Today is the campus Study Abroad fair, a time I used to greet with the delighted anticipation of what I could do, and where I could go. However, I’m graduating in May, and there are no more semesters for me to go away. Facing the prospect of graduation, with no real plans for grad school as of yet, nor of a job, I’d love to get away again.
As I left the fair, with one brochure for a possible graduate school, I realized I still want to go to
It’s
So I’ll go to
Some weeks late…
I think that we Anglophiles come in two distinct tribes: tea and pints. Those followers of tea and crumpets seem to be eternally enchanted with the Royal Family, consider Shakespeare the paragon of playwriting, and believe wholeheartedly in having a hat to match every sundress for Ascot. The pints care more about catching the Euro Cup finals, keep track of Gordon Brown, and look more at the reality of what England is and was.
I have, and always will, proudly describe myself as an Anglophile. My Facebook list of “Favorite TV” is basically a program listing for BBC America, and I can find my way on the Underground better than I will ever manage DC’s Metro; it’s general knowledge in my dorm that any question about the English can usually be answered by me with a fairly high degree of accuracy. Not that I’m bragging, or encouraging the image of my pomposity.
The difficulty I am having is figuring out where I fit; I keep one eye on the royals, and another on Gordon Brown. Most of my Anglo-centric time is spent on film and television; I read a lot, I watch a lot of movies, and then I read some history. Having spent an equal amount of time in pubs and teahouses, I find myself equally comfortable in both.
So maybe the answer to my dilemma is not nearly as complicated as I think. Maybe the only way to find out how I fit is simply to move to the UK. After all, I like it there. The food is pretty good. I don’t mind the rain.
Although, Wales is pretty cool too.
I remember the last time I went to Oxford I was about to start my sophomore year of high school. It was summer, and the family was taking a day trip. I was struck by how crowded and busy the city seemed compared to Cambridge.
I returned last weekend, really for lack of anything else. I considered Liverpool for my free weekend, but Oxford seemed just as good. I traveled with another girl from the group, just for the security of another body. We left London from Paddington Station, and got to Oxford mid-morning. The plan was to drop out bags at the hostel, and then find out if I could make it into the C.S. Lewis-J.R.R. Tolkien walking tour. Thus began the weekend of walking tours.
Now, I am a fan of the aforementioned authors. I’m reasonably interested in seeing the places they worked. I expected with the recent release of film versions of “Lord of the Rings” and “Narnia” that this may be a fairly full tour. My ticket brought it to roughly ¾ capacity. Well, that’s fine; it’s early in the season! We arrived during exams and graduation! So off on our little tour.
Later that evening friend and I decided on the Ghost Tour. This was packed with people; ghost tours tend to be very well attended in my experience of tours, and this guy was really good. Not much to say about that, other than after the tour we ended up at the opening of the new Jamie Oliver Italian restaurant. Excellent experience and good food, although I normally shy away from celebrity chef places.
Now, the next day, which was the last day (brief excursion you see), friend wandered off to a Castle; I decided to skip the childhood home of Winston Churchill in favor of the “Inspector Morse” tour.
I am not particularly fond of Morse. There’s only one episode I really liked, and I tend to leave the room when the DVD sets come out. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the assembled horde of tourists waiting for the Morse tour. So many, in fact, that two sweet old ladies needed to be summoned from the Tourist Office to handle the group. We were split into two groups just under twenty each. I never imagined the popularity for the old detective; there were English, Scots, and Americans in my group, and although there was a trend towards a certain age, there were a few of us young’uns to shake things up.
And so I returned from Oxford, pausing briefly to see the Dodo. I realize this doesn’t sound terribly exciting. I really think I just walked for two days looking at the same buildings and hearing a different story about each one. But it’s nice to get away from London for awhile, even if the street were lined with glitter and other signs of celebration for the end of exams.
I am a great believer in providence; last week in Salisbury I wandered into Boots for a bit of cosmetic shopping. I walked out with a coupon for half-price sunglasses. Yesterday, my sunglasses broke.
I should explain these sunglasses; I found them in the mall one August day nearly three years ago while out with a friend. She and I picked up some cheap, heavily $6 sunglasses. They were simple, black plastic frames with cherry details. For the first time, I became attached to sunglasses. I’ve never been able to hold onto glasses before, but something about this pair stuck with me. I used to get upset if I couldn’t find this pair and had to resort to the magic bin of half-broken glasses in the house.
I noticed the break on the right frame a year ago. It was just a small fissure, then a chink, and then, yesterday, I removed my glasses from my head where they had been serving the usual role of “hair-band”. Imagine my surprise at the new-found flexibility of my plastic frames. And then the lens popped out.
Being in London, I would have thought this would be fine; sun doesn’t exist here, right? Unfortunately we’re in the middle of a heat wave. I know this because the Tube announcements in the morning inform commuters that they should all be carrying around bottled water to keep hydrated. I always trust my public transport systems.
Luckily, I have this coupon- half price on any pair (excepting Ray-Bans). So I wander into the local Boots after visiting the Guardian with the group, find the glasses, pick up a pair, try them on, and think “well, maybe…” And then the price tag: £30. The mind boggles. I look at other price tags: 20, 30, 39, 43, and 50 quid. The numbers astound me, and even with the coupon the exchange rate makes me cringe. Then I stumble on the magic pair: £5. They’re the cheapest available pair. Maybe not the best shape for my face, maybe not the best thing ever, but they are the new sunglasses. I’ll have to toss the old ones, but at least tomorrow when I go to Bath, I won’t be blinded by the blazing English sun. Except the heat wave is ending soon, so I may end up blocking out the English rain.
It’s nearing the end of my second week in London, and my third in Great Britain. I’ve decided on a peaceful night in as I have to be up and out early for a foray to Oxford. The good news is that the Inspector Morse tour runs pretty near to hourly, so I don’t need advance tickets.
