noon. That's very soon, but the only thing I have to do is pack: Trains are easy to take and I've done it before. Then I walk to a hostel, settle in for four days, see the sights, hear the sounds, and then get on a night bus on Wednesday, arriving London early Thursday morning to catch my flight home.
I will analogize this trip with baseball. All of a sudden, here I am on third, eyeing the plate. When you're on base, you're necessarily in danger (but how would you ever score if you don't put yourself there?). You're in transit even when you're standing still, because there's no staying on base. The prospect of a pick-off, a force-out, a double-up, hang over your head, but all outcomes are braved for the run (on the run). With the fear lives the hope of sweet return--to be safe at home.
And I didn't want to ruin the image with this, but what I'm really eyeing is the plate of spaghetti I'm going to make myself. It will be stacked so tall and wide with semolina, it will be dressed in hot olive oil, herbs, and garlic, and it will all cost me about US$2.50, which is about one pound seventy. I can hardly wait.
But I must. I'm going to decompress in Edinburgh (which I find myself pronouncing two ways, "ed-in-berg" and "edin-bura"--I'll ask when I get there). And I'm going to read calmly.
I spent my last night here with a Welshman and a Kiwi, and then in the JCR playing pool. I gave my friend Ted a great going-away gift--I scratched on the eight-ball with all seven of his balls still on the table. I'm in a gift-giving mood because as term draws to a close, everything here becomes Christmas. There's a tree up in Hall, there's a giant tree on Broad Street, there is a tree in the JCR, there are Christmas lights strung across Cornmarket street, there is caroling on street corners. And it's almost, kind of, sort of, nearly cold. And wet.
Scottish snow will prepare me for my return.
You may or may not read another update on this blog, but I encourage you to check so that I am encouraged to write.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Patronage
Yesterday was the day of our patron saint, Catherine. There was a fancy dinner, but I didn't buy a ticket for that, and I heard it was rubbish. Instead, a friend and I went out for pasta. After the dinner was the last entz, but I couldn't stay long or have too much fun on account of the early morning race (see below). It wasn't fancy dress this time but smart dress, so I was very happy to dress up fresh.
Gotta Lotta Regatta
After an intense week of bookwork, my schedule has not let up. The Christ Church Regatta, which I guess is a race of all the novice boats among all the colleges (though who everybody really was, I'm not sure), ran from Wednesday to Saturday. I haven't been payed much attention by the Catz crew, and while they don't practice often, they put me on the list even less frequently. I had been on the water all of twice when I got an email on Friday asking me to sub in for someone who would miss Day Two of the race. The regatta was double elimination, and they split their two races the day before, advancing farther than our other two boats. The boat, arbitrarily nicknamed 'Hurricane', is the one I had been out with before, so I guess I was on the bottom of their list. The seat I was asked to fill was a stroke-side oar (i.e., port, i.e., off to the right as the rowers face, i.e. facing backwards), and I have for ever rowed on bow-side (i.e., the other side), so that was pretty disorienting. It didn't matter too much, though, because we won that race.
The race was standard fare, although maybe some of you have never seen one before. Marshals wearing bright coats and connected by walky-talkies stand at intervals along the river, overseeing all the traffic. They race two boats at a time, starting one half a boatlength ahead of the other, and after a little nudging this way and that ("Boat A, take one stroke, too far, Boat B, take one stroke"), yell, "Attention!...Go!" There's a flurry of oars, frantic splashing, and within two minutes it's over. Then there's the game of getting back to the boathouse, ours being very near the start of the race. The first day I raced, there were still many crews in the competition, so we were inching along the wall in a line of thirteen boats, waiting for races to pass so that we could, one or two at a time, cross over to the other side of the river and dock.
Winning our third race kept us in for today's races. The seat I subbed for on Friday was filled, but someone else didn't show up so I had his seat, and thankfully it was a bow-side oar. Actually, it was 'bow', the seat in the front of the boat but in back of the rowers (hence the identification of the starboard oars as "bow-side"). Oh, just a note: In the states, we use port and starboard to name the oars, which is much more sensible, since not all boats are rigged the same way, and in some the stroke (leading oar) is rigged to starboard and the bow to port.
I'm running out of storytelling energy, and I didn't start with much. Point is, we won our first race today but lost our second. In the first race, after we had pulled to a comfortable lead, our stroke (once again, the rower sitting in front of all of us who everyone else is supposed to follow) 'caught a crab', meaning he did not successfully lift his blade from the water at the end of his stroke, so the river grabbed it and it was dragged along parallel to the boat. It can be extricated from such a position, and was, but had the race been closer, this event would have affected the outcome.
Overall, the regatta was a pretty miserable experience, but it was a rich experience nonetheless. It was cold and wet both days. In a boat you get cold and wet no matter what the weather, so those things were compounded, and the boathouse isn't heated either. The crew, being slightly-trained novices, has yet no sense of balance, so the boat was never 'set', even when we weren't moving, thus we were doing a lot of crooked sitting. Then of course rowing is hard, especially with a novice crew with no sense of balance who like to rush up the slide and then rush the stroke. But winning is fun, and we did some of that.
The race was standard fare, although maybe some of you have never seen one before. Marshals wearing bright coats and connected by walky-talkies stand at intervals along the river, overseeing all the traffic. They race two boats at a time, starting one half a boatlength ahead of the other, and after a little nudging this way and that ("Boat A, take one stroke, too far, Boat B, take one stroke"), yell, "Attention!...Go!" There's a flurry of oars, frantic splashing, and within two minutes it's over. Then there's the game of getting back to the boathouse, ours being very near the start of the race. The first day I raced, there were still many crews in the competition, so we were inching along the wall in a line of thirteen boats, waiting for races to pass so that we could, one or two at a time, cross over to the other side of the river and dock.
Winning our third race kept us in for today's races. The seat I subbed for on Friday was filled, but someone else didn't show up so I had his seat, and thankfully it was a bow-side oar. Actually, it was 'bow', the seat in the front of the boat but in back of the rowers (hence the identification of the starboard oars as "bow-side"). Oh, just a note: In the states, we use port and starboard to name the oars, which is much more sensible, since not all boats are rigged the same way, and in some the stroke (leading oar) is rigged to starboard and the bow to port.
I'm running out of storytelling energy, and I didn't start with much. Point is, we won our first race today but lost our second. In the first race, after we had pulled to a comfortable lead, our stroke (once again, the rower sitting in front of all of us who everyone else is supposed to follow) 'caught a crab', meaning he did not successfully lift his blade from the water at the end of his stroke, so the river grabbed it and it was dragged along parallel to the boat. It can be extricated from such a position, and was, but had the race been closer, this event would have affected the outcome.
Overall, the regatta was a pretty miserable experience, but it was a rich experience nonetheless. It was cold and wet both days. In a boat you get cold and wet no matter what the weather, so those things were compounded, and the boathouse isn't heated either. The crew, being slightly-trained novices, has yet no sense of balance, so the boat was never 'set', even when we weren't moving, thus we were doing a lot of crooked sitting. Then of course rowing is hard, especially with a novice crew with no sense of balance who like to rush up the slide and then rush the stroke. But winning is fun, and we did some of that.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Idol Worship Pt. 2
Today was the organized trip to Warwick ("War-ick") and Stratford-upon-Avon. I initially knew about the latter destination and not the former, but Historybuff Ted told me this morning we were going to a castle. I said no, we were going to see Shakespeare. We were both right.
Warwick Castle was alright, but Ted was disappointed that they focused mostly on its 19th century life rather than the other eight centuries of its history. My guess is that Madame Tussaud's people had a hand in the displays, as there were very lifelike versions of a multitude of characters (including the current Queen, in the room in which she ate lunch in 1996--such was Ted's gripe) populating most of the rooms. There was an impressive collection of pikes, spears, swords, and daggers on display. But it was, overall, very beautiful.
But then we got to Stratford, and I became especially interested in how many ways the local businesses could use Shakespeare references in their promotion. The winners were Will's Shakes and Shakespearience. We really didn't have much time there, especially since we decided to have lunch upon arrival (where the menu featured a caricature of the poet enjoying spaghetti). The only historical location we hit was Shakespeare's grave, which was pretty neat. I wanted to buy some liquor for a libation, but it's a good thing I didn't, because he's buried inside a local church.
The best thing we found just as we were heading back to the bus: A statue of a dancing jester, placed on a base that featured various quotes about The Fool in the plays. The best, the best.
I bought a "dingly-dangly" Shakespeare magnet which is awesome and will soon (too soon!) be available for viewing on my refridgerator. I also bought a block-printed postcard with a quote from King Lear: "When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools." I love it. Maybe it seems a little bit downish to some of you, but it makes me smile every time I look at it, and I will be doing a good bit of that.
It's time to eat fish and chips at Hall, and I'm pretty hungry.
Warwick Castle was alright, but Ted was disappointed that they focused mostly on its 19th century life rather than the other eight centuries of its history. My guess is that Madame Tussaud's people had a hand in the displays, as there were very lifelike versions of a multitude of characters (including the current Queen, in the room in which she ate lunch in 1996--such was Ted's gripe) populating most of the rooms. There was an impressive collection of pikes, spears, swords, and daggers on display. But it was, overall, very beautiful.
But then we got to Stratford, and I became especially interested in how many ways the local businesses could use Shakespeare references in their promotion. The winners were Will's Shakes and Shakespearience. We really didn't have much time there, especially since we decided to have lunch upon arrival (where the menu featured a caricature of the poet enjoying spaghetti). The only historical location we hit was Shakespeare's grave, which was pretty neat. I wanted to buy some liquor for a libation, but it's a good thing I didn't, because he's buried inside a local church.
The best thing we found just as we were heading back to the bus: A statue of a dancing jester, placed on a base that featured various quotes about The Fool in the plays. The best, the best.
I bought a "dingly-dangly" Shakespeare magnet which is awesome and will soon (too soon!) be available for viewing on my refridgerator. I also bought a block-printed postcard with a quote from King Lear: "When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools." I love it. Maybe it seems a little bit downish to some of you, but it makes me smile every time I look at it, and I will be doing a good bit of that.
It's time to eat fish and chips at Hall, and I'm pretty hungry.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Powerhouse
The paper on Book Four is MUCH, MUCH better than the paper on Book Three. My tutor loved it.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
You Know
Below is the essay I wrote last week for my primary tutorial. I had to make a change because of a flaw in the translation, which accounts for the lag. As always, don't even THINK about taking my ideas, and if you do think about it, don't actually do it.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Holy Crepe
Walking back from the pool session (see below), I encountered a street fair on Broad Street. I got a tin full of meat and potatoes (what else?), and then I got a crepe. A french guy made this crepe right in front of me. Poured the batter on the griddle, made it really thin, turned it over, sprinkled chocolate chips on it, folded it, folded it again, wrapped it in wax paper, took my money, and gave me the greatest crepe I've ever tasted ever. It was warm and chocolatey and soft, soft, soft dough. I'm not sure how I got home, because all I could see was this crepe.
It deserved its own entry on the blog.
It deserved its own entry on the blog.
The Deep End
Today I went to a meeting of the University pool club at a local pool hall. Thank goodness I've been practicing on the JCR tables--what I've called "silly" and "small" they call "English pool." It's not the sized-down bar entertainment I took it for initially. Essentially, it's harder than "American pool." Because the balls are smaller, there is less to work with. Remember how pool works: You don't just try to hit the one ball with the other ball; you aim for a point on the target ball. Here, the target is smaller.
My original plan for joining this club was to have them show me where I could find a "real" pool table. That's obviously not what happened.
There were eight other guys, most of whom brought their own cues (in cases of unusual length). They were all very good. So here I was, a) an American and b) a new kid, playing a game I thought I knew by new rules, and with new equipment. For the first several games, I felt like I had just been thrown in the water and forgot I could swim. We played sets of three, and I lost the first two sets 2-1 and the third 3-0. Yikes. This, after days of handily beating the Americans in the JCR.
