Well, here it is: the decompression post.
I've been back in the States for a couple weeks now, and it's finally sunk in that I'm not just on a vacation from England. I'm back for good, and that means a lot. It means that there's a whole group of people whom I will never see or speak to again because our lives are divergent, aside from our brief stint together in the U.K. It means I need to stop saying "cheers," instead of "thank you." And it means that I have to get a summer job and take on my senior year at Gettysburg College. I'll be down in Gettysburg all summer working on a research grant that I've received to do some writing therapy work at Gettysburg High School. I'm also working on getting a job waiting tables somewhere, but pickings are slim.
If I am to offer any sort of introspection on the topic of my time abroad, I suppose it should speak to the fact that I'm a different person than I was when I left. Granted, we're all different people when we wake up every morning. Cells die or flake off (gross) and thousands of new ones take their place without our even knowing it. It's a change that happens when we're not looking, and unless we're reminded, we don't even give it a second thought. Perhaps this is what Shakespeare's Prospero meant when he said "our little lives are rounded with a sleep." We change so fluidly and so constantly that we don't even know it's happening until we wake up one day wearing different shoes, in a different relationship, or in a different country. Whatever change it is that rounds us, however, it is surely nothing we will ever be able to tame. We can't control whether we dream in the 3rd person or the 1st, we can't stop the freight train that's coming when we're tied to the tracks, and half the time we can't even remember that it was a phantom freight train that caused us to wake up drenched in sweat. Such is the way with things that are in motion beyond our complete control or perception. We fathom them, just barely, and perhaps even trick ourselves into thinking that we've touched them, but upon waking, like Prospero's slave Caliban, we cry to dream again.
I do not know all of the ways that I have changed as a result of my time in the beautiful city of Bath, but I do feel like I'm better for my time there. The time I spent abroad involved great sacrifice, both for myself and for others, but for all that was sacrificed or risked, I would like to think that an equal amount has been gained. I haven't done a full, item-for-item analysis of that claim, but neither do I care to. Like many things, it is the case so long as I assert it. To close this portion of my meditation, I would like to pose a hypothesis that has resonated to me ever since my philosophy tutor, Jim Driscoll, uttered it: "Perhaps this universe isn't so much about being as it is about becoming." Let's appreciate our skin cells for the fact that they are a barrier against disease and all sorts of yucky things, but not get too attached to them that we shed tears when they die and slough off. What we are in the process of becoming, that combination of DNA and forces that we cannot fathom, is what we are. It is a process of constant movement that might raise the question of whether all stillness is necessarily an illusion. Think about that while trying to sit completely still.
I would like to thank you all for listening to my stories, both the serious ones and the nonsensical. I am, above all things, a communicator, and it would irk me to think that all I have said has vanished without bouncing off any timpanic membranes or reversing its way through any retinas. Words are symbols, representations, like any image that we see in a mirror, and it would be utterly terrifying to look into a mirror and see nothing. Anyone who reads this is the perfect reflection that I hope to achieve with what I write.
Of course, even though this blog is finished, I will not take it down. I think that I'll leave it up as a memento. It shall stand, gloriously, as a computer generated sequence of zeros and ones that will code the past 5 months of my life until the internet explodes.
There being no good way to end this, I'm just going to say that it's been a pleasure, and that hopefully the pleasure wasn't purely mine.
Yours truly,
Eric
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Photo Montage
Well, folks, I really must apologize for another long hiatus from the blogging world. I have been doing so many things over the past few weeks that the blogging has fallen by the wayside. To quickly list my escapades:
-1 Thanksgiving dinner for about 20 people
-1 Trip to Barcelona
-3 Final Papers
-1 Final Poetry Portfolio
-1 Trip to Cardiff
-1 Trip to Stratford Upon Avon
-4 Theatre Performances Viewed
-1 Trip to London
-1 21st Birthday
So as you can see, there's really not much I can do in one blog post that will do these past few weeks even the slightest bit of justice. Instead, I will provide a photo montage. I think that might be cool. Enjoy:
Blogger.com isn't allowing me to post any more photos than this, so I hope this gives you a bit of a taste of my past month here in Brittania. I come home this Saturday (yes, I know, this is kind of a big deal that I'm downplaying here), but I promise that I'll write a farewell, sort of summary post to bring this little experience to a close.