I’ve been busy to say the least. Every morning class at nine, ending at one; lunch break, then afternoon session at three; more often than not I’ve been at the theatre or some other evening event. I don’t know anytime when I’ve been busier; I must admit it’s rather exciting to live a life where I spend my days jaunting through museums and chatting with authors, and then the evening at book launches and the theatre. If it weren’t for the exchange rate I could get quite accustomed to this life. I have a little flat in Islington, and I have begun to adore public transport. As much as I miss my car at home, I like knowing that I’m never too far from shopping, entertainment, and parks. I’m a short train ride from most of the country, and it’s quite a lot of country to see.
This week I went to see “Pygmalion” at the Old Vic, starring Tim Piggott-Smith. I may have finally gotten over the trauma induced by “Jewel in the Crown”. Last night was Regent’s Park for “Twelfth Night”. That really is a fun little play, and one of the better shows this trip. Part of this program includes a focus on Shakespeare’s plays, which is why we saw 12th, and “Midsummer” last week. Still have a “King Lear” to come. I have never been so, well, bored by Shakespeare. I didn’t much like certain aspects of “Midsummer”, “12th” was good enough to entertain and I’m not thrilled by the prospect of four hours standing at the Globe for “Lear” (“Midsummer” was three hours as a groundling. My knees did not function for the hour following the show). Actually, I’m most interested in wandering off to the National Theatre one night to catch “Revenger’s Tragedy”. I rather enjoy the idea of seeing something contemporary to Shakespeare, but slightly less familiar. And it’s the cheapest ticket that involves real seats.
I’m rather excited about taking this weekend. I spent the day wandering the city until my tired feet demanded I continue my exploration of the BBC. I’ll get out to a quieter city, have a few good photo ops, and come home Saturday evening for some grocery shopping (maybe), and spend Sunday at museums and finally some theatre on my own terms. Perhaps the best bit of London is knowing that the majority of the museums are free. Hours of free entertainment in a city that lets Americans hemorrhage money.
I am remiss. I should have said many things in the past, uh, month. But I have been a bit busy in the mean time, I assure you. So, a recap:
I got home, safe and sound; British Airways again delivered good food, and fabulous movies. My time at home was filled with visiting relatives and friends, and somewhat stunted. I arrived home on May 2, very late, and departed on May 19.
This time, I flew into London, and didn’t continue on to the continent. Instead, I found myself in a rental car with my parents, struggling to stay awake as we headed to Wales.
I should explain my newfound fascination with Wales. I’m of Welsh descent, and of all my ethnic extractions, it’s the one I cared least about. I mean, it takes a lot of effort to be Irish and English, keeping up with all that history, and the folk songs and traditions. Not to mention the cultural tensions. And then, I had the whole Polish thing; defending my heritage from those who would mock me. Doesn’t leave much time for Wales, which hasn’t been to verbal in the last few centuries to make me take notice.
And then came Russell T. Davies, and his new “Doctor Who”, and spin-off of “Torchwood”. Now, I’ve been a Whovian for some years, and really love the old series and its endless quarries; but the new one seems to find it necessary to highlight Cardiff, and all of “Torchwood” is set in Cardiff. My interest? Piqued. And that’s how I found myself in a hotel in Bridgend for four days.
The second day (because the first never really counts), I saw iron works and the Big Pit coal mine. The second day was Cardiff city, including the Doctor Who exhibit. The fan girl in me giggles at the memory. Third day was Swansea and castles, and Arthur’s Seat. Fourth was Caerphilly and driving back to England and Swindon.
I remember lots of sheep and rocks from the country, and the simple beauty of the place. I really did love Cardiff, and would love to go back for an extended time. Much as I love London, Cardiff is just so much calmer and easier to live in, I think.
Which brings me to now; I’m in London, in the little one room apartment I get to myself for the next three weeks. I arrived last Sunday to start my second study abroad program. I get to stay settled in one city for a month, and really get to know London.
It’s been a busy week. I’ve been up early and home late everyday, and each day is packed with walking tours and shows and all sorts of goodness. It feels as though I’ve done so much I could never really catch up on everything, and certainly not tonight. I have to be up for a Stonehenge excursion early in the day, and I’m feeling a bit under the weather at the moment. Could be all the rain, or any number of things, like my lack of proper rest these few days.
I’ll give a better update, and my feelings on being back here soon. Suffice to say, I’ve seen David Beckham live, and on the day of his 100 caps. Life is good.
This is it everyone, the night before I fly home to the United States. It’s hard to believe that it’s been fourth months (well, close enough) in Europe. I’m still not entirely sure that I had classes. I have a few memories of wasted hours spent staring at a blank document for some “assignment” to remind that I did have academics demands on my time.
Now, as I sit in my room, all of my very heavy luggage waiting downstairs for the morning bus to Milan, I keep thinking back on all the things I’ve done, the things I have yet to do, and the changes that occur within a single semester.
Living in Riva has been very much like living in a bubble; news from the outside world reaches us through the internet and e-mails from home, and none of us are terribly rigorous about reading the news, much less talking about it. I see the same group of people everyday; 27 other students, three teachers, an RA, and sundry architects circle around us, but this group of 27 was together quite often. Too often some might say; I’m surprised by the way this semester has ended or the friendships that exist. I have learned over the years that pledges of parties and constantly hanging out and eternal friendship usually end as lovely memories and broken promises. High school taught me that lesson three years ago.
In the end, I don’t truly think much about the changes of group dynamic or friendships made and broken over a given span of time. I’m thinking more about how I have changed since January. I remember visiting Nice that first weekend in February; that was the first trip I took while here, and the first time I had ever arranged for a hostel or train transport. I was travelling with two people, and I couldn’t say I knew either one very well. Looking back, I was so tentative about that trip, and so ill-informed.