But my main worry at the outset was that I would really, really stink. And I did. So once I didn't have to worry about that anymore, I loosened up and improved considerably, winning a few sets. We played for three hours. I think I'm twice as good at English pool now. And I hope I get an email about next week's session.
My original plan for joining this club was to have them show me where I could find a "real" pool table. That's obviously not what happened.
There were eight other guys, most of whom brought their own cues (in cases of unusual length). They were all very good. So here I was, a) an American and b) a new kid, playing a game I thought I knew by new rules, and with new equipment. For the first several games, I felt like I had just been thrown in the water and forgot I could swim. We played sets of three, and I lost the first two sets 2-1 and the third 3-0. Yikes. This, after days of handily beating the Americans in the JCR.
But my main worry at the outset was that I would really, really stink. And I did. So once I didn't have to worry about that anymore, I loosened up and improved considerably, winning a few sets. We played for three hours. I think I'm twice as good at English pool now. And I hope I get an email about next week's session.
Back to High School
It's a beautiful day here.
Last night was another Entz (St. Catherine's > Catz : Entertainment > Entz), a "fancy dress" (costume) party in the JCR with music, dancing, flashing colored lights, etc. The theme was American High School. It was really great to see what these people think of us in such a bold way. Some of the costume highlights:
A guy wearing a TV on his head.
A girl wearing a pot on her head (i.e., a pot-head).
The Pink Ladies from Grease.
Several people wearing stuffed shirts and pants.
A guy who kind of had a 'fro to begin with, in a velour sweat suit with sagged pants (i.e., a black guy).
And the rest were mostly stock characters: Preps, geeks, jocks, cheerleaders, football fans, hayseeds, Uncle Sams. One guy had a Confederate flag, but when one of the other Americans asked him about it, he said that it only reminds Brits of the Dukes of Hazzard.
None of the Americans chose the ironic costume of British schoolboy. We had a few Jersey boys (apparently that's a type called "guido", I've learned), a Catholic schoolgirl, some more preps and jocks, a "gay best friend," a Southern frat boy. I did the long-sleeve-under-short-sleeve combo with a backwards baseball cap and jeans, trying to look as American as I could. I actually met a Brit whose costume was also a backwards cap, and we bonded over this. I think we had the most true-to-life idea.
It was a good time. I won't promise pictures, though.
Last night was another Entz (St. Catherine's > Catz : Entertainment > Entz), a "fancy dress" (costume) party in the JCR with music, dancing, flashing colored lights, etc. The theme was American High School. It was really great to see what these people think of us in such a bold way. Some of the costume highlights:
A guy wearing a TV on his head.
A girl wearing a pot on her head (i.e., a pot-head).
The Pink Ladies from Grease.
Several people wearing stuffed shirts and pants.
A guy who kind of had a 'fro to begin with, in a velour sweat suit with sagged pants (i.e., a black guy).
And the rest were mostly stock characters: Preps, geeks, jocks, cheerleaders, football fans, hayseeds, Uncle Sams. One guy had a Confederate flag, but when one of the other Americans asked him about it, he said that it only reminds Brits of the Dukes of Hazzard.
None of the Americans chose the ironic costume of British schoolboy. We had a few Jersey boys (apparently that's a type called "guido", I've learned), a Catholic schoolgirl, some more preps and jocks, a "gay best friend," a Southern frat boy. I did the long-sleeve-under-short-sleeve combo with a backwards baseball cap and jeans, trying to look as American as I could. I actually met a Brit whose costume was also a backwards cap, and we bonded over this. I think we had the most true-to-life idea.
It was a good time. I won't promise pictures, though.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
The Norm
I popped into the JCR (the college bar) for a few games of pool for a break in my after-dinner reading. For 30p, the silly tables they have are not a bad deal, and I've learned to use them. I've written about this before, I think, but to remind you: The tables, cues, and balls, are very small. According to my acquaintance, Sean, these are the norm here.
While there, I learned that tonight is a major event in rugby initiation--the night initiates have to run around the quad naked. My granny always said, Don't be in a frat. I think her reasons were different, but this kind of shenanigan is enough to keep me away from such groups, so when it comes time for me to pass on wisdom to my grandchildren, I'll extend it: Don't be in a frat or on a rugby team.
While there, I learned that tonight is a major event in rugby initiation--the night initiates have to run around the quad naked. My granny always said, Don't be in a frat. I think her reasons were different, but this kind of shenanigan is enough to keep me away from such groups, so when it comes time for me to pass on wisdom to my grandchildren, I'll extend it: Don't be in a frat or on a rugby team.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Getting Wet
I realize I’ve been slacking a bit on my reporting here. My bad.
Saturday was a busy, busy day. I was finally scheduled in a boat with the college crew team. I’m in with the novices, and there are two novice men 8-boats, each with a roster of more than eight people. They shuffle us in and out, and I’ve been mostly out. But the weather was perfect, between a morning and evening of rain, so maybe I should count myself lucky.
The river Isis is mainly for crew teams. There are, at any given time, probably eight crews out, maybe more. The coxswains know the river etiquette and do their best to avoid the other boats, but it gets really interesting when boats need to turn around. Usually, someone with a bullhorn and a bike rides alongside a crew, to watch and coach. There is a small path on either side of the river leading to the many boathouses and beyond. Some of the Oxford colleges have their own boathouses, but some, like St. Catz, share a divided building with a few others. The University College boathouse is p-i-m-p. Ours doesn’t look like much, but it has a comfortable rec room with kitchenette and bathrooms. We also have a mostly empty trophy case. I wonder what some of the older college trophy cases look like (I bet they’re awesome).
Our novice boat went out and did our thing. The balance was fairly shaky, but we rowed “all eight,” which is an achievement for novices. My hands took a beating and I got splashed a few times, but I was none the worse.
I had less-fun crew obligations later. To row officially, you need to pass a ‘swim test’. There are 38 colleges, each with a crew team (I think), and they all have this test together in the pool at the Iffley Road sports complex. This was, as you may imagine, a wet mess. Groups of six at a time, dressed in shorts and shirt, had to swim normally down the lane, then backstroke on the way back, then pick up a brick, then tread water for a minute. Water is not my environment, so this was a bit of an adventure, but I succeeded, the last of my group. It really killed me though.
I had little time to feel sorry for myself, or spit out the water I swallowed, because immediately after that there was a small party with the baseball team. It was hosted by Tom, the British grad student who drove us to the tournament. It was a nice time, and I got to meet some of the regular players who weren’t at the tournament. They are mostly non-Brits. Some awards were presented for this year’s season, among them Best British Player, which went to Tom. A good time was had by all, and although I was rained on some trying to get there, it was a nice place to be for most of the bad weather.
After that, I met up with some of the Americans from my program to celebrate a mate’s birthday. That was fun too.
And that was my very busy day.
Saturday was a busy, busy day. I was finally scheduled in a boat with the college crew team. I’m in with the novices, and there are two novice men 8-boats, each with a roster of more than eight people. They shuffle us in and out, and I’ve been mostly out. But the weather was perfect, between a morning and evening of rain, so maybe I should count myself lucky.
The river Isis is mainly for crew teams. There are, at any given time, probably eight crews out, maybe more. The coxswains know the river etiquette and do their best to avoid the other boats, but it gets really interesting when boats need to turn around. Usually, someone with a bullhorn and a bike rides alongside a crew, to watch and coach. There is a small path on either side of the river leading to the many boathouses and beyond. Some of the Oxford colleges have their own boathouses, but some, like St. Catz, share a divided building with a few others. The University College boathouse is p-i-m-p. Ours doesn’t look like much, but it has a comfortable rec room with kitchenette and bathrooms. We also have a mostly empty trophy case. I wonder what some of the older college trophy cases look like (I bet they’re awesome).
Our novice boat went out and did our thing. The balance was fairly shaky, but we rowed “all eight,” which is an achievement for novices. My hands took a beating and I got splashed a few times, but I was none the worse.
I had less-fun crew obligations later. To row officially, you need to pass a ‘swim test’. There are 38 colleges, each with a crew team (I think), and they all have this test together in the pool at the Iffley Road sports complex. This was, as you may imagine, a wet mess. Groups of six at a time, dressed in shorts and shirt, had to swim normally down the lane, then backstroke on the way back, then pick up a brick, then tread water for a minute. Water is not my environment, so this was a bit of an adventure, but I succeeded, the last of my group. It really killed me though.
I had little time to feel sorry for myself, or spit out the water I swallowed, because immediately after that there was a small party with the baseball team. It was hosted by Tom, the British grad student who drove us to the tournament. It was a nice time, and I got to meet some of the regular players who weren’t at the tournament. They are mostly non-Brits. Some awards were presented for this year’s season, among them Best British Player, which went to Tom. A good time was had by all, and although I was rained on some trying to get there, it was a nice place to be for most of the bad weather.
After that, I met up with some of the Americans from my program to celebrate a mate’s birthday. That was fun too.
And that was my very busy day.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Working You Into A Pattern
You knew what was going on. I was working on papers. Posted below is the most recent Lucretius paper. Once, again, don't steal my ideas.
My Tragedy tutorial is, for our third session, about Hamlet. Awesome. This time, I get to read the commentary, to figure out what kind of effect Hamlet has on those who have tried to figure it out. The trick is, it's a mirror. It makes fools of us all.
My Tragedy tutorial is, for our third session, about Hamlet. Awesome. This time, I get to read the commentary, to figure out what kind of effect Hamlet has on those who have tried to figure it out. The trick is, it's a mirror. It makes fools of us all.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Pyrotechnically Speaking
Tonight, those pops in the distance are definitely fireworks, because I can see them from my window. It’s Guy Fawkes Night in the Empire. For those who need a little background, part of the rhyme goes,
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parli’ment,
But they caught him and that’s why they celebrate. Now, I don’t mean to suggest that James I should have been killed, but this particular holiday seems like a frenzy over the protection of tradition. Thank goodness, the monarchy survived.
I’m personally thankful to be from a country that, in the same frenzied way, celebrates a successful revolution rather than a failed one.
Also, people in the Black Country of England (a region so named for the side-effects its coal, iron, and steel production) tonight are eating groaty pudding, also know as groaty dick. I think I'll stick with potato salad.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parli’ment,
But they caught him and that’s why they celebrate. Now, I don’t mean to suggest that James I should have been killed, but this particular holiday seems like a frenzy over the protection of tradition. Thank goodness, the monarchy survived.
I’m personally thankful to be from a country that, in the same frenzied way, celebrates a successful revolution rather than a failed one.
Also, people in the Black Country of England (a region so named for the side-effects its coal, iron, and steel production) tonight are eating groaty pudding, also know as groaty dick. I think I'll stick with potato salad.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Kind of Like the Tooth Fairy
It's almost two in the morning here. I've been watching CNN in the JCR for two hours, and I actually know nothing about the election. The energy in the room peaked when the pizza arrived around 11:30. But from the number of people in the room then, the buzz drowning out the TV, the printouts of American flags and pictures of candidates, I knew they weren't there just for the pizza.
I saw Chicago on TV a lot. To the Brits, I would guess this meant very little, the way Gloucester or Nottingham would mean little to me aside from not being London. But I missed it.
It's amazing how much the heads can talk without any prompt. But, from what I've read, this election is finally something they can't capture in their analysis. I take it on faith that the people on the mainland know what's going on, because they're the only ones who really can know.
This is really exciting, but I'm going to be asleep for the best part.
I've heard some sentiment about this election being a turnaround, a righting of long wrongs, an overcoming. I believe it, but from the perspective of my generation, this is the kind of thing that can happen, and say, why hasn't it yet? I don't know what to say to mark the occassion.
Update: I just checked 538.com, and it sure looks like the bag is filling. A good day for America, the rest of the world, and a good morning for me tomorrow.
I saw Chicago on TV a lot. To the Brits, I would guess this meant very little, the way Gloucester or Nottingham would mean little to me aside from not being London. But I missed it.