Thanks to Veronika for sending me a post card!!!
I look forward to seeing and speaking with many of you very soon so that I can relate my adventures in person. Unfortunately, 4 final exams are begging my attention and I must go attend to my grades.
Cheers-
The Almost Done Wandering Wordsmith
-1 Thanksgiving dinner for about 20 people
-1 Trip to Barcelona
-3 Final Papers
-1 Final Poetry Portfolio
-1 Trip to Cardiff
-1 Trip to Stratford Upon Avon
-4 Theatre Performances Viewed
-1 Trip to London
-1 21st Birthday
So as you can see, there's really not much I can do in one blog post that will do these past few weeks even the slightest bit of justice. Instead, I will provide a photo montage. I think that might be cool. Enjoy:
Blogger.com isn't allowing me to post any more photos than this, so I hope this gives you a bit of a taste of my past month here in Brittania. I come home this Saturday (yes, I know, this is kind of a big deal that I'm downplaying here), but I promise that I'll write a farewell, sort of summary post to bring this little experience to a close.
Thanks to Veronika for sending me a post card!!!
I look forward to seeing and speaking with many of you very soon so that I can relate my adventures in person. Unfortunately, 4 final exams are begging my attention and I must go attend to my grades.
Cheers-
The Almost Done Wandering Wordsmith
Monday, April 19, 2010
Put a Cork in it
From the sun-drenched streets of Bath comes a blog post so deep, yet so subtle, carrying hints of blackcurrant and delicate spice, and providing succulent accompaniment to lean, red meat. It face-plants on the palette with an overwhelming bouquet of citrus and honey, and a warming after-taste that hints sweetly at centuries of tradition and oak-barrel aging. Perfect for a quiet, candle-lit dinner or a night out on the town, this blog post is sure to please.
***
I learned so many cool facts about the Bordeaux wine-making process while I was in France, that I have decided to dedicate a separate blog post (almost) purely to the enlightenment of all you novices. You can thank me later.
Overview
The Bordeaux wine region is made up of 5 geographic sub-regions: Medoc, Graves/Sauternes, Entre-Deux-Mers, St. Emilion/Pomerol, and Bourg/Blaye.
Within these 5 sub-regions, 57 different "appellations," or types of wine are produced. Using the metaphor of the United States once again, let us say that a sub-region is like a region of the United States (like the Northeast, or Mid-Atlantic), and that each appellation is like a state within that region. The only difference is that certain broader appellations, like "Bordeaux Superieur," can be grown in more than one region.
Confused yet? No worries, I'll explain further. The appellation system was put in place to ensure quality control. As you may know, Bordeaux wine producers are a pretty snooty and elitist group of people, and they got a bit peeved when a bunch of hillbillies from California and Australia started putting the name "Bordeaux" on their wines, just because it was red and tasted decent. For the foreigners, it was an excuse to raise prices, but for the French, it was an insult to a long-standing tradition of excellence. And so, they created the Institut National des Appellations d'Origine (INAO) to control wine production and naming. Only wines produced within a certain distance of the Gironde estuary can call themselves "Bordeaux wines," which are then further classified based on their specific appellation. This is what separates a "Graves" from a "Sauternes" from a "Cadillac."
There are many different types of soil and climates throughout the Bordeaux region. "Why?" you may ask...because the whole place used to be under the Atlantic. When the world warmed after one of those ancient Ice-Age things, the ocean receded and left a sandy, gravelly Bordeaux region high and dry and primed for wine. Depending on how sandy or rich, or acidic the soil is, and depending on the climate (relative humidity, average dew point, and other topographically-related variants), each tiny region is given its appellation. Hopefully that makes a bit of sense.