At dinner the conversation tended towards packing; I have never taken a trip in the United State without a reasonably sized suitcase for checked luggage, no matter the duration of the trip. Now, the thought of taking something larger than a backpack for a weekend, or even four days seems so excessive. How could I possibly need so many clothes for such a short time? Even while packing today I had to throw away my normal pack-rat tendencies. I’m still wondering if I should go back and throw out more items.
I know that the "me" going home tomorrow is different from the one who left in January. There’s nothing quite like a semester in foreign lands to force the maturation process in humans.
I know that Saturday morning I will be thrust back into reality with acres of paperwork and other responsibilities and pressing concerns. Until that time, I have a full day of travel to isolate myself with the in-flight entertainment, and the rest of tonight to consider the semester that has passed and the person I have become.
Here’s to hoping that British Airways doesn’t strike tomorrow.
We have entered the lazy golden days that herald the end of spring semester, and the beginning to the long, lovely summer.
Of course, now that I’ve begun higher education, and my first tentative steps into the “real world”, the blissful empty days of summer tend to mean: find a job/internship, make arrangements for the next school year and beyond, and squeeze in a few adventures with friends when you can spare the time. This year is means a month in London, followed by five weeks working at camp before needing to pack to go back to Tech for my senior year. Down at Tech, I would be in the full thrall of the final days of classes, and preparing for exams. Technically, I’m doing that over here as well.
But, I am still in Switzerland, and the sun shines down on our little valley. And for a few hours, I can ignore the call of my essays and the 18 hours of travel that await me in a week as I finally return to the States.
I am surrounded by my fellow students, but we have all succumbed to the lethargy that sunshine brings, and so we all venture forth to the garden, and soak up the April UV-rays, enjoying the slight disconnection that being in a foreign country creates.
Which is why I spent five hours of my Friday, the day after I took two exams, and with several essays still to go, laying out on the lawn reading Camus’ “The Plague” and burning my back and shoulders to a crisp. And for those five hours of roasting and reading, never once did I think about the troubles and tasks that await me inside the villa, and within the next few weeks. All I could think was that there must be something wrong with stretching out in a tank top and short and reading something called “The Plague”.
I should clarify; I don’t find a problem with settling down for some serious tanning with works of what I am led to believe are “great” literature. That’s my usual summer schedule; the difficultly lies with the subject matter. In my family, my father is notorious for finding and reading books about the plague (and I do mean the bubonic type). This is usually a source of much amusement among the children, and has created an aversion to anything plague-oriented. And yet, I was drawn to a plague-book, albeit not one that also dealt with the medieval period. I suppose it’s simply a sign that I will eventually turn into my parents, but for now, I shall enjoy the sun and self-imposed ignorance of responsibilities.
I have this image of Venice in my head based entirely on the BBC; most notably “Brideshead Revisited” and “Casanova”. Thanks to the BBC, I see Venice as a city of sun-dappled piazzas and coffee shops. Gondolas float by gently, steered by men in striped shirts with flat straw hats, sometimes singing. The sky is blue interspersed with a few fluffy white clouds, and the water is the most beautiful jade color. All the buildings seem to be held up by pure faith, and are in some quaint state of decay; delicate structures of plaster that you’re fairly sure can’t possibly be where people actually live.
It turns out Venice is exactly like that. Remarkable, really; Venice is the only city that actually fits the idealized view. And I didn’t see everything actually; completely missed the interior of the Doge’s Palace and the Accademia.
The recap goes something like this: Woke up before dawn was even an option, and got on a train for Venice; arrived around noon, checked into the world’s most “interesting” hostel, and decided to go searching. I had no idea what I was supposed to see in Venice, other than a vague notion of this “San Marco” place, and the Rialto. Luckily signs were everywhere to point me towards things. From the hostel to the Rialto I wandered through cramped streets, twisting with no great sense of where I was going. Every thoroughfare was packed with tourists, and I was fairly close to not enjoying this as much as I would have liked, and then I could see down one alley the edge of a really big bridge. Follow instinct, I discovered the Rialto; white and shining in the sun, even covered in shops and tourists, spanning the green waters of the canal. Clearly, I was going to be surprised.
From the Rialto visit I followed signs to San Marco. I emerged from the darkness of the alleyways into an open space, bathed in sunlight. And then there’s the Basilica, golden with mosaics, and edged in a variety of marbles. Next to the Basilica is the Doge’s Palace, and beyond is the open water, and a few islands.
I spent six hours simply walking to get a feel for the city, and when I finished for the day I was exhausted. I still had no idea what I would do for the remainder of my trip. As it turned out, I met some girls at breakfast on the second day who were studying in Barcelona, and originally from Chicago. We bonded over knowledge of neighborhoods, and I ended up spending the day with them. This happened mainly because I joined the three of them to share the cost of a gondola ride.
Yes, I was excessive and went for a gondola ride. Arguably the best decision ever. Rain was expected for the duration of my trip, but while we were on the canal, nothing but pure sunshine. Our gondolier, Marco, was friendly and informed, and I got the memory of being on the canal. After that we wandered the city, got a late lunch, did some Rialto shopping, and finally visited Santa Maria della Salute.
The third day only really counts as a half day, as I needed to get to the train station by mid-afternoon. I had originally thought to visit the Doge’s Palace, and actually go inside something. When I reached San Marco’s, I discovered the piazza covered in four inches of water. Yes, the rain I had been promised had delivered, but at night when I was safe in my bed. In another city, waking up to a sunny day after a rainy night would have little or no consequence. Venice is not “another city”; it’s below sea level, and so a night of rain leads to flooding. San Marco was covered, and the only way to the Doge’s Palace, or into the Basilica was on a series of platforms only four feet wide. You try shuffling several thousand tourists across a single platform path four feet wide, and not lose your patience. I gave up on my thought of the Doge’s. I managed the interior and museum of San Marco’s, but I think I will someday make it back to Venice, before it finally sinks. For that reason, I turned away from San Marco’s, wandered to the Rialto, and then found a quiet spot to enjoy the sunshine. Sunshine and spring weather has been in short supply of late, so simply sitting outside was lovely.