It's amazing how much the heads can talk without any prompt. But, from what I've read, this election is finally something they can't capture in their analysis. I take it on faith that the people on the mainland know what's going on, because they're the only ones who really can know.
This is really exciting, but I'm going to be asleep for the best part.
I've heard some sentiment about this election being a turnaround, a righting of long wrongs, an overcoming. I believe it, but from the perspective of my generation, this is the kind of thing that can happen, and say, why hasn't it yet? I don't know what to say to mark the occassion.
Update: I just checked 538.com, and it sure looks like the bag is filling. A good day for America, the rest of the world, and a good morning for me tomorrow.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Lucky Post #27
The fat L on the forehead of England is London, our host this weekend for a series of program-organized events and shameless tourism. I had far the easiest weekend among the St. Catz representatives, since I succumbed to fatigue both nights instead of fighting on into the early morn through the club scene. So I mostly have straightforward place-to-place recollections instead of the stories I’ve been hearing all of today during the debriefings (which are wild stories sans the -to- between places, in a few cases, of debriefings). Some of you (my parents, grandparents) are no doubt glad for this fact; some friends might be disappointed.
Friday was “Mexican” food. They just don’t get it over here (or they don’t get Mexicans). One might call their attempt ‘wack’: They had some meat, plenty of beans and rice, some salsa, no sour cream, no onions, and, WORST of the WORST, no cilantro. And they barely had tortillas. We had to wait for tortillas. What? I felt like I had no silverware. But I ate it anyway, and once I had my tortillas, I put ice cream in one, which turned out to be delicious.
That night, a group of us went to the London Eye, which is a very tall Ferris wheel on the Thames (“tems”). I was brought there unwilling, but it was worth it. The ride is really long, and the wheel is quite tall, affording riders an excellent view of the city lights. Thankfully it was a clear night. In several places in the city, fireworks were happening, probably just for our benefit. Comparison: The London Eye is way, way, way better than that thing on Navy Pier, mostly because it doesn’t look like McDonald’s fries containers.
Saturday was our full day, and our London Eye crew (perhaps the London Oglers?) met up bright and early. We hit Westminster, the big church with stuff in it. A Shakespeare note: They put up a little monument to the author in the room that commemorates many other writers, among them Samuel Johnson. That’s Dr. Johnson, prolific reader of Shakespeare whom I disagree with most of the time, and he’s right in front of the S’peare nook. That moralizing SOB would love it.
But actually, Westminster was pretty neat. Over the Great West Door, they had a series of statues erected in 1998 celebrating modern Christian leaders, featuring among others MLK and Oscar Romero. Some of you may be interested to learn that. I learned a bunch of stuff that I forgot some of.
Next, we went to see the famous Changing of the Guard at the Queen’s house. For those who are unfamiliar with this, you may wonder why it’s famous if all they do is change the guard. Well, it left me wondering the same thing.
Then we went to the Churchill War Museum at the War Rooms, the actual center of strategy during WWII. Churchill and his generals used the bunker under some other building for six years, and then when the war ended, they turned off the lights and went home. The museum turned the lights back on, and tacked on a deceptively large exhibit about Winston C himself. He was a powerful character to be sure, and the War Rooms are a fascinating relic from WWII. Their walls of maps are still hanging, pocked by pinholes.
I should point out that, so far in the day, we had done nothing that I wanted to do. I was a good sport nevertheless, and I’m glad for it, because two of those three things were really cool.
Whatever, though, because the last thing on the list was MY thing, the Globe Theater. By this time, the weather had gone from just gray (what I like to call ‘the English sun’) to raining hard. But I wasn’t about to call this on account of rain, and like Lear on the heath (but with a raincoat), I stuck it out. I guess the rest of the group, like Fools, followed me.
Once there, the heart within me was divided. I couldn’t decide whether to be moved as in a near-religious experience, or to see through this tourist nonsense to the truth: This Globe is a reconstruction, a block or two off the original site. A high fidelity reconstruction, to be sure, but built on top of a museum. A stage just like Shakespeare’s, but host to some high school kids prancing around reading very non-Shakespearean scripts.
I still had a good time. I’m glad I saw the stage, regardless of the rabble running rampant on it. I have a place to imagine (an image, if you will) when I read the plays. I’ve now been to that bend of the river which the theater rests in, where Shakespeare walked to work. But the building itself and the people that work there—and good God, the gift shop—all represent the aspects of Shakespeare’s legacy that are no good, but were bound to grow up around the plays as time went on and his idol grew. I’ll leave them to it.
After that, we fought once again through the pouring rain to the nearest Tube station. By then and now, I was and am very good at taking the London Underground. It’s just a (very efficient, timely, clean) subway. I stand on it the same way I do on the El, i.e. a little aside from the group of loud Americans sharing it with me.
Saturday night was the boat cruise on the Thames with all the students studying in England through the same program. It was alright, but by that time I was tired and not ready to dance or anything else.
Then Sunday I came back, and heard about everyone else’s crazy time. I took a few pictures, which are sitting with the rest of my pictures, which, I know, are not yet posted. Sigh.
Friday was “Mexican” food. They just don’t get it over here (or they don’t get Mexicans). One might call their attempt ‘wack’: They had some meat, plenty of beans and rice, some salsa, no sour cream, no onions, and, WORST of the WORST, no cilantro. And they barely had tortillas. We had to wait for tortillas. What? I felt like I had no silverware. But I ate it anyway, and once I had my tortillas, I put ice cream in one, which turned out to be delicious.
That night, a group of us went to the London Eye, which is a very tall Ferris wheel on the Thames (“tems”). I was brought there unwilling, but it was worth it. The ride is really long, and the wheel is quite tall, affording riders an excellent view of the city lights. Thankfully it was a clear night. In several places in the city, fireworks were happening, probably just for our benefit. Comparison: The London Eye is way, way, way better than that thing on Navy Pier, mostly because it doesn’t look like McDonald’s fries containers.
Saturday was our full day, and our London Eye crew (perhaps the London Oglers?) met up bright and early. We hit Westminster, the big church with stuff in it. A Shakespeare note: They put up a little monument to the author in the room that commemorates many other writers, among them Samuel Johnson. That’s Dr. Johnson, prolific reader of Shakespeare whom I disagree with most of the time, and he’s right in front of the S’peare nook. That moralizing SOB would love it.
But actually, Westminster was pretty neat. Over the Great West Door, they had a series of statues erected in 1998 celebrating modern Christian leaders, featuring among others MLK and Oscar Romero. Some of you may be interested to learn that. I learned a bunch of stuff that I forgot some of.
Next, we went to see the famous Changing of the Guard at the Queen’s house. For those who are unfamiliar with this, you may wonder why it’s famous if all they do is change the guard. Well, it left me wondering the same thing.
Then we went to the Churchill War Museum at the War Rooms, the actual center of strategy during WWII. Churchill and his generals used the bunker under some other building for six years, and then when the war ended, they turned off the lights and went home. The museum turned the lights back on, and tacked on a deceptively large exhibit about Winston C himself. He was a powerful character to be sure, and the War Rooms are a fascinating relic from WWII. Their walls of maps are still hanging, pocked by pinholes.
I should point out that, so far in the day, we had done nothing that I wanted to do. I was a good sport nevertheless, and I’m glad for it, because two of those three things were really cool.
Whatever, though, because the last thing on the list was MY thing, the Globe Theater. By this time, the weather had gone from just gray (what I like to call ‘the English sun’) to raining hard. But I wasn’t about to call this on account of rain, and like Lear on the heath (but with a raincoat), I stuck it out. I guess the rest of the group, like Fools, followed me.
Once there, the heart within me was divided. I couldn’t decide whether to be moved as in a near-religious experience, or to see through this tourist nonsense to the truth: This Globe is a reconstruction, a block or two off the original site. A high fidelity reconstruction, to be sure, but built on top of a museum. A stage just like Shakespeare’s, but host to some high school kids prancing around reading very non-Shakespearean scripts.
I still had a good time. I’m glad I saw the stage, regardless of the rabble running rampant on it. I have a place to imagine (an image, if you will) when I read the plays. I’ve now been to that bend of the river which the theater rests in, where Shakespeare walked to work. But the building itself and the people that work there—and good God, the gift shop—all represent the aspects of Shakespeare’s legacy that are no good, but were bound to grow up around the plays as time went on and his idol grew. I’ll leave them to it.
After that, we fought once again through the pouring rain to the nearest Tube station. By then and now, I was and am very good at taking the London Underground. It’s just a (very efficient, timely, clean) subway. I stand on it the same way I do on the El, i.e. a little aside from the group of loud Americans sharing it with me.
Saturday night was the boat cruise on the Thames with all the students studying in England through the same program. It was alright, but by that time I was tired and not ready to dance or anything else.
Then Sunday I came back, and heard about everyone else’s crazy time. I took a few pictures, which are sitting with the rest of my pictures, which, I know, are not yet posted. Sigh.
Friday, October 31, 2008
from O.Fr. 'enjoir'
I'm enjoying many things right now. The task is to get them in the right order. Hamlet's amazing. Lucretius is amazing. During reading, I enjoy this website a lot. After reading, the music on my computer is amazing (when I get to it). This weekend, I get to go enjoy London (I leave for that at 1:30 today). Maybe I'm just in a good mood this morning, or maybe this trip was a great idea. Who's was it, anyway?
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Five O'Clock Fireworks?
I'm in my room reading, and for the last several minutes there has been a volley of pops from somewhere in the distance. In this country you can pretty quickly rule out 'gun battle' as a possibility, but it may be fireworks. I can't see them, but I guess that's what it could be, since it's been night-dark here since five o'clock or so.
It's finally cold too. I bought a jacket at Oxfam today for 7 lbs.
This weekend is London weekend, when we get Mexican food, go on a boat cruise down the Thames, and I maybe get to see the Globe Theatre (WHO'S EXCITED?).
It's finally cold too. I bought a jacket at Oxfam today for 7 lbs.
This weekend is London weekend, when we get Mexican food, go on a boat cruise down the Thames, and I maybe get to see the Globe Theatre (WHO'S EXCITED?).
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Man At Work
I've been in the garage.
I've been in my office.
I've been at the drawing-board.
If I disappear for a few days, it's probably because I am working on a paper or doing lots of reading in preparation for a paper. Such was the case the last few days. A few of you were worried, most of you weren't. But just to prove it, I've posted the paper below. Like I said, don't be stealing my ideas and working ahead of me. Don't do it.
I'm always kind of torn between an excitement to share my thoughts on a thing, and the academic fear that someone else will think I'm right and claim my ideas before I can. So, don't do it, but here it is. Also, I think, by posting this in a blog, it's copyrighted to me, or by me, tacitly. So don't do it.
But read it, it's good.
I've been in my office.
I've been at the drawing-board.
If I disappear for a few days, it's probably because I am working on a paper or doing lots of reading in preparation for a paper. Such was the case the last few days. A few of you were worried, most of you weren't. But just to prove it, I've posted the paper below. Like I said, don't be stealing my ideas and working ahead of me. Don't do it.
I'm always kind of torn between an excitement to share my thoughts on a thing, and the academic fear that someone else will think I'm right and claim my ideas before I can. So, don't do it, but here it is. Also, I think, by posting this in a blog, it's copyrighted to me, or by me, tacitly. So don't do it.
But read it, it's good.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
The Dog Days of Fall
Our weekend in Gloucester started out nice enough. Upon arrival in the Tesco parking lot, we piled out of the bus into the hands of a group of old ladies. It turned out the information we had been given about who we were to stay with was all wrong. My roommate Will and I had the same host, and she had a third from our program as well, one Asad. Our host was Pam, mother of several married children and adopted mother (after the others left, presumably) of one, and professional student host. In fact, there was another student in the house, a German guy, who is staying there for ten months and studying in Gloucester. The upstairs rooms in which we stayed had proscriptions posted specifically for students, and had four beds in two very small rooms. Pam had us write our names and contact info in a binder about three-quarters full of other people’s names and contact info. She said it was her second such binder.