Beyond each individual appellation, the singular unit of wine production is the Chateau, or vineyard. Each Chateau has its own vines and its own facilities to extract, age, and mix the grape juice, and most Bordeaux wines are bottled on site. Before bottling, professional tasters (called "cellar masters") go through the basic grape juices and rate them for their taste. Different types of wine call for different varieties of grapes (e.g. Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Malbec, Cabernet Franc, etc.). They then decide what will be added to the grape juice to best take advantage of its natural tastes. These additives produce the subtle textures and undertones that make each vintage unique. Some popular additions to the grape juice are blackcurrant, cherry, plum, citrus, flowers, caramel, chocolate, and almost anything else you can think of. It's always a challenge to identify all of the tastes that are in each bottle. When you look at a bottle of wine, the label will normally read as follows: Chateau Name, Variety (Cab Sauv, Merlot, etc.), Control/Quality Designation (Where it was made), Vintage (year), Maker, and then alcohol content falls somewhere at the bottom.
When you are about to taste a fine wine, there is a procedure that you must follow. First, you look at the color. Because it's pretty. Then you get down to business. You raise the glass to your nose (I'm really good at this part) and sample the first bouquet. This will give you the dominant flavor of the wine. Next, you must swirl the wine in the glass, which oxidizes the liquid and releases some of the more subtle aromas. This smell is called the "second nose." After the second nose, you may take a sip, allowing the wine to wash over your tongue for a moment. At a professional wine tasting, you would be compelled to spit the wine out at this point, but that's really not any fun.
Fun Facts:
-Bordeaux is divided into the right bank and the left bank by the river Gironde. On the left bank the soil is more sandy, and more Cabernet Sauvignon grapes are grown, producing drier, more tannic wines. On the right bank, the soil is more clay-based, which allows for Merlot grapes to be grown and mellower, sweeter wines to be produced.
-Bordeaux experiences both morning and evening mists due to a small, very cold river that runs through the region, called La Ciron. This is good for the grapes because irrigation is not permitted.
-Grapes are normally harvested gradually, rather than all at once. This is because a small fungus referred to as "the noble rot" eats away at the grapes and causes them to ferment a bit on the vine. The longer the grapes stay on the vine, the sweeter they become and the more alcohol they will contribute to the wine.
-White wine is best served between 8-10 degrees Celsius.
-Some Chateaux have two labels: one fancy, pricier label, and one more-affordable label.
-Growing grass, and even rose bushes, between the rows of grape vines has become common practice because the competing roots cause the grapes to shoot their own roots deeper into the soil, which allows them to get at water supplies further beneath the surface.
-People don't squish grapes with their feet in France. It's just not done.
I'm sure that there's some things that I've missed or explained inadequately, so if anyone has any questions, feel free to shoot me an email. I will conclude this blog post with a piece of flash fiction, which is basically a really really short story. I've been trying the genre out in my fiction class and I think it's kind of neat to play around with. If anyone is curious about flash fiction, here's the wikipedia page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flash_fiction
You don't even have to look it up yourself.
This piece is called The Last Draw. Enjoy!
Buster placed the harmonica to his mouth and pulled air through it, an inverse sigh. As the four-five draw rose above the old Northwest Rail Line, he sucked harder, bending it down a mournful half-step. The sound ran out and was not echoed. Harp players call it “the train,” but there would be no more trains running on the Northwest line, no more trains leaving town—Buster had missed the last one by five minutes. When he had peered after the disappearing trail of smoke that morning, he saw the caboose disappearing around the bend with a spot of yellow on the back that he could only imagine was his wife in her faded sun dress. Defeated, he turned and dragged his feet in the opposite direction; a dearly-paid-for pack of smokes formed a lump in his jacket pocket.
***
I learned so many cool facts about the Bordeaux wine-making process while I was in France, that I have decided to dedicate a separate blog post (almost) purely to the enlightenment of all you novices. You can thank me later.
Overview
The Bordeaux wine region is made up of 5 geographic sub-regions: Medoc, Graves/Sauternes, Entre-Deux-Mers, St. Emilion/Pomerol, and Bourg/Blaye.
Within these 5 sub-regions, 57 different "appellations," or types of wine are produced. Using the metaphor of the United States once again, let us say that a sub-region is like a region of the United States (like the Northeast, or Mid-Atlantic), and that each appellation is like a state within that region. The only difference is that certain broader appellations, like "Bordeaux Superieur," can be grown in more than one region.