Just before I left I paused in the church next to the train station to let my feet rest, and my back recover from wandering with a heavy backpack. It was a lovely little baroque church, and wonderful to simply sit and enjoy the peace of the building. I’m somewhat burnt out on churches and museums at this point, so being able to sit with no need to admire some aspect of a building because someone else told me it was important was a bit of a treat.
I left Venice with some lovely memories, and a mind to return someday. I have just less than two weeks before I fly home, so the time for reflection has begun. Venice is my favorite Italian city, and the only one I think I would like to return to within the next few years, given the opportunity.
This is a rather important week for Virginia Tech, as one might imagine. I get to spend the anniversary of April 16 very far away from home, and most of those that I really want to be with at this time. We’ll be marking the anniversary in our own way over here; I’m not sure how just yet, but we’ll be remembering and thinking it over.
That said, I had a moment today where I recalled something I wanted to discuss.
The great difficulty with Europe is that absolutely everything was important at one time or another. You can’t go very far before tripping over a UNESCO World Heritage Site, or some local icon, or anything. When we took our Italy trip some months ago, this was obvious; Rome is littered with all the “Roman” stuff, which basically amounts to what Eddie Izzard refers to as “a series of small walls.” Of course, these small walls are the remnant of one of the greatest civilizations, but that’s all there is. At the time, we marveled at the realization that we were standing in the Roman Forum, where all sorts of marvelous figures had walked, lived, bartered, and set off to conquer lesser civilizations. I couldn’t quite feel the same sense of wonder at the time. A few too many tourists were in my way to feel the wonders of walking with Augustus….some 2000 years late.
Germany was different; it’s harder to find areas left as they were centuries ago, or the streets that you’re fairly certain some emperor or other was one.
And then we got to Nuremberg. On our way out of the city the group paused at the old Nazi Parade grounds. It’s not half so impressive today as it looks on the History Channel, filled with crowds and troops. Now it’s empty, and overlooks a high school soccer field, with a more impressive professional soccer league stadium just beyond. All around the stands there are fences and warning signs, with crews attempting to bolster the structure. There’s nothing to prevent the casual visitor from climbing all over the stands, and eventually you find yourself standing just where Hitler did as he inspected the troops and made his speeches.
This was the time I got chills; there’s nothing I found creepier than standing in the exact spot, on a virtually unchanged structure, and knowing exactly what happened on that spot. In Rome everything is a bit broken down, so seeing the grand glories are more easily achieved for me through film. Nothing looks like it does in the movies. Nuremberg has been left unchanged, except for emptying out.
I’m planning on spending the weekend in Venice, and as I plan for that trip, I have a newspaper clipping of author Geraldine Brooks explaining which fictional character she would spend a week as. I’m not too interested in Ms. Brooks, but she matches my answer perfectly. She describes the week Charles Ryder spent in Venice with Sebastian in “Brideshead Revisited”. I reread this passage just before leaving for Riva, and was surprised when I realized that the story of the fortnight in Venice is barely more than 3 pages in a 300 page book. And yet, it’s one of the most beautiful scenes of the book, and the BBC adaptation.
I, however, will not be 19, in love, and working towards my destiny as an artist on this trip. I’ll be 21, and trying to forget just how much work I have to do in order to enjoy a city I’ve seen and heard about in so many books and movies. This is the other side of travel; finding the places I’ve read about in fiction, trying to find out if those marvelous cities that inspired so many writers could have a similar effect on me.
Some six years ago I spent four days in Germany, basing my travels out of the city of Pforzheim. I remember being slightly giddy at the novelty of being able to cross the border into France and thus spend an afternoon in a different country. I did that again for this trip.
On our way from Freiberg to Heidelberg, Fabio drove us into Strasbourg, the very same city I visited six years ago, and luckily there have been no new conflicts about Alsace-Lorraine, so it’s still France. Everything was just as I remembered it, but now I had educated guides to tell me about the historical significance of the area. And this time I was more able to appreciate the wonders of European borders.
On our way home at the end of the Germany excursion we ended up passing through Austria, then driving along the Liechtenstein border. The novelty of that experience was lessened by the pause at the world’s most terrifying rest stop. It was simply called “Heidiland”, and resulted in absolute terror for the group. Austria did look rather lovely for the five minutes I was there.
Now, some context for these musings: when I returned from Dublin, I called home from the Milan airport. I was asked “What country are you in?” My response was a bit more elaborate, explaining that I had woken up in the Republic of Ireland, passed through Italy, and finally ended the day in Switzerland. Border crossings are terrifically easy, so country-hopping has become so normal to me. I don’t get to do this at home. At the same time, I never encounter the same language difficulties so prevalent with country hopping in Europe. It’s remarkable to travel around with polyglots; the ability to switch between languages so quickly is so amazing to witness, especially on the scale required here. I mentioned to a friend on the bus that it was impossible to do this sort of country-hopping in North America. I don’t think I could manage to drive from Canada to Mexico in just one day. And unless I began in Montreal, I wouldn’t have to know a language other than English for the entire trip, until I reached Mexico.
The United States is a remarkable place, in its sheer size and minimal language requirements. I appreciate the ease of this, but I do love the variety of culture available in a day trip through Europe.
I may never get a chance to say this again without certain friends of mine claiming a moral victory: I really like Germany. Germany is a really cool country; and it’s pretty impressive that it can do so much and be so prosperous in such a comparatively short time. It’s been just over sixty years since most cities in Germany were obliterated by Allied bombings, and now it’s beautiful.