The ground floor of the house (remember, it’s England, so we slept on the ‘first’ floor) was a different story. It was just like a single family house...full of images of German Shepherds. Pam and her husband have two real (big) dogs of this variety, and shelf upon shelf of ceramic, bronze, china, and wood statues of them. And also decorative ceramic plates featuring German Shepherds. And also photographs of their current and past pet German Shepherds. I don’t think our hosts are crazy sick lunatics, I’m just saying there was a theme. A strong theme.
The real dogs were great though. And they live like kings. Maybe you could have guessed that.
Before I came to England, a bunch of people warned me about British food: I’d gain so much weight, they said, It’s heavy stuff, they said. Well, at Hall in college, it’s a pretty international menu, so I sort of brushed off those warnings. But this weekend was truly a chance to see an English house, beginning with a discovery of the veracity of those warnings. Our first meal (dinner, since we arrived around 7:45) was a fried egg, chips (fries), and a breakfast link. That was rumbling around in me for the next few hours, while we watched American crime drama on TV.
One observation about TV: The series of shows we watched that night was sponsored by Kia. I know this because there were ten-second commercial spots before and after show segments, presumably advertising a Kia SUV, in which a real version of this car was placed in a sparely animated world and made a participant in crimes committed by outlines of people. Some had brief gun battles using the car as their barrier, one was holding on to the top of the car as it careened down the street, one was lying flat on the ground in front of it as others got out to check on him—I hesitate to remember that one tried to steal it, but that would make about as much sense as the rest. These very short spots did not make Kias seem very safe, in other words.
It was early-to-rise the next morning, in order that we might meet the rest of the hosted students back in the Tesco car park to begin a long day of ped-powered sight-seeing. We started with the Gloucester Cathedral, a very old and truly impressive piece of Norman, then Gothic architecture. [They said come back later; we hit this other, forgettable ‘folk’ museum quickly; we went back to the cathedral.] We toured it for a good hour with a guide who showed us the architectural pointers we wouldn’t have otherwise seen (it’s one of those buildings that was built once, then another part was built, then part of it fell down so another part was built, so it represents four successive stages of building technology, all impressive, all in one place), told us how part of Harry Potter was filmed there (but they used mostly constructed stages within it), told us about dead kings (one’s maybe buried there, one was crowned there), and showed us the crypt. That was all pretty cool, I took some pictures.
Then we went to...I’m not sure what it was called. It was kind of like a Renaissance fair for pirate-lovers, located at the historic Gloucester (don’t forget: “Gloster”) docks. I had been promised some Pirates of the Caribbean stuff, like Johnny Depp look-a-likes and a copy of a ship used in the movie. There for sure wasn’t any of that stuff, only a pretty weak ‘pirate ship’ that you could stand on if you waited in a long line in the wind. I didn’t wait.
At this point, our sixteen year-old tour guide deserted us. So we had four hours to spend in Gloucester before we were picked up again in the Tesco car park. A few of us went a-walking, first through a nearby mall where we bought some candy, then (after a hungrily-terse debate about where) to eat real food, then around the waters of Gloucester (mostly the canal), then back to the cathedral. We walked around the great big building then, and it’s amazing from every angle, but especially the back. Some people (maybe cathedral employees?) were drinking a forty near where we sat.
Then it was back to the doghouse for another heavy meal* (but I forget what—not another fried egg) and a night of studying. Sunday, a crumpet for breakfast (!), more studying, and another heavy meal, and then back here to report. I’ve got pictures, but they’re a hassle to upload from my computer. This also explains the backlog of other pictures I have. This week I’ll put ‘em all up, I promise.
*A heavy meal with tea is heavy metal.
The ground floor of the house (remember, it’s England, so we slept on the ‘first’ floor) was a different story. It was just like a single family house...full of images of German Shepherds. Pam and her husband have two real (big) dogs of this variety, and shelf upon shelf of ceramic, bronze, china, and wood statues of them. And also decorative ceramic plates featuring German Shepherds. And also photographs of their current and past pet German Shepherds. I don’t think our hosts are crazy sick lunatics, I’m just saying there was a theme. A strong theme.
The real dogs were great though. And they live like kings. Maybe you could have guessed that.
Before I came to England, a bunch of people warned me about British food: I’d gain so much weight, they said, It’s heavy stuff, they said. Well, at Hall in college, it’s a pretty international menu, so I sort of brushed off those warnings. But this weekend was truly a chance to see an English house, beginning with a discovery of the veracity of those warnings. Our first meal (dinner, since we arrived around 7:45) was a fried egg, chips (fries), and a breakfast link. That was rumbling around in me for the next few hours, while we watched American crime drama on TV.
One observation about TV: The series of shows we watched that night was sponsored by Kia. I know this because there were ten-second commercial spots before and after show segments, presumably advertising a Kia SUV, in which a real version of this car was placed in a sparely animated world and made a participant in crimes committed by outlines of people. Some had brief gun battles using the car as their barrier, one was holding on to the top of the car as it careened down the street, one was lying flat on the ground in front of it as others got out to check on him—I hesitate to remember that one tried to steal it, but that would make about as much sense as the rest. These very short spots did not make Kias seem very safe, in other words.
It was early-to-rise the next morning, in order that we might meet the rest of the hosted students back in the Tesco car park to begin a long day of ped-powered sight-seeing. We started with the Gloucester Cathedral, a very old and truly impressive piece of Norman, then Gothic architecture. [They said come back later; we hit this other, forgettable ‘folk’ museum quickly; we went back to the cathedral.] We toured it for a good hour with a guide who showed us the architectural pointers we wouldn’t have otherwise seen (it’s one of those buildings that was built once, then another part was built, then part of it fell down so another part was built, so it represents four successive stages of building technology, all impressive, all in one place), told us how part of Harry Potter was filmed there (but they used mostly constructed stages within it), told us about dead kings (one’s maybe buried there, one was crowned there), and showed us the crypt. That was all pretty cool, I took some pictures.
Then we went to...I’m not sure what it was called. It was kind of like a Renaissance fair for pirate-lovers, located at the historic Gloucester (don’t forget: “Gloster”) docks. I had been promised some Pirates of the Caribbean stuff, like Johnny Depp look-a-likes and a copy of a ship used in the movie. There for sure wasn’t any of that stuff, only a pretty weak ‘pirate ship’ that you could stand on if you waited in a long line in the wind. I didn’t wait.
At this point, our sixteen year-old tour guide deserted us. So we had four hours to spend in Gloucester before we were picked up again in the Tesco car park. A few of us went a-walking, first through a nearby mall where we bought some candy, then (after a hungrily-terse debate about where) to eat real food, then around the waters of Gloucester (mostly the canal), then back to the cathedral. We walked around the great big building then, and it’s amazing from every angle, but especially the back. Some people (maybe cathedral employees?) were drinking a forty near where we sat.
Then it was back to the doghouse for another heavy meal* (but I forget what—not another fried egg) and a night of studying. Sunday, a crumpet for breakfast (!), more studying, and another heavy meal, and then back here to report. I’ve got pictures, but they’re a hassle to upload from my computer. This also explains the backlog of other pictures I have. This week I’ll put ‘em all up, I promise.
*A heavy meal with tea is heavy metal.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Family Weekend
This weekend is the "family stay," when many of the kids from my program, including myself, are scattered among families in Gloucester ("Gloster"). I don't know what to predict, but I have to go buy some host-gift. I've only been given a few words about my host: A woman with five married children who's interested in reading, television, gardening, and vacation. Huh.
We leave for that at six this evening.
We leave for that at six this evening.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Secondary Tutorial
I burned the midnight oil last night assembling my thoughts on Hamlet. It was great fun for me, although I know S'peare isn't everyone's cuppa. (I know some of you might be wondering what translation I used.) I came up with a strong theme to read by, and my tutor enjoyed talking about it great deal. This session was quite different than my primary.
Best of all, I get the chance to continue reading Hamlet. This time, I'll read it together with The Tempest and Macbeth (see if you can guess how those all connect).
That all said, I won't post the "embryonic" essay I wrote last night. I'll make it much better and post the new one in two weeks. Can you wait that long?
Best of all, I get the chance to continue reading Hamlet. This time, I'll read it together with The Tempest and Macbeth (see if you can guess how those all connect).
That all said, I won't post the "embryonic" essay I wrote last night. I'll make it much better and post the new one in two weeks. Can you wait that long?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
First paper
Posted below this entry is my first paper for my primary tutorial, on Lucretius. For the first session, I was not assigned any reading from De Rerum Natura, but instead secondary literature about it and Lucretius's life. I tried to make this paper more than a survey of the surveys that I read, by wrestling, as best I could, with those authors and their points. My tutor seemed surprised by what I had written--past that, I couldn't really read her reaction. She spoke for 85% of the session about topics only 20% relevant to my paper--thus, it seemed like what she had planned to talk about was not what I had addressed. Hopefully she will engage me more next time.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
British Baseball
I am beat.
This weekend was the Nottingham baseball tournament, a five-school, school-organized series of games played in Nottingham. Our team, the Oxford Kings, took three out of four games, each by pretty large margins. I caught three of the games, and pitched the fourth (except for the final outs). So now I’m beat.
British baseball is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. The translation, I suppose, would be a very small group of American boys avoiding football, baseball, and every other national sport, in favor of cricket. Weird, right? I doubt there is such a thing. I would have doubted British baseball as well, had I not seen it. These guys all follow the MLB, even though games are only broadcast two days a week at two in the morning. One Nottingham boy (that’s how the Brits refer to team members) told me he “pretty much eats, drinks, and breathes baseball”--remember, in England! That same dedication—or maybe addiction—was evident in most of our opponents, and in the two Brits on our team. However, it seems like they learned the sport by watching it two days a week at two in the morning. There is little general understanding of mechanics, least of all in their pitchers. In this league (and how many more can there be?) there are, as far as I could tell, no coaches. And no umpires. And no diamonds. Where these guys found proper bats and mitts is beyond me.
But gosh is there spirit.
As I mentioned, our team had only two Brits. There were additionally four Canadians (an odd lot, despite being four) and at first four, then three, Americans (one went home on Saturday). As the least English team, we were heavily the favorites to win the tournament. Saturday especially, when all four Americans were present and not sore, the games felt a little unfair. In our second game, our American pitcher no-hit the Brits. Their pitching, by comparison, was batting practice. In fact, similar to the White Sox’s trouble with knuckleballers, we weren’t way-too-overly successful against the slowest pitcher because he threw too slow. We also didn’t see too many strikes.
I can’t remember the scores now. The first game was something like 14-[something low], and the second was 11-1 (I think we might have scored more). The third game, Sunday’s first, was a terrible game on all sides, but more so on ours. The umpire was bad (he was a member of another team, with little consistency, thus little credibility, thus little confidence), the other team’s attitude was bad, and our fielding hemorrhaged runs during the second inning. We came back to within two, losing 14-12 (I know, I know). The fourth game was...I lost count of our runs. Maybe 14-4? Something like that. I gave up three runs in the first, as I found the strike zone and my release point. One more scored on a very confusing play in the final inning, and he was my runner. (Sorting out that play was a bit of a mess, but us Americans did the bulk of it--in fact, a Brit standing near me, after I explained the play to him, said, "Well, don't ask me, I don't know the rules." I think he was a new recruit.)
We suffered badly from the elements, one that I don’t think I’ve ever faced before this: Wind. The two diamonds were chalked out on a four-square of football pitches, next to a tilled corn field. That is to say: There were no natural or artificial barriers anywhere near us. No dugouts. No walls. No corn. So there was, for all four games, a constant—CONSTANT—biting wind out of the west. It put me on edge and off balance. It carried fly balls god-knows-where. It stiffened arms and legs, deafened ears, and generally readjusted gravity on the fields. Bloody awful.