Confused yet? No worries, I'll explain further. The appellation system was put in place to ensure quality control. As you may know, Bordeaux wine producers are a pretty snooty and elitist group of people, and they got a bit peeved when a bunch of hillbillies from California and Australia started putting the name "Bordeaux" on their wines, just because it was red and tasted decent. For the foreigners, it was an excuse to raise prices, but for the French, it was an insult to a long-standing tradition of excellence. And so, they created the Institut National des Appellations d'Origine (INAO) to control wine production and naming. Only wines produced within a certain distance of the Gironde estuary can call themselves "Bordeaux wines," which are then further classified based on their specific appellation. This is what separates a "Graves" from a "Sauternes" from a "Cadillac."
There are many different types of soil and climates throughout the Bordeaux region. "Why?" you may ask...because the whole place used to be under the Atlantic. When the world warmed after one of those ancient Ice-Age things, the ocean receded and left a sandy, gravelly Bordeaux region high and dry and primed for wine. Depending on how sandy or rich, or acidic the soil is, and depending on the climate (relative humidity, average dew point, and other topographically-related variants), each tiny region is given its appellation. Hopefully that makes a bit of sense.
Beyond each individual appellation, the singular unit of wine production is the Chateau, or vineyard. Each Chateau has its own vines and its own facilities to extract, age, and mix the grape juice, and most Bordeaux wines are bottled on site. Before bottling, professional tasters (called "cellar masters") go through the basic grape juices and rate them for their taste. Different types of wine call for different varieties of grapes (e.g. Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Malbec, Cabernet Franc, etc.). They then decide what will be added to the grape juice to best take advantage of its natural tastes. These additives produce the subtle textures and undertones that make each vintage unique. Some popular additions to the grape juice are blackcurrant, cherry, plum, citrus, flowers, caramel, chocolate, and almost anything else you can think of. It's always a challenge to identify all of the tastes that are in each bottle. When you look at a bottle of wine, the label will normally read as follows: Chateau Name, Variety (Cab Sauv, Merlot, etc.), Control/Quality Designation (Where it was made), Vintage (year), Maker, and then alcohol content falls somewhere at the bottom.
When you are about to taste a fine wine, there is a procedure that you must follow. First, you look at the color. Because it's pretty. Then you get down to business. You raise the glass to your nose (I'm really good at this part) and sample the first bouquet. This will give you the dominant flavor of the wine. Next, you must swirl the wine in the glass, which oxidizes the liquid and releases some of the more subtle aromas. This smell is called the "second nose." After the second nose, you may take a sip, allowing the wine to wash over your tongue for a moment. At a professional wine tasting, you would be compelled to spit the wine out at this point, but that's really not any fun.
Fun Facts:
-Bordeaux is divided into the right bank and the left bank by the river Gironde. On the left bank the soil is more sandy, and more Cabernet Sauvignon grapes are grown, producing drier, more tannic wines. On the right bank, the soil is more clay-based, which allows for Merlot grapes to be grown and mellower, sweeter wines to be produced.
-Bordeaux experiences both morning and evening mists due to a small, very cold river that runs through the region, called La Ciron. This is good for the grapes because irrigation is not permitted.
-Grapes are normally harvested gradually, rather than all at once. This is because a small fungus referred to as "the noble rot" eats away at the grapes and causes them to ferment a bit on the vine. The longer the grapes stay on the vine, the sweeter they become and the more alcohol they will contribute to the wine.
-White wine is best served between 8-10 degrees Celsius.
-Some Chateaux have two labels: one fancy, pricier label, and one more-affordable label.
-Growing grass, and even rose bushes, between the rows of grape vines has become common practice because the competing roots cause the grapes to shoot their own roots deeper into the soil, which allows them to get at water supplies further beneath the surface.
-People don't squish grapes with their feet in France. It's just not done.
I'm sure that there's some things that I've missed or explained inadequately, so if anyone has any questions, feel free to shoot me an email. I will conclude this blog post with a piece of flash fiction, which is basically a really really short story. I've been trying the genre out in my fiction class and I think it's kind of neat to play around with. If anyone is curious about flash fiction, here's the wikipedia page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flash_fiction
You don't even have to look it up yourself.
This piece is called The Last Draw. Enjoy!