I think part of my affection for Germany stems from the simple fact that I feel comfortable here. I mentioned once that I loved Prague because I felt at home in the city, and Dublin was even better, if only because of the prevalence of the English language. I really am a Northern girl at heart I think, even if I grew up in the South under the most technical of terms. This seems to be a worldwide impression, as I am never happier than in a cold, damp city that feeds me sausage.
I understand the appeal of stretching out on a beach sipping sangria, and can’t deny the allure of absorbing UV rays, but I really am happier in my coat and scarf, braving the downpour for a coffee run. That’s not to say that I don’t like beaches, I just happen to like the northern ones, like Scotland or Canada. There’s something very appealing about Viking country, as well as the landlocked areas of mountain and river.
Simply put, Germany is a fabulous place. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed from this trip. We began in Riva, drove to Freiberg, then a day in Strasbourg (France), on to Heidelberg, day trip to Rothenberg, on to Bamberg, day trip to Nuremberg, then finally Munich; all of this over nine days. It’s a punishing schedule, and prohibitive to really getting a feel for a city or seeing many sights. I had lots of fun, and more than a few cultural experiences, and I can safely say that I’ll need another jaunt into Germany sometime in my future.
This trip belonged to the Political Science aspect of the semester, so I spent most days in meetings and watching power points about environmental policy and sustainability. Germany is all sorts of wonderful compared to many other countries with regards to sustainable development, and yet we’re still in trouble. As if that wasn’t enough fun, part of the trip including a visit to the BMW factory and seeing some of the research laboratories. I don’t really understand cars, but I do so love the nice machines that go fast.
Outside of the educational program, I had a full range of cultural experiences, mostly culinary: pastries everywhere and sausage. I have never eaten so well than those street vendors with delicious sausage. I must make a passing reference to the beer: it exists in Germany. As for the history; there’s lots. We saw quite a few rebuilt cities as a result of World War Two, and it’s amazing to consider the state the country was in only sixty years ago. And now it’s prosperous and pretty, as well as a world leader in environmental policies.
I think some of my earliest memories involve books; specifically very detailed children’s books like Jan Brett’s, and in particular one about the production of the Book of Kells. I remember from those bygone days a certain fascination with the intricacy of the Celtic knot work. I got older, and my interest grew. My favorite history comes from the British Isles and Ireland, and when I finally realized jewelry could be more than plastic, I always drifted towards the Highland Games and Irish festivals to find the local jewelers who always had the best options for cheap, pretty knot work. Even now I have a ring of a dog in the Irish style. It never fails to attract interest.
And then there was the music. I like pretty much everything under the sun, but I never had much interest in going to concerts because I never liked any band enough to want to spend the money. That changed freshman year of college when I discovered Great Big Sea, a Newfie band that plays a mix of original works and traditional songs, often of Irish descent. With them came Gaelic Storm, again a mix of original works and tradition.
Suffice to say, there’s a personal interest in Ireland: the people, the culture, the history. Add to that the family background. The Irish side of the family is the only one I can actually claim to know much about. So, a weekend trip to Dublin should have been a good time.
Dublin is pretty much the best thing ever. I’ve had lots of great experiences; Prague was wonderful, I loved Nice, but Dublin is great.
First off: English is everywhere! I don’t speak Gaelic, and it’d be nice to learn the language, but that’s not happening anytime soon. Better than that- oodles of history and literature! Do you know how many Nobel Prize winners hail from Dublin town? There’s Yeats, Beckett, Heaney, Shaw…everyone except James Joyce is on the list. It’s rather impressive to look at the notable graduates from Trinity. Oh, and Trinity. I thought I liked Oxford, but Trinity is just too beautiful, and they have the Book of Kells! My favorite medieval manuscript is right there!
Um, Second- Guinness and Jameson’s. Both of the original distilleries of the city have shut down, but the shells and tour remain. I love visiting distilleries; they’re such fun, and every employee is happy to see you. I like seeing people content with their careers. Then you get out to the pubs, and there’s always music, frequently live, and lots of friendly people and the locals all get confused when the poor little American girls ask for Guinness. It would appear that girls do not drink beer in Europe; far more appropriate for women to take wine or something else. No one mentioned this. I’ve never had such good fun.
Our first night out my party met a number of wonderful people, including one gent who offered us the use of his Masters in Irish history to give us a tour of Dublin. Very nice to be taken around and have 1916 and the process of Home Rule explained.
This is a bit muddled, so let me clarify the past weekend:
Wednesday: Fly out of Milan, and get to the hostel. Kinley house is very nice, and has a bed for tired little students.
Thursday: Up and out. Discover the hostel is next door to Christ Church. We find our way to the Kilmainham Gaol, which dates form the mid eighteenth century; notable for holding many a political prisoner, especially the leaders of the Easter Rebellion of 1916. Out and around to visit the Guinness storehouse; the top level provides a 360-view of Dublin, well-labeled with Joyce quotes. After that it was Grafton Street, and the great quest for fish and chips. Remarkably, it’s far easier to get a kebab than fish, but fish we found! I also discovered that half the convenience stores sold Tim Horton’s doughnuts, further confirming my conviction that Dublin is the greatest city in the world. After food back to the hostel for naps before trying out Temple Bar.
Friday: I did some private exploring in the morning, discovering the Oscar Wilde statue, several parks, and finally Trinity and Kells. No end of wonders, and then across the Liffy. I met the group and our Irish guide at two for touring, and some museums before hunger sent us into Hard Rock. Do not doubt the wonders of a Hard Rock Café; it’s far classier than succumbing to the lure of McDonalds. Again, another evening discovering the local flavor.