Anyway, I’ll have a few pictures of this event soon. One of the Canadians brought a camera. I took a few pictures of Nottingham city center Sunday morning, including a mandatory shot of Man Ho Restaurant, which sold Chinese food before it closed.
This weekend was the Nottingham baseball tournament, a five-school, school-organized series of games played in Nottingham. Our team, the Oxford Kings, took three out of four games, each by pretty large margins. I caught three of the games, and pitched the fourth (except for the final outs). So now I’m beat.
British baseball is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. The translation, I suppose, would be a very small group of American boys avoiding football, baseball, and every other national sport, in favor of cricket. Weird, right? I doubt there is such a thing. I would have doubted British baseball as well, had I not seen it. These guys all follow the MLB, even though games are only broadcast two days a week at two in the morning. One Nottingham boy (that’s how the Brits refer to team members) told me he “pretty much eats, drinks, and breathes baseball”--remember, in England! That same dedication—or maybe addiction—was evident in most of our opponents, and in the two Brits on our team. However, it seems like they learned the sport by watching it two days a week at two in the morning. There is little general understanding of mechanics, least of all in their pitchers. In this league (and how many more can there be?) there are, as far as I could tell, no coaches. And no umpires. And no diamonds. Where these guys found proper bats and mitts is beyond me.
But gosh is there spirit.
As I mentioned, our team had only two Brits. There were additionally four Canadians (an odd lot, despite being four) and at first four, then three, Americans (one went home on Saturday). As the least English team, we were heavily the favorites to win the tournament. Saturday especially, when all four Americans were present and not sore, the games felt a little unfair. In our second game, our American pitcher no-hit the Brits. Their pitching, by comparison, was batting practice. In fact, similar to the White Sox’s trouble with knuckleballers, we weren’t way-too-overly successful against the slowest pitcher because he threw too slow. We also didn’t see too many strikes.
I can’t remember the scores now. The first game was something like 14-[something low], and the second was 11-1 (I think we might have scored more). The third game, Sunday’s first, was a terrible game on all sides, but more so on ours. The umpire was bad (he was a member of another team, with little consistency, thus little credibility, thus little confidence), the other team’s attitude was bad, and our fielding hemorrhaged runs during the second inning. We came back to within two, losing 14-12 (I know, I know). The fourth game was...I lost count of our runs. Maybe 14-4? Something like that. I gave up three runs in the first, as I found the strike zone and my release point. One more scored on a very confusing play in the final inning, and he was my runner. (Sorting out that play was a bit of a mess, but us Americans did the bulk of it--in fact, a Brit standing near me, after I explained the play to him, said, "Well, don't ask me, I don't know the rules." I think he was a new recruit.)
We suffered badly from the elements, one that I don’t think I’ve ever faced before this: Wind. The two diamonds were chalked out on a four-square of football pitches, next to a tilled corn field. That is to say: There were no natural or artificial barriers anywhere near us. No dugouts. No walls. No corn. So there was, for all four games, a constant—CONSTANT—biting wind out of the west. It put me on edge and off balance. It carried fly balls god-knows-where. It stiffened arms and legs, deafened ears, and generally readjusted gravity on the fields. Bloody awful.
Anyway, I’ll have a few pictures of this event soon. One of the Canadians brought a camera. I took a few pictures of Nottingham city center Sunday morning, including a mandatory shot of Man Ho Restaurant, which sold Chinese food before it closed.
Friday, October 17, 2008
I love me, I love me Nottingham
So, I wasn't sure if this baseball thing was gonna happen, but indeed it is. If I wake up in time tomorrow (and I plan to), I'll be off to Nottingham for a brief baseball tournament with the Oxford Kings. We play a few games Saturday, a few games Sunday. I might catch (fingers crossed!). We had batting practice tonight. You won't read an update here for two days.
Live your own life for awhile!
Live your own life for awhile!
Thursday, October 16, 2008
A Merry Romp
A quick note about my most recent adventure: Today I went to a lecture about Lucretius, on recommendation of my primary tutor. It was a smaller room than the Logic lecture, and a smaller crowd. But who was there really didn't matter. The lecturer, a woman, began talking (it appeared she was reading a paper she had written) very quickly, mixing Latin, Greek, and British together in an overwhelming rush of words, while the rest of us in the room tried to follow a hand-out she had given us. She said twice, during the course of the hour, that she would now take us on a "merry romp" through some dense, classical subject, and that's pretty much how the whole hour felt--a merry romp through the first 150 lines of De Rerum Natura (which she calls "the DRN") and some assorted criticism of those lines.
For my primary tutorial, I have been assigned four readings that do much the same thing (ie, gloss the criticism). So I'm not reading the DRN, but I'm reading about it. It's having much the same effect as keeping a dog on a leash within sight and noseshot of his dinner. But I'm practicing patience, and I think my first paper will be about (and maybe even titled) preparing to read Lucretius.
But now I'm off to Shakespeare's Denmark.
For my primary tutorial, I have been assigned four readings that do much the same thing (ie, gloss the criticism). So I'm not reading the DRN, but I'm reading about it. It's having much the same effect as keeping a dog on a leash within sight and noseshot of his dinner. But I'm practicing patience, and I think my first paper will be about (and maybe even titled) preparing to read Lucretius.
But now I'm off to Shakespeare's Denmark.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
All the Little Stuff
Here's the thing I forgot earlier: I was in a very long line at Sainsbury's, getting biscuits (cookies) and bananas. The line backed up along the dairy and juice coolers along the wall, so I had ample time to inspect their selection in this area. The orange juice caught my attention. You can buy two kinds of orange juice: One "with juicy bits," and one with "no bits." Seriously (not pulp fiction).
These little terminological differences always get me. Another one that I noticed at a restaurant in London: We were drinking (probably expensive) mineral water that was "delightfully still."
These little terminological differences always get me. Another one that I noticed at a restaurant in London: We were drinking (probably expensive) mineral water that was "delightfully still."
Not Patrick Stewart
So much for exciting stuff not happening everyday—Week 1 (since last week was 0) started off famously. That is to say, I met Kevin Spacey. Okay, let me back up.
As I may have forgotten to write about before, I finally made it to Hall (dinner). It’s a three-course affair on long tables with ambiance. The Master and some assorted other faculty sit at the head table, and upon their entrance, all students stand and await the benediction (the Master bangs the gavel and says, “Benedictus benedictum,” I think). Waiters, who are mostly student workers, bring the courses and whisk away the empty plates.
They post the week’s menu outside the Hall, so you can skip the meals you don’t like or queue up early for your favorites. On Monday, I was checking the menu and thinking to myself, I don’t really want that, maybe I’ll duck out for kebabs. But I overheard some Brits saying that Kevin Spacey (who is a visiting lecturer at St. Catz this year—last year it was Patrick Stewart) would be joining us for dinner, and they would be serving wine to the students. Having that story, regardless of what ‘beef daube’ was, I figured would be worth it.
I was early, so I sat quite at the front of one of the tables with some other Americans I knew. All the places filled up, and everyone soon knew who our guest of honor would be. We waited and waited, heads constantly turning toward the door, checking the activity of the wait staff, watching the suits move around. Waited, waited, waited.
Finally, about ten minutes late, the whole room stood up suddenly, in unison, and there was silence as people peered over each other to glimpse the Master and Mr. Spacey walking to the head table. The actor said a few words before the benediction, and we all sat down and waited to be served. But as the macaroni was going around the table, here I am dumping some on my plate, some on the table, picking it from the table to my plate, here’s activity behind me and a hand on my back. It’s Kevin Spacey, come to work the crowd. The English girls sitting next to me were too something to speak, but I and the other American boys got some banter going. He seemed relieved to hear our accent. We talked, he walked away. The English girls looked a little spacey after that.
Anyway, that’s the story of how I met Kevin Spacey. Really, Patrick Stewart would have been WAY cooler. Other interesting stuff happened too.
For instance, I went to my first Oxford lecture on Monday too, Introduction to Logic. I haven’t taken Logic yet at regular school, so I need to take it next semester, so I thought this would be a nice headstart. It probably will be. I realized when I arrived in the lecture hall that, gosh, there are other students of Oxford than just those at St. Catz. Some bad smelling ones too. The hall was big, with a big projector screen and a German guy with a mic, and about thirty people who each had a cough.
I also went to my first crew practice on the River Isis. It was a novice training session, but I think as many times as I say, I’ve done this before, they’ll still put me in the novice boat. That’s fine. They seemed at least a little glad to have one steadier oar in the bow. And the cox-box (microphone used by coxswain to give instructions) wasn’t working, a la my high school crew days.
At the Fresher’s Fair, I gave my name to the Oxford Kings Baseball Club, who are playing a tournament this weekend. Of all the sport clubs at Oxford, this is probably the scrappiest. We have our first (of only two) practices tomorrow, and today I got an email requesting former players to pool their mitts and uniforms so there are enough to go around. (Whereas the St. Catz rowing club definitely has its own boathouse with about eight boats. That’s eight more than we had at my high school, and infinitely more boathouse.) After baseball practice, I’m going to try to make the sign-up session with the Walking (read: easy hiking) Club.
Where’s all the work I promised? It’s there. Yesterday I met my primary tutor, who suppressed her disappointment that I don’t speak Latin, and tonight she emailed me my first reading list, which are a few books about Lucretius’ life and times. I’m still reading Hamlet (I’m aiming to read it twice before I start writing a paper and turning to secondary information about Tragedy). And I think I have time for all of this.
There was something else I meant to write about too—when I remember, there it’ll be.
As I may have forgotten to write about before, I finally made it to Hall (dinner). It’s a three-course affair on long tables with ambiance. The Master and some assorted other faculty sit at the head table, and upon their entrance, all students stand and await the benediction (the Master bangs the gavel and says, “Benedictus benedictum,” I think). Waiters, who are mostly student workers, bring the courses and whisk away the empty plates.
They post the week’s menu outside the Hall, so you can skip the meals you don’t like or queue up early for your favorites. On Monday, I was checking the menu and thinking to myself, I don’t really want that, maybe I’ll duck out for kebabs. But I overheard some Brits saying that Kevin Spacey (who is a visiting lecturer at St. Catz this year—last year it was Patrick Stewart) would be joining us for dinner, and they would be serving wine to the students. Having that story, regardless of what ‘beef daube’ was, I figured would be worth it.
I was early, so I sat quite at the front of one of the tables with some other Americans I knew. All the places filled up, and everyone soon knew who our guest of honor would be. We waited and waited, heads constantly turning toward the door, checking the activity of the wait staff, watching the suits move around. Waited, waited, waited.
Finally, about ten minutes late, the whole room stood up suddenly, in unison, and there was silence as people peered over each other to glimpse the Master and Mr. Spacey walking to the head table. The actor said a few words before the benediction, and we all sat down and waited to be served. But as the macaroni was going around the table, here I am dumping some on my plate, some on the table, picking it from the table to my plate, here’s activity behind me and a hand on my back. It’s Kevin Spacey, come to work the crowd. The English girls sitting next to me were too something to speak, but I and the other American boys got some banter going. He seemed relieved to hear our accent. We talked, he walked away. The English girls looked a little spacey after that.
Anyway, that’s the story of how I met Kevin Spacey. Really, Patrick Stewart would have been WAY cooler. Other interesting stuff happened too.
For instance, I went to my first Oxford lecture on Monday too, Introduction to Logic. I haven’t taken Logic yet at regular school, so I need to take it next semester, so I thought this would be a nice headstart. It probably will be. I realized when I arrived in the lecture hall that, gosh, there are other students of Oxford than just those at St. Catz. Some bad smelling ones too. The hall was big, with a big projector screen and a German guy with a mic, and about thirty people who each had a cough.
I also went to my first crew practice on the River Isis. It was a novice training session, but I think as many times as I say, I’ve done this before, they’ll still put me in the novice boat. That’s fine. They seemed at least a little glad to have one steadier oar in the bow. And the cox-box (microphone used by coxswain to give instructions) wasn’t working, a la my high school crew days.