Buster placed the harmonica to his mouth and pulled air through it, an inverse sigh. As the four-five draw rose above the old Northwest Rail Line, he sucked harder, bending it down a mournful half-step. The sound ran out and was not echoed. Harp players call it “the train,” but there would be no more trains running on the Northwest line, no more trains leaving town—Buster had missed the last one by five minutes. When he had peered after the disappearing trail of smoke that morning, he saw the caboose disappearing around the bend with a spot of yellow on the back that he could only imagine was his wife in her faded sun dress. Defeated, he turned and dragged his feet in the opposite direction; a dearly-paid-for pack of smokes formed a lump in his jacket pocket.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Les Vacances
Bonjour (and sorry for the long silent spell)!
The time has come for me to briefly recount some of my adventures in France. Now, bear in mind that A LOT happened over my 7 day vacation to the mainland, so I'm not going to get to every last detail, but I'll give you a day-by-day breakdown and fill in what I deem to be the highlights. Please bear with the crazy picture layout. There's really nothing I could do to make them any more organized, but I think they're pretty self-explanatory if you read along.
Day 1:
Dan and I woke up around 5:30 a.m. and we headed down to the Bath train station to catch the train to London. We got there only to be informed that a bus would take us two towns over to a different train station because there was construction work on the railway at that time. We freaked out. Thankfully, the bus travel was taken into account in the schedule and we made it to London with enough time to sprint off and meet the airport shuttle. Once at Stanstead airport, my toothpaste was promptly confiscated because it was apparently suspicious-looking. I may or may not have forgotten to leave my novelty turban toothpaste topper at home. Dan's toothpaste was more innocent-looking than mine. We boarded our plane, took a 2-hour flight, and landed in Lourdes early in the afternoon. After walking the 9 miles from the airport to our hotel, we managed to find one of the only restaurants in town that was actually open for dinner. The place seemed deserted, and we didn't know whether it was always like that, or if it was just because of the fact that it was Sunday night. As we sat on an old porch-room in a deserted wing of the hotel that evening, resting and wondering what to make of the place, we suddenly heard singing and organ music bouncing off the Pyrenees. We followed it, wandering through the narrow streets and finally making our way down to the river, and then the Grotto, where hundreds of people were gathered, holding candles and praying the rosary in 5 or 6 different languages. The Basilica of the Rosary was all lit up and the place was beautiful. After drinking from one of the fountains, we headed back to bed for the night.
Day 2:
After an early wake-up, we found a place for breakfast and laced up our hiking boots. We found our way to the base of Pic du Jer, which is the higher of two mountains located just outside of Lourdes. The weather was warm and sunny and we spent the entire morning walking to the top. On the way up, we encountered a peppy dog, whom we named Odie, and some strange trains of caterpillars, all headed somewhere. After taking some pictures and eating lunch at the top, we hiked down and gave our aching feet a rest for the remainder of the afternoon. That night, we headed to the Grotto to take part in a candle-light prayer service. It was just like the one we had wandered into the previous night. There was giant procession around the square and each decade of the rosary was said in a different language to accommodate for all of the different pilgrims there. It was quite an experience.
Day 3:
For our last day in Lourdes, we decided to stick around town and check out all of the religious sites and museums available. We explored the Basilica of the Rosary, the strange, modern Basilica of Pope Pius X, and we walked the outdoor Chemin de la Croix. After a Chinese buffet lunch (which soon returned to haunt me), we spent the afternoon checking out the Chateau in the center of Lourdes. It has a really interesting history involving Moors and Charlemagne, and Eagles dropping giant trout upon the ramparts, so you should really look it up if any of those things appeal to you. That night, we bought a bottle of wine, some cheese, a can of pate, and a baguette for dinner, and we ate them on the same porch we sat on when we heard the music and the prayers on the first night.
Day 4:
Revenge of Dien Bien Phu. I resolved never to eat Chinese food in France ever again. Dan and I got to our 7:00 a.m. train, the TGV, and watched the Pyrenees dwindle in the distance as we sped toward French wine country. Upon reaching Bordeaux, we located our hotel, had a quick filled baguette next to a monument commemorating the decapitated martyrs of the French Revolution, and found the travel bureau where we were to meet for our wine