Saturday: Rain. Oh, it had rained before, but this was annoying. As was the discovery that on the weekend Dublin Castle is only open 2-4:45. So much for that. We ended up at the Library to see the W.B. Yeats exhibit; pretty good, and lots to be known about Yeats’ mysticism tendencies. Ahhh….the origins of celebrity interest in mysticism religions better left to people who actually understand what’s going on. Well, maybe not. Yeats seemed to know what was going on. Out from there to attempt some shopping and other wondrous activities before Jameson’s. Not my favorite distillery, mainly because it wasn’t active. I like being able to smell the process, and see the whiskey being made, rather than just finding the end product in the gift shop. Still, learned a lot about whiskey I hadn’t known. Irish whiskey is always distilled three times, providing a smoother flavor, and the peat taste of Scottish whisky comes from the roasting process of the malts. Final night of exploring local culture, but not before meeting a boy from New Zealand and a girl from Australia; both were very nice, and I learned quite a lot about higher education. Amazing the power of the hostel.
Sunday was home again, leaving the Emerald Isle. As beautiful as it is in the mountains, I miss Dublin. I’d like to go back and get out into the countryside, maybe the Ring of Kerry and Galway, but that will have to wait for another day. My list of cities still to see or return to continues to grow longer. I may need to get a job with Frommer’s or Lonely Planet to achieve this. Or just find a nice pile of money to support my increasingly expensive needs. Did I mention the Republic of Ireland has one of the highest costs of living in the EU? Might need a work visa, and be prepared to settle for a time.
It’s been a very full week up Riva way. I should have updated sooner, but there’s been so much going on!
I begin with last Tuesday: I took a class field trip to see the construction of the new St. Gottard Tunnel. This is the most ambitious and potentially important tunnel project in the world. You think the Chunnel from England to France and under the water was impressive, well you just wait ten years for the Swiss to finish this! The St. Gottard will be 57 kilometers (roughly 35 miles for us non-metric types), and through the Alps. One mountain in particular that I can’t recall the name off is being burrowed through as we speak. There are actually two lines running though the mountains, one North-bound and one South-bound, and this is designed to allow more freight trains to pass through Switzerland, thus reducing the need for heavy freight trucks on the highways. They’ll tell you all the statistics about saving fuel and road repair costs, and how this train line is so much better than the old overland one which is to be used for tourists if you visit. And what a visit it is.
We began with the informational power point, and then it was down to the Center of the Earth; the nice Swiss miners (who aren’t actually Swiss because as our guide said, the Swiss all work in banks. Mostly Germans down there. ) kitted us out in bright orange jumpsuits, heavy boots, hard hats (mine was blue for “Mechanical Engineer”), and an oxygen tank. I find it’s best to judge the quality of a learning experience by the number of safety precautions in place. Although, it should be mentioned that the mortality rate of this project is fantastically lower than all other projects.
We went down into the tunnel, looked around, saw some people working, and I kept looking for goblins. Surely in the bowels of the earth it would have been good to see some goblins. But they weren’t about, so lots of geologists and engineers. Roughly the same, right?
After the tunnel went out to see the town of Giornico, which was very cute, had seven churches, and a very odd museum. Basically a big block of concrete; I’ll have a photo album up soon to better explain.
On to Wednesday! Which was pretty average…So Thursday! Ah, yes, Thursday; that fateful day that I turned 21. For you see, I finally reached my birthday; as my mother’s e-mail said, the most exciting birthday venue I’ve had, although the funeral runs a close second. The day began with classes, not the finest of hours, but I took the opportunity afterwards to spoil myself with a bit of shopping at the outlet mall in the next town. For my evening entertainment, I went back to that town of Mendrisio to see the Maundy Thursday parade. Basically a procession highlighting Christ’s journey up the hill to Calvary.
We students were informed this even would be quite violent, and not the sort of thing one would take a small child to see. As Americans, this put us in mind of gratuitous and gory violence, blood filling the streets. Something from a Tarantino film, or maybe “300” seemed appropriate for that level of warning.
Culture shock sets in somewhere along the line. I expected blood, I got some pretty nifty costumes and 40 mounted figures. It would appear that Europe, the land of the Hundred Years War, the Thirty Years War, both World Wars, and the plague, can’t be bothered with a bit of fake blood. Alas and alack, I still had fun seeing the parade. It occurred to me later, actually during Easter Mass this morning, that that sort of display would almost never be seen in the States without hue and cry raised throughout the land about “Separation of Church and State” and “political correctness.” I love Europe.
After the parade I got out to the bar for my little celebration. The novelty of going out to the bar is somewhat lessened by being overseas, but it was still great good fun. The company was perfect, and it capped off a fairly decent birthday.
Friday I stopped off at the Lugano Easter Market, which I’m sorry to say was not half as cute as Prague’s, and went to Milan Saturday. Oh, dear, Milan was trouble. Beautiful day, wonderful people, but I couldn’t go into the Duomo. I had decided that morning to wear a little black jumper of mine. Admittedly it’s a bit sort, but I was wearing some thick black tights. Unfortunately the gentleman at the door after the security guard was nonplussed by my decency. The skirt was above the knee, so no observing God’s glory for me. My nylon-covered knees were just too much temptation. So, at the risk of being labeled the new Whore of Babylon, I retreated to some of the local shops. It seemed safer for all concerned, and I’ve already seen the Duomo.
That’s all the news from this week, other than mentioning that classes are kicking into high gear, so I have a busy week ahead. And I made it to Easter Mass this morning, so points for me. However, I’m flying out to Dublin Wednesday night, so that industriousness will have to be better than usual.
Happy Easter Everyone!
It’s never mentioned in any of the guidebooks, but I’ve come to consider pigeons when I travel. This may seem an odd selection, compared to entertainment, gastronomical, financial, and safety considerations, but I think the pigeon populations are pretty critical. It’s pretty awful to be trying to enjoy the Duomo in Milan, and then have to duck to avoid the dive-bombing pigeon population.