At the Fresher’s Fair, I gave my name to the Oxford Kings Baseball Club, who are playing a tournament this weekend. Of all the sport clubs at Oxford, this is probably the scrappiest. We have our first (of only two) practices tomorrow, and today I got an email requesting former players to pool their mitts and uniforms so there are enough to go around. (Whereas the St. Catz rowing club definitely has its own boathouse with about eight boats. That’s eight more than we had at my high school, and infinitely more boathouse.) After baseball practice, I’m going to try to make the sign-up session with the Walking (read: easy hiking) Club.
Where’s all the work I promised? It’s there. Yesterday I met my primary tutor, who suppressed her disappointment that I don’t speak Latin, and tonight she emailed me my first reading list, which are a few books about Lucretius’ life and times. I’m still reading Hamlet (I’m aiming to read it twice before I start writing a paper and turning to secondary information about Tragedy). And I think I have time for all of this.
There was something else I meant to write about too—when I remember, there it’ll be.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Comparison
If you want some idea of just how much traffic the JCR bar gets: The bathroom just outside the bar has a trough-type urinal, the like of which I've only seen in one other place--Wrigley Field.
More Stuff That Happened and Stuff
I guess it works better to let a few days worth of events happen, and then write about the best stuff, rather than expect noteworthy (or blogworthy) things to happen every day.
I met one of my tutors, one Professor Clarke, who will work with me on my secondary tutorial, Tragedy. It was officially a choice between that and Shakespeare, so we decided to cut it both ways and start with Hamlet, basically the most famous tragedy ever written. This way, too, it’s not waiting for us. I’ve never properly studied Hamlet, so I’m REALLY excited. I started reading it today, and I think I’ll hit the play (or, I’ll play) when I’m through with this. The campus library is open till midnight. That’s a half-hour later than the campus bar.
The bar really is the center of things here. Last night was the first Entz (the Catz short form of ‘entertainment’), and we had to dress up as something that started with the first letter of our name. I really hate costume parties, and they’re particularly hard when one is in a new town in a foreign country with a bad exchange rate. All that may still not excuse my costume, which was a paper cut-out of a target. I was dressed as “aim.” Initially, this was an Aristotelian costume concept (I liked it a lot when I thought of it), but that certainly was not conveyed by my piece of paper and pin. Still, I was better served by that than going as “absent” (i.e. not going), because the party was nuts. The English went all-out with their costumes. One guy was dressed as a sandwich, with real pieces of bread, lettuce, and lunchmeat taped to him. Actually, that was gross.
The bar is also the stepping stone to Oxfordtown nightlife. They have clubs here in addition to pubs. I resisted going to clubs for a few days, since I have never found them to be my kind of scene. Boy was I right. I went a few days ago to Escape, and it was, as I said, not my scene. One major problem is that the beat of dance music (so far as I can tell, there is only one beat—thunk thunk thunk thunk) does not compel me to dance. I’ve been spoiled by mixmasters who are jazz and funk drummers by profession, like Madlib and The Apple Juice Kid.
It’s not all parties here, even though my reports may make it seem that way. I went to an introduction to crew yesterday as well. Oxford is traditionally as serious about this as about costumes. They have a room, the “tank,” in which a concrete imitation-boat is mounted in what would otherwise be a swimming pool. Real oars (with holes in their blades) in real oarlocks, mounted next to real sliding seats, allow novices to get the feel for live rowing without the danger of capsizing a real boat. From my experience with my high school crew, I know how to execute a full stroke, but it was good to learn their lingo, which is of course different from ours (I should have seen that coming). I don’t know what the next step is towards the water of the Isis (Oxford’s piece of the Thames), but I’ll probably find out this week.
I also signed up for the St. Catz pool (billiards) club at Friday’s Clubs and Societies gathering, but I have not heard from them. I joined mostly in order to find the real pool tables around here. There are two tables in the JCR bar, but they are the smallest size of table, and the balls and cues are smaller. I played one game there, and it felt like playing with toys. Completely different physics than full-size pool.
I might stumble upon a real table before they direct me, as I’ve done as much stumbling as I can this week. Tonight, I set out to find Noodlebar, listed in the Oxford handbook as a cheap Asian restaurant in a place I had not been before. I consulted a map prior to departure, but despite this, couldn’t find it for an hour. All the better, since I found places I wasn’t looking for. One convenience store, selling fresh fruit and vegetables outside, sold me a carrot for 7p (pence). I passed a number of restaurants that were more interesting (I discovered) than my destination, but I soldiered on through their crooked streets.
The neighborhoods here are actually—I never thought I’d catch myself saying this—charming. I have yet to see anything garish. The houses are all fairly small, with small cars parked all around, and many properties really have hedges. It’s an amazing tapestry of ancient and just-kinda-old, and it’s all very close-built. I’d like to find a real architectural tour of the place, I’m sure they offer that here.
I eventually found the square I was searching for, and Noodlebar. I guess it’s a chain in this country. But it was cheap Asian food, and excellent noodles.
All this wandering might be cut short if the beautiful weather ever breaks here. We’ve had five divine days, during which the nights haven’t even been as frigid as they were initially. I’m not betting on much more of it.
Tomorrow I meet my primary tutor. Then the work really starts.
I met one of my tutors, one Professor Clarke, who will work with me on my secondary tutorial, Tragedy. It was officially a choice between that and Shakespeare, so we decided to cut it both ways and start with Hamlet, basically the most famous tragedy ever written. This way, too, it’s not waiting for us. I’ve never properly studied Hamlet, so I’m REALLY excited. I started reading it today, and I think I’ll hit the play (or, I’ll play) when I’m through with this. The campus library is open till midnight. That’s a half-hour later than the campus bar.
The bar really is the center of things here. Last night was the first Entz (the Catz short form of ‘entertainment’), and we had to dress up as something that started with the first letter of our name. I really hate costume parties, and they’re particularly hard when one is in a new town in a foreign country with a bad exchange rate. All that may still not excuse my costume, which was a paper cut-out of a target. I was dressed as “aim.” Initially, this was an Aristotelian costume concept (I liked it a lot when I thought of it), but that certainly was not conveyed by my piece of paper and pin. Still, I was better served by that than going as “absent” (i.e. not going), because the party was nuts. The English went all-out with their costumes. One guy was dressed as a sandwich, with real pieces of bread, lettuce, and lunchmeat taped to him. Actually, that was gross.
The bar is also the stepping stone to Oxfordtown nightlife. They have clubs here in addition to pubs. I resisted going to clubs for a few days, since I have never found them to be my kind of scene. Boy was I right. I went a few days ago to Escape, and it was, as I said, not my scene. One major problem is that the beat of dance music (so far as I can tell, there is only one beat—thunk thunk thunk thunk) does not compel me to dance. I’ve been spoiled by mixmasters who are jazz and funk drummers by profession, like Madlib and The Apple Juice Kid.
It’s not all parties here, even though my reports may make it seem that way. I went to an introduction to crew yesterday as well. Oxford is traditionally as serious about this as about costumes. They have a room, the “tank,” in which a concrete imitation-boat is mounted in what would otherwise be a swimming pool. Real oars (with holes in their blades) in real oarlocks, mounted next to real sliding seats, allow novices to get the feel for live rowing without the danger of capsizing a real boat. From my experience with my high school crew, I know how to execute a full stroke, but it was good to learn their lingo, which is of course different from ours (I should have seen that coming). I don’t know what the next step is towards the water of the Isis (Oxford’s piece of the Thames), but I’ll probably find out this week.
I also signed up for the St. Catz pool (billiards) club at Friday’s Clubs and Societies gathering, but I have not heard from them. I joined mostly in order to find the real pool tables around here. There are two tables in the JCR bar, but they are the smallest size of table, and the balls and cues are smaller. I played one game there, and it felt like playing with toys. Completely different physics than full-size pool.
I might stumble upon a real table before they direct me, as I’ve done as much stumbling as I can this week. Tonight, I set out to find Noodlebar, listed in the Oxford handbook as a cheap Asian restaurant in a place I had not been before. I consulted a map prior to departure, but despite this, couldn’t find it for an hour. All the better, since I found places I wasn’t looking for. One convenience store, selling fresh fruit and vegetables outside, sold me a carrot for 7p (pence). I passed a number of restaurants that were more interesting (I discovered) than my destination, but I soldiered on through their crooked streets.
The neighborhoods here are actually—I never thought I’d catch myself saying this—charming. I have yet to see anything garish. The houses are all fairly small, with small cars parked all around, and many properties really have hedges. It’s an amazing tapestry of ancient and just-kinda-old, and it’s all very close-built. I’d like to find a real architectural tour of the place, I’m sure they offer that here.
I eventually found the square I was searching for, and Noodlebar. I guess it’s a chain in this country. But it was cheap Asian food, and excellent noodles.
All this wandering might be cut short if the beautiful weather ever breaks here. We’ve had five divine days, during which the nights haven’t even been as frigid as they were initially. I’m not betting on much more of it.
Tomorrow I meet my primary tutor. Then the work really starts.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Sure Shots
Here are some pictures, captions following. Next time I'll make them bigger, yeah? But for now, click to enlarge.
Here's me upon takeoff. Do I look nervous?
Here's a picture I took for Jackie. I tried so hard to get one of these damn buses in it.
I went to the British Museum, this is only the outside, and that's the least important or interesting part.
This is a Greek rendering of Sunrise (old dude in his chariot, pulling the sun) over the all-night banquet (Dionysus of the wine), an amazing thing, and certainly never constructed in Britain.
The man himself.
Another ancient monolith on display.
In England, even the dogs play football (soccer).
I was obviously amazed by this, and aren't you?
Continue to be amazed.
Continue.
A generic picture of St. Catz, of our "moat."
One side of the "staircase" dorms.
The quad, left.
The quad, right.
An English lightswitch (all of them, as far as I can tell, are like this).
Here's me upon takeoff. Do I look nervous?
Here's a picture I took for Jackie. I tried so hard to get one of these damn buses in it.
I went to the British Museum, this is only the outside, and that's the least important or interesting part.
This is a Greek rendering of Sunrise (old dude in his chariot, pulling the sun) over the all-night banquet (Dionysus of the wine), an amazing thing, and certainly never constructed in Britain.
The man himself.
Another ancient monolith on display.
In England, even the dogs play football (soccer).
I was obviously amazed by this, and aren't you?
Continue to be amazed.
Continue.
A generic picture of St. Catz, of our "moat."
One side of the "staircase" dorms.
The quad, left.
The quad, right.
An English lightswitch (all of them, as far as I can tell, are like this).
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Echoes
I've heard a few bizarre echoes from America in unexpected places. In the pub I was taken to by my college parents, Rapper's Delight (1979) was playing. In the JCR, twice I have heard The Message (1982). These rap classics are thrown in with everything else here.
Keep An Eye
I'll keep my cash and watch this number closely as America sends ripples through international economies. If you didn't know, the UK is facing similar bank problems.
Candy
I went to Sainsbury's today to stock up on some snacks. Most of the things I got are uninspiring, but their candy selection is worth its own blog. I bought something called Planets, by Mars Co., which is a mixed bag of "milk chocolate with assorted centres," being two kinds of malt filling, I think, and a caramel-filled one. Delicious. They also have dark chocolate Kit-Kat bars (my mom would love these), and a long list of other things I haven't tried yet.
If you're nice to me, maybe I'll send or bring some candy back to the States. Also, on a related note, feel free to email my regular address (lostdog) with comments, questions, or stories of your own, instead of feeling held back by the requirement to register on blogger in order to leave comments. I don't check the address listed for this blog (I made a gmail account in order to have this).
I also bought a St. Catz hat today, to keep my head toasty on these frigid nights and mornings. So don't anybody send me hats.
If you're nice to me, maybe I'll send or bring some candy back to the States. Also, on a related note, feel free to email my regular address (lostdog) with comments, questions, or stories of your own, instead of feeling held back by the requirement to register on blogger in order to leave comments. I don't check the address listed for this blog (I made a gmail account in order to have this).
I also bought a St. Catz hat today, to keep my head toasty on these frigid nights and mornings. So don't anybody send me hats.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Let's Catch Up Some More
As soon as I get this out of the way, we can finally go live.
Monday: This was our only real day of orientation. A brief survey of British culture, presented by two Brits who run this end of the study abroad program, was my first firsthand encounter with this odd, shorter parent of America. Turns out they’re terribly sensible here. If any conservatives read this, forgive me (or is that not something you do?--forgive me for this as well): The Brits are altogether far more liberal than Americans, and, in such a context, voice is given to lots of views, but political discussion is never hung up on the moral and religious contraries that get so much airtime from the conservative media elite that drag on our national debate like a 28K modem. Gay people have equal rights, with no great hullaballoo over tradition. Abortion is legal, and you can get it or not. Hell, there aren’t even really guns here. In this context, as I said, this doesn’t seem extreme, just sensible (says someone agreeable). (More on all this in the weeks and blogs to come.)
Of course, just because there aren’t guns doesn’t mean there isn’t crime. But the classic American facedown, with its mantra of “gimme the loot,” isn’t how they get the loot. They are, as these Brits told us, a light-fingered nation. There is more what we would call ‘petty theft’ in the UK than in any other European country, even those with shifty-eyed Gypsies and Italians. In fact, it might be a slight against the nation to call it ‘petty theft’. It might rather be ‘good old theft’. Anyway, I’ll be watching my stuff closely, and especially using my fingerproof passport pouch. (Who looks dumb now?) An ex-cop who spoke to us suggested we carry ‘dummy wallets’. Good idea, I think.
They spoke about the program too of course, and I got gradually more excited.
After all these lectures, and two meals, I decided to go for a walk. I took Tottenham Court Road one way for awhile, but it got boring, so I turned around and followed it the other way for awhile. In this direction, I discovered Trafalgar Square, the center of London. The architecture in this part of the world is particularly amazing, old, and quirky in its measurements. The streets follow every pattern other than a grid. People on the busy sidewalks walk on the left, which is of course confusing, although I’d walk the streets of London to practice driving them. The whole place is mad, yet it holds tightly together at a breakneck pace. Even an American in a bright orange hat can’t disturb the...I don’t want to say order.
I was back in time to meet the group to see Harold Pinter’s No Man’s Land at the Duke of York Theater, which was only a few steps from the area I had just explored. It was neat, but is I guess what they call ‘post-modernist’, which departs from the rich structure that I prefer (or maybe that makes it post-structuralist—I don’t want to dismiss it, but...eh). The man who played Dumbledore (not the dead one) and the man who played Filch in the Harry Potter movies were two of the four-member cast. So I guess that’s cool. Then it was back to the room, back to bed. I was still sick.
Tuesday: Another nice hotel breakfast, then a bus ride to Oxford. Our driver gave us a running commentary, pointing out what he said was the oldest road in England, predating the Romans. He pointed it out after we drove under its bridge.
We arrived, and it was raining. I should point out that at this point, we had not yet seen the English sun—or maybe a dull glow is the English sun.
I’ll figure out a way to put up pictures of St. Catz, but meantime understand that it is anything but Gothic architecture. I knew this beforehand, but if you’re still thinking, “He’s at the Oxford of olde!” you’re sadly mistaken. I’m not sad though. This campus is fresh and yet def...I’ll put up pictures. It isn’t the ‘farthest thing’ from ye olde Gothic architecture—it’s just down the street at our neighbor, Magdalen (“maudlin”) College. I learned an important little mnemonic for them recently: Magdelen are wankers. St. Catz is too young a college to have any real rivalries with the other colleges, so they just punch the nearest.
I’m in a double, with another member of the Butler program, Will. The dorm is nicer than my old dorm. It has two rooms, one for beds and one for desks and shelves, and also a bathroom. It faces east, so we get a beautiful sunrise over the sports field that backs up against our dorm. There are no screens in the windows, but they do open. It is quite spacious, and no cinderblock.
At any rate, I put my things in the room, but barely had time to see all of it before I was due at the first event on our very full schedule for the week: Tea with the other visiting students. This didn’t do much for me, since, after walking around in the rain, I wasn’t feeling so hot, and certainly not social. I stood there and drank tea. We moved to a different room and heard from some brass about the tutorials, and received sheets listing our tutors and subjects. My primary is Lucretius, my secondary, either Shakespeare or tragedy. I think I’ll choose tragedy, but have yet to hear from my tutor. Another student in the program is doing Lucretius as well, and with the same tutor, so I suppose I’ll confer with her throughout the term.
Then we went to see the JCR, or Junior Common Room. This is the hub of campus, naturally, because here is located the St. Catz bar. No kidding, they have a subsidized bar steps away from the dining Hall, and it’s open late. It has the WEAKEST pool table I’ve ever played on, no kidding there either. The equipment are toys. Magdalen are wankers. We stood in the JCR and waited for our ‘college parents’, upperclassmen assigned to one or two (or in some cases, six) freshers. Matt and Ryan, my two dads, found me and their other adoptee, Danny, from Liverpool. We exchanged hellos and names, and then Ryan said eagerly, “Pub?” And off I went into English pub culture.
A note about this: The English say their system is more sensible because it avoids a binge culture, which America harbors, but these fellows can drink. We passed pleasantries over pints, and then went to catch the end of the line for Hall, but no dice. They were full up. So Dad and Dad rallied us and a few other kept-outs and we went to make a meal in Staircase 1 (the division of living quarters is by Staircases—I’m 5). We scrounged some furniture from an outdoor cafe set-up that must see about two days of use in England’s climate, and put together a very nice affair with pasta and, yes, more booze. Ryan brought wine, Danny brought Budweiser (an import here!), and a pack of Grolsch had been set aside for the official Staircase party (to follow Hall), that our impromptu dinner guests made quick work of. I was warned not to keep pace with the British, and I took this advice to heart. So I guess it isn’t a binge culture, they just drink as often as possible.
Conversation, etc, followed, and I went to bed. I woke up around 3am to find my new roommate in a sad state in the bathroom, so I coached him out of there in two hours’ time. After this, I couldn’t fall back asleep for the life of me, so I caught breakfast with a small crowd of others at 8.15. Did I mention a wonderful fact about English breakfasts? They have decided it is acceptable to eat baked beans for breakfast. A whole new world of beans, in other words! It turns out that morning is when I most want the life-giving legumes. I’ve been asking Brits about it, and one said, “Yes, they’re a staple of bad breakfast food.” I respectfully disagreed with him, and whatever—more for me.
This brings us almost to the present, although Thursday arrived here forty-two minutes ago.
Wednesday: I scoped out a little of Oxford after breakfast, joining forces with another American visitor, Cas or Kas or Kass, I’m not sure. Oddly enough, she is Malaysian. Seems where I find a new school, I find Malaysians. I can’t tell you where we were, because we just followed streets. I’ll take some pictures some time. Narrow lanes full of bicycles mostly, but even Oxford has a local bus system (you see how sensible?).
The big event of the day was the Freshers’ Fair, where us new kids could sign up for University-wide clubs and such. I signed up for a few, more on that in the coming days.
I made another attempt at Hall, and failed again, this time because of plain tardiness. A group of like-failures and I foraged a meal from the downtown fare. It turns out everything here closes really early, perhaps because it gets so cold when the sun sets. I’m developing an intuitive grasp of direction and streets here, even though I don’t know any street names. The English, for the benefit of their horse-drawn coachmen (or so said our bus driver upon arrival), put their street signs on the sides of buildings infrequently, rather than on poles at every intersection (so much for sense).
Anyway, here I am. I’ve caught myself finally. Tomorrow, more exploration, perhaps a run to Sainsbury’s grocery, Blackwell’s books, or another store whose name I forget.
Cheers! (No, I don’t really say that.)
Monday: This was our only real day of orientation. A brief survey of British culture, presented by two Brits who run this end of the study abroad program, was my first firsthand encounter with this odd, shorter parent of America. Turns out they’re terribly sensible here. If any conservatives read this, forgive me (or is that not something you do?--forgive me for this as well): The Brits are altogether far more liberal than Americans, and, in such a context, voice is given to lots of views, but political discussion is never hung up on the moral and religious contraries that get so much airtime from the conservative media elite that drag on our national debate like a 28K modem. Gay people have equal rights, with no great hullaballoo over tradition. Abortion is legal, and you can get it or not. Hell, there aren’t even really guns here. In this context, as I said, this doesn’t seem extreme, just sensible (says someone agreeable). (More on all this in the weeks and blogs to come.)
Of course, just because there aren’t guns doesn’t mean there isn’t crime. But the classic American facedown, with its mantra of “gimme the loot,” isn’t how they get the loot. They are, as these Brits told us, a light-fingered nation. There is more what we would call ‘petty theft’ in the UK than in any other European country, even those with shifty-eyed Gypsies and Italians. In fact, it might be a slight against the nation to call it ‘petty theft’. It might rather be ‘good old theft’. Anyway, I’ll be watching my stuff closely, and especially using my fingerproof passport pouch. (Who looks dumb now?) An ex-cop who spoke to us suggested we carry ‘dummy wallets’. Good idea, I think.
They spoke about the program too of course, and I got gradually more excited.
After all these lectures, and two meals, I decided to go for a walk. I took Tottenham Court Road one way for awhile, but it got boring, so I turned around and followed it the other way for awhile. In this direction, I discovered Trafalgar Square, the center of London. The architecture in this part of the world is particularly amazing, old, and quirky in its measurements. The streets follow every pattern other than a grid. People on the busy sidewalks walk on the left, which is of course confusing, although I’d walk the streets of London to practice driving them. The whole place is mad, yet it holds tightly together at a breakneck pace. Even an American in a bright orange hat can’t disturb the...I don’t want to say order.
I was back in time to meet the group to see Harold Pinter’s No Man’s Land at the Duke of York Theater, which was only a few steps from the area I had just explored. It was neat, but is I guess what they call ‘post-modernist’, which departs from the rich structure that I prefer (or maybe that makes it post-structuralist—I don’t want to dismiss it, but...eh). The man who played Dumbledore (not the dead one) and the man who played Filch in the Harry Potter movies were two of the four-member cast. So I guess that’s cool. Then it was back to the room, back to bed. I was still sick.
Tuesday: Another nice hotel breakfast, then a bus ride to Oxford. Our driver gave us a running commentary, pointing out what he said was the oldest road in England, predating the Romans. He pointed it out after we drove under its bridge.
We arrived, and it was raining. I should point out that at this point, we had not yet seen the English sun—or maybe a dull glow is the English sun.
I’ll figure out a way to put up pictures of St. Catz, but meantime understand that it is anything but Gothic architecture. I knew this beforehand, but if you’re still thinking, “He’s at the Oxford of olde!” you’re sadly mistaken. I’m not sad though. This campus is fresh and yet def...I’ll put up pictures. It isn’t the ‘farthest thing’ from ye olde Gothic architecture—it’s just down the street at our neighbor, Magdalen (“maudlin”) College. I learned an important little mnemonic for them recently: Magdelen are wankers. St. Catz is too young a college to have any real rivalries with the other colleges, so they just punch the nearest.
I’m in a double, with another member of the Butler program, Will. The dorm is nicer than my old dorm. It has two rooms, one for beds and one for desks and shelves, and also a bathroom. It faces east, so we get a beautiful sunrise over the sports field that backs up against our dorm. There are no screens in the windows, but they do open. It is quite spacious, and no cinderblock.
At any rate, I put my things in the room, but barely had time to see all of it before I was due at the first event on our very full schedule for the week: Tea with the other visiting students. This didn’t do much for me, since, after walking around in the rain, I wasn’t feeling so hot, and certainly not social. I stood there and drank tea. We moved to a different room and heard from some brass about the tutorials, and received sheets listing our tutors and subjects. My primary is Lucretius, my secondary, either Shakespeare or tragedy. I think I’ll choose tragedy, but have yet to hear from my tutor. Another student in the program is doing Lucretius as well, and with the same tutor, so I suppose I’ll confer with her throughout the term.