The other main risk when visiting the Duomo is getting scammed by one of the many gentlemen trying to get you to feed the pigeons or to take a bracelet, but there are enough warning about that I should think. No one ever told me that I’d be dodging pigeons throughout Rome.
This came up as a discussion topic while in Prague, observing some remarkably well-behaved pigeons in Old Town Square. Every so often in the news back home in Northern Virginia there’s something about the deer or foxes or other wildlife becoming accustomed to humans, and so they wander closer and closer to human habitation and into roads, and are promptly and horribly killed. In the cities most wildlife is hard to find, but not the noble, filthy, disease-carrying flying rat. I’m not overly fond of pigeons. I’m especially not fond of pigeons that have no fear and have no problem with summoning all their friends and flying over a group of tourists, at an altitude of roughly seven feet, give or take, so everyone has to duck to avoid plague. And feathers.
In Prague, however, the pigeon population was a fraction of what I find in the more southern cities. Even better, they were polite; as polite as pigeons can be which means they kept their distance from me as I sat, quietly hoping I would drop a loaf of bread or other treat, and scurrying off when some other tourist fulfilled their needs. There were still moments of mass flight that would have made me nervous, if they hadn’t been so unobtrusive. Really, there’s nothing quite like it. I think I liked Prague all the more for its pigeons. It reflected the feeling of the city; politely waiting for the tourist to drop some cash, but not pushy about it. In Rome, everything gets shoved in your face, which is partly because of the layout of the city and its many, many sites, and the pigeons have no fear.
I go to London in a few months, remarkably enough in the spring. I recall the pigeons being pretty bad in the winter from previous visits, so I’m interested in what I’ll find this time, when I’m more aware. I imagine charmingly polite, and then shove me out of the way when I fail to do something correctly, like spell words with an excessive “u”.
The first thing to mention is that I finally have internet access on my laptop. I have since learned how dangerous this is. I have spent two days enjoying all the pleasures of easy access internet; which means having Top Gear-fests with my fellow fans. And of course, paying attention to my schoolwork. Or at least I will when this episode ends.
Other than that, I’ve done it. I mentioned before that I was going off for Spring Break some time ago, and I did. I got all the way to Prague and back to the Villa in one piece. And all by myself no less. That means: I got to an unfamiliar airport (Lugano, with two terminals), onto an unfamiliar airline (SwissAir), made a connection at another unfamiliar airport (Zurich, and they speak German!), and off a plane and through customs in the Czech Republic. And then, I got onto a bus (with a lovely bruise to show off), onto the metro, and to the hostel without incident. And after a week, I did it all in reverse.
This means that I can now mark down March 1, 2008 as one of my personal milestones. I flew alone for the first time in my life. I always assumed my first solo flight would be something domestic, perhaps from DC to Chicago, or other appropriately familiar flight. Instead, I went across country lines, three unfamiliar languages, and managed it all by my lonesome. Quite an achievement, if I do say so myself.
And so, I got to Prague. I met up, somehow, with a friend from high school, and another from that awful camp from last summer. That was wonderful; to get away from all the people I see everyday. I have no problems with the group I’m studying with, but there’s something so lovely in getting away from everything, and seeing people I haven’t seen in ages.
Then, a week in Prague; let’s get on with the list:
March 1: Got to the airport in Lugano some several hours early. So I walked around for ages, then finally the stepstool was brought around for us to board the plane. Had two flights that bounced around horribly, so I landed in Prague feeling rather ill. Got to the hostel, checked in, and then I walked around town, attempting to orient myself with the city.
March 2: Met up with friend, and promptly went out for walking tours. Watched the Astronomical Clock with its spinning apostles, and then got tour of Josefov, the old Jewish Ghetto. It turns out Prague had one of the biggest and most significant Jewish populations in Europe…up until World War Two. Bit of rain, so a lovely lunch of goulash to warm up. Wandered about a bit more, poking heads into museums, and reeling from the cost. I should take a moment to mention that the exchange rate during my visit was 1USD to 16KZ (Czech krona); and nothing was available for 16kz. I tried to keep my purchases under the 100kz mark as much as possible, unless absolutely necessary. Ah, the life of a student. In the evening, went on a ghost tour. Friend and I had some New Yorker tourists join us for that, which was no end of fun.
Aside: The guillotine was actually invented by the Scottish. I believe it was called “The Maiden”, but the concept of getting your head sliced off by a large blade powered by gravity originated with the Scots. The main feature of the guillotine was that it allowed the victim to lie down “comfortably”, while the Scottish version required that person to kneel. This became a topic of discussion with the New Yorker history teacher who seemed to know everything. I, however, have an interest in history, and especially the history of the British Isles. And I sometimes watch the History Channel.
After the Ghost Tour, which was far from terrifying, friend and I got appetizers at a TGIFridays. Now, before I am mocked for going to Central Europe and seeking the most American cuisine possible, understand that I have spent two months in Europe, and all I want is a cheeseburger, buffalo wings, and most of all, Chipotle. Those people responsible for fetching me from Dulles in May take note. Chipotle.
March 3: Out in the morning to do a tour of the synagogues we had glanced at the day before. This meant a full three hours plus of the synagogues, and the Ceremony Hall, and the Old Jewish Cemetery. At the cemetery friend and I were wandering behind a group of elderly French tourists, and followed by some student Italian tourists, both Jewish. Understandable, but then we got to the Rabbi Low grave. Rabbi Low is a bit of a big deal, and friend and I had come to that understanding. That didn’t mean we were prepared for the French OAPs to begin praying over the grave. Being gentiles, friend and I were suitably concerned, and feeling awkward. We finally took the chance to make our escape after dropping our stones on the Rabbi’s grave for luck. After our tour we paused for a Chinese lunch, then into the National Library to see the Gigas Codex, aka the Devil’s Bible. Really wonderful actually. I enjoyed that exhibit immensely. Then the overload of information set in, and it was time for a coffee break at the Charles Bridge. Bit more wandering and poling heads in shops before heading back to the hostel. We’d made some new friends, and the group of us went out for karaoke at some club, where camp friend found me.