Then we went to see the JCR, or Junior Common Room. This is the hub of campus, naturally, because here is located the St. Catz bar. No kidding, they have a subsidized bar steps away from the dining Hall, and it’s open late. It has the WEAKEST pool table I’ve ever played on, no kidding there either. The equipment are toys. Magdalen are wankers. We stood in the JCR and waited for our ‘college parents’, upperclassmen assigned to one or two (or in some cases, six) freshers. Matt and Ryan, my two dads, found me and their other adoptee, Danny, from Liverpool. We exchanged hellos and names, and then Ryan said eagerly, “Pub?” And off I went into English pub culture.
A note about this: The English say their system is more sensible because it avoids a binge culture, which America harbors, but these fellows can drink. We passed pleasantries over pints, and then went to catch the end of the line for Hall, but no dice. They were full up. So Dad and Dad rallied us and a few other kept-outs and we went to make a meal in Staircase 1 (the division of living quarters is by Staircases—I’m 5). We scrounged some furniture from an outdoor cafe set-up that must see about two days of use in England’s climate, and put together a very nice affair with pasta and, yes, more booze. Ryan brought wine, Danny brought Budweiser (an import here!), and a pack of Grolsch had been set aside for the official Staircase party (to follow Hall), that our impromptu dinner guests made quick work of. I was warned not to keep pace with the British, and I took this advice to heart. So I guess it isn’t a binge culture, they just drink as often as possible.
Conversation, etc, followed, and I went to bed. I woke up around 3am to find my new roommate in a sad state in the bathroom, so I coached him out of there in two hours’ time. After this, I couldn’t fall back asleep for the life of me, so I caught breakfast with a small crowd of others at 8.15. Did I mention a wonderful fact about English breakfasts? They have decided it is acceptable to eat baked beans for breakfast. A whole new world of beans, in other words! It turns out that morning is when I most want the life-giving legumes. I’ve been asking Brits about it, and one said, “Yes, they’re a staple of bad breakfast food.” I respectfully disagreed with him, and whatever—more for me.
This brings us almost to the present, although Thursday arrived here forty-two minutes ago.
Wednesday: I scoped out a little of Oxford after breakfast, joining forces with another American visitor, Cas or Kas or Kass, I’m not sure. Oddly enough, she is Malaysian. Seems where I find a new school, I find Malaysians. I can’t tell you where we were, because we just followed streets. I’ll take some pictures some time. Narrow lanes full of bicycles mostly, but even Oxford has a local bus system (you see how sensible?).
The big event of the day was the Freshers’ Fair, where us new kids could sign up for University-wide clubs and such. I signed up for a few, more on that in the coming days.
I made another attempt at Hall, and failed again, this time because of plain tardiness. A group of like-failures and I foraged a meal from the downtown fare. It turns out everything here closes really early, perhaps because it gets so cold when the sun sets. I’m developing an intuitive grasp of direction and streets here, even though I don’t know any street names. The English, for the benefit of their horse-drawn coachmen (or so said our bus driver upon arrival), put their street signs on the sides of buildings infrequently, rather than on poles at every intersection (so much for sense).
Anyway, here I am. I’ve caught myself finally. Tomorrow, more exploration, perhaps a run to Sainsbury’s grocery, Blackwell’s books, or another store whose name I forget.
Cheers! (No, I don’t really say that.)
Let's Catch Up
(I wrote this Sunday night. As you may calculate, I did not find an internet cafe the next day.)
Right now, I’m in a room at the St. Giles Hotel in London, where the internet is not free nor cheap, so I’ll have to post this tomorrow, perhaps from an internet cafe rumored to be nearby. Obviously I am safe and sound, although I’m putting that status in jeopardy by staying up to write this. It’s only 8:06 (20:06), but I haven’t slept since Friday night.
I departed my dear parents and Chicago Saturday morning, and had a forgettable flight to Newark. Lots of crying children and slow-moving elderly. Most notably, the combination of pressure changes and sinus clogging made landing painful, and from then until the lift-off of my next flight, my right ear’s hearing was inhibited, as though I had an ear-plug in it.
Newark was neat, not for itself but for its proximity to New York City, where I have never been. I think I saw the Statue of Liberty from the interterminal AirTrain. But who cared, it was all England! England! England!
I spent awhile wandering around Newark Int’l half deaf, looking for the Virgin Atlantic check-in. I found it and a woman with an IFSA name tag; my passport was checked; I stood in line; my passport was checked; I took my boarding pass to security; my passport was checked. Initially, I felt a little silly with my new passport pouch, but it was really useful.
Other students gathered, and we all kind of danced around each other. Someone named Joe asked me if I played basketball (I don’t). He and I talked here and there between check-in and the gate. He studies history.
Security searched my bag on suspicion, I overheard, of “tubes.” Instead, they discovered my bag of carrots.
My ear was still bad, so I really wasn’t social, I admit. Talking felt weird, even the little that I did with Joe. It felt like half of me was talking, and my other half just heard the echo. So, for most of the four-hour layover in Newark, I sat by myself diddling with my computer. There also they tried to charge me for internet use. Oh, they.
But, gee, let’s get to Europe already. So, there was a plane ride on Virgin Airways, six hours about. They gave us all little gift packs with a toothbrush, a single serving of toothpaste, some other small things. They served dinner. My seatmate (only one) was an Italian, not part of the IFSA program, and he ordered white wine with the chick’n’n’rice, so I did the same (after all, he is Italian, he ought to know his wine). During take-off, he took up most of the window with his head, turning to me only to say, “What a great view!”
I watched The Wackness, which is a pretty new movie that I wanted to see in theaters. It’s good—I hesitate to say “very good” because I may have given it more credit for its soundtrack. It is set in New York in 1994 (i.e., B.I.G.). I couldn’t sleep because I wasn’t tired or comfortable. As the movie was ending, the Italian got up to go to the bathroom, so I paused it and looked out the window. We were over the Atlantic at this point, at night. I have never seen stars so bright, not even at Holden. No wonder they used to use them to find direction. I don’t think our plane was using celestial navigation, however.
As soon as we took off, my ears popped right again, but upon landing, they both—both!—found earplugs. Because of the weather, which was very rainy, the plane had to land at some intermediate place, from where we had to take buses to the terminal. That bus ride felt about 20 minutes long. But it was my first inside perspective on British roads. I kept waiting for our bus and the oncoming cars to suddenly switch places, but they never did.
We got our stuff, checked customs no sweat, waited for everyone else to do the same, changed some money, got on a bus to the hotel. That was my first real view of London. Houses here, rather than being designed from the front of the property to the back, are designed to go side-to-side. I wonder what’s behind them. Red lights turn red and yellow before they change to green. London’s big. Their traffic signs, indicating what will happen at the fast-approaching roundabout, are incomprehensible to me.
Evidently no one in the program is studying engineering, because once in the hotel, all of us with all of our luggage filled a very small space and tried to move, which didn’t work for a long time. By now exhausted, I showered and lay down for a few minutes without sleeping, and then went to lunch with three other students. We found pub food.
I walked Oxford street—Europe’s most businessed store strip—with my hotel roommate, who is also named Alex (someone’s joke). Then I skipped over to the British Museum for an hour, only long enough to find it and find some stuff in it and take some pictures. I am pretty sure the things I was passing hurriedly in search of bigger things are all important, famous, old, etc. I’ll go back.
Then the group went out for dinner, which was pretty good, and here I am, writing this thing for an hour and listening to more B.I.G. Now I’m going to bed.
Right now, I’m in a room at the St. Giles Hotel in London, where the internet is not free nor cheap, so I’ll have to post this tomorrow, perhaps from an internet cafe rumored to be nearby. Obviously I am safe and sound, although I’m putting that status in jeopardy by staying up to write this. It’s only 8:06 (20:06), but I haven’t slept since Friday night.
I departed my dear parents and Chicago Saturday morning, and had a forgettable flight to Newark. Lots of crying children and slow-moving elderly. Most notably, the combination of pressure changes and sinus clogging made landing painful, and from then until the lift-off of my next flight, my right ear’s hearing was inhibited, as though I had an ear-plug in it.
Newark was neat, not for itself but for its proximity to New York City, where I have never been. I think I saw the Statue of Liberty from the interterminal AirTrain. But who cared, it was all England! England! England!
I spent awhile wandering around Newark Int’l half deaf, looking for the Virgin Atlantic check-in. I found it and a woman with an IFSA name tag; my passport was checked; I stood in line; my passport was checked; I took my boarding pass to security; my passport was checked. Initially, I felt a little silly with my new passport pouch, but it was really useful.
Other students gathered, and we all kind of danced around each other. Someone named Joe asked me if I played basketball (I don’t). He and I talked here and there between check-in and the gate. He studies history.
Security searched my bag on suspicion, I overheard, of “tubes.” Instead, they discovered my bag of carrots.
My ear was still bad, so I really wasn’t social, I admit. Talking felt weird, even the little that I did with Joe. It felt like half of me was talking, and my other half just heard the echo. So, for most of the four-hour layover in Newark, I sat by myself diddling with my computer. There also they tried to charge me for internet use. Oh, they.
But, gee, let’s get to Europe already. So, there was a plane ride on Virgin Airways, six hours about. They gave us all little gift packs with a toothbrush, a single serving of toothpaste, some other small things. They served dinner. My seatmate (only one) was an Italian, not part of the IFSA program, and he ordered white wine with the chick’n’n’rice, so I did the same (after all, he is Italian, he ought to know his wine). During take-off, he took up most of the window with his head, turning to me only to say, “What a great view!”
I watched The Wackness, which is a pretty new movie that I wanted to see in theaters. It’s good—I hesitate to say “very good” because I may have given it more credit for its soundtrack. It is set in New York in 1994 (i.e., B.I.G.). I couldn’t sleep because I wasn’t tired or comfortable. As the movie was ending, the Italian got up to go to the bathroom, so I paused it and looked out the window. We were over the Atlantic at this point, at night. I have never seen stars so bright, not even at Holden. No wonder they used to use them to find direction. I don’t think our plane was using celestial navigation, however.
As soon as we took off, my ears popped right again, but upon landing, they both—both!—found earplugs. Because of the weather, which was very rainy, the plane had to land at some intermediate place, from where we had to take buses to the terminal. That bus ride felt about 20 minutes long. But it was my first inside perspective on British roads. I kept waiting for our bus and the oncoming cars to suddenly switch places, but they never did.
We got our stuff, checked customs no sweat, waited for everyone else to do the same, changed some money, got on a bus to the hotel. That was my first real view of London. Houses here, rather than being designed from the front of the property to the back, are designed to go side-to-side. I wonder what’s behind them. Red lights turn red and yellow before they change to green. London’s big. Their traffic signs, indicating what will happen at the fast-approaching roundabout, are incomprehensible to me.
Evidently no one in the program is studying engineering, because once in the hotel, all of us with all of our luggage filled a very small space and tried to move, which didn’t work for a long time. By now exhausted, I showered and lay down for a few minutes without sleeping, and then went to lunch with three other students. We found pub food.
I walked Oxford street—Europe’s most businessed store strip—with my hotel roommate, who is also named Alex (someone’s joke). Then I skipped over to the British Museum for an hour, only long enough to find it and find some stuff in it and take some pictures. I am pretty sure the things I was passing hurriedly in search of bigger things are all important, famous, old, etc. I’ll go back.
Then the group went out for dinner, which was pretty good, and here I am, writing this thing for an hour and listening to more B.I.G. Now I’m going to bed.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Big Day
Big day. Traveling. Leaving in an hour for O'hare after a quick Jewel run. Will be in England tomorrow morning. Although the day is here, I feel like I'll still never get there. Hope I'm wrong.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Oh My Blog!
This is a travel blog written for the benefit of friends and family as I travel to England. Welcome.
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