March 4: Happy Birthday to Older Brother. The night had caught up with us, so high school friend and I took a later morning, and then promptly walked up a very steep hill to see Prague’s version of the Eiffel Tower and the Hunger Wall. We wound our way towards Nove Mesto (Old Town) through Mala Strana (Castle District). We paused for more Chinese for lunch, and then peeked at the Kafka museum gift shop and the Lennon Wall. We attempted to see the grave of Tycho Brahe, but the church he’s at is closed to visitors, and it was raining, and we were tired….so we went to see Sweeney Todd.
March 5: I wandered Nove Mesto for a bit, and then wandered across the Charles Bridge and up the hill to see Prague Castle, the largest castle complex in the world. Friend and I made it in time to watch the changing of the guard. Fun little ceremony, but would have been better without the snow. Recognizing how cold we were, friend and I retreated to the Lobkowitz Palace for lunch and touring the museum. The Princely Collection at the Lobkowitz Palace is a fairly new collection, recently returned to the Lobkowitz family, and put on display. It’s pretty good, with free audio tours for the public, but there’s something very odd about Americans telling you “Welcome to my family’s collection!” After that it was out to see St. Vitus Cathedral, and I’m fairly sure I saw the saint’s bones. The tower was closed, so we finally decided to head back to Nove Mesto. We had some time to kill, so friend and I visited the very good, however small, Mucha Museum. I really do like Art Nouveau, ever since visiting Glasgow with all its Charles Rennie Mackintosh stuff a few years ago. After that it was time to see some Black Light Theatre, and its production of “Faust”. Let’s just say, it was an adventure.
March 6: Busy day! Visited the train station to figure out tickets for friend, then back up to the castle to see St. George’s Basilica, Golden Lane, and the National Gallery. After lunch at Lobkowitz, out and down into St. Nicholas Church, then back across the river to see the afternoon showing of “Don Giovanni” done by marionettes.
Aside: Prague is the city Mozart was living in when he completed his opera “Don Giovanni”. He was so enchanted by the city and its people; he rewarded them with the premiere of that opera. And now it’s done daily by puppets.
Ran some errands before friend popped of to Poland (how lovely that we can say things like that), and I was left to amuse myself.
March 7: Slept in a bit, as much as possible in a hostel setting, and then set off. I went back up to the Castle to try for the Old Palace, but it was closed for the day. Some great to-so was going on up there, with lots of big black cars with flags on them and extra soldiers, but it was far too cold to stick around. I finally left, paused for some coffee at Starbucks, and then climb the Astronomical Clock. Wonderful views of the city from up there, and a chance to see the tourists gather to watch the hour. After that I did some souvenir shopping, and finally went up to see the National Museum. Cute building, but the collection of dead animals was astounding. Not the best museum I’ve been too, but impressive to see that many dead things. And the room of fish only served to remind me that I really don’t see how people can eat those awful things. Got a dinner of Czech kielbasa off a roadside stand, and wound my way back home to pack.
March 8: Paused at the Easter markets on my way back to the airport, and then got home….somehow. And that was it really. I got to Prague, I had a relaxing trip. I saw wonderful people, a lovely city, and didn’t come home exhausted, like the Italy sojourn.
I find it of interest that aqua vitae is never actually aqua. For those of you lacking in Latin, aqua vitae translates to “water of life.” From all of my nutritional education and bottled water commercials, I would be inclined to believe that the water of life is water, but it’s not. Rather, it’s moonshine; or at least the equivalent of it.
I mention this some days after our second “wine and dine” of the semester. Not quite as delicious as our first one; this time we had two merlots, one fermented in steel barrels, one aged in oak, and a lovely chicken salad for a starter with lamb for the main course. It was all very good, and I learned I preferred my wine aged in oak for the flavor. None of this matters quite as much as the dessert.
Grappa. My old friend; the remnants of the winemaking process distilled to create a very powerful liquor. The majority of the group has only heard of grappa, murmurings and warnings before the trip, most from our Italian professor. Grappa acquired an “urban myth” status in many ways; the mysterious liquid from Italy that would burn your throat away or make your eyeballs explode, or something equally horrible. I was slightly more prepared, having experienced grappa in appropriately controlled situations before. Which really only meant that I poured my grappa over the grape gelato, and realized it wasn’t half bad.
Of course, experience doesn’t change the fact that grappa is extremely strong, the Italian version of aqua vitae. I remember hearing this phrase a number of times throughout my life, and only recently has it all connected; aqua vitae is one of those great cross-cultural concepts that helps to define a culture. For the Italians: grappa, made from the grapes after they’ve been pressed for wine, and super concentrated. Up in the British Isles whisky appears; the word “whisky” comes from the Gaelic for “water of life”, so it’s pretty easy to see the connection there. Off to the east is Russia and vodka, which derives from the Russian for “water”. Whisky and Vodka are some of the most recognizable icons of their home countries, and I have no doubts that if the wine wasn’t so good Grappa would be more well-known.
However, I don’t have the time or the energy right now to get into a research project about this, but I keep wondering about this pretty widespread phenomenon of aqua vitae.
Just a few thoughts for me to consider as I wander along. I’m off again in the morning. It’s spring break, and I’ll be in Prague for a week, spending time with non-Tech people. Should be a good adventure, off in a city where I have absolutely no idea how to speak the language, or even the foundations, and virtually on my own. I’m terribly excited, but still not packed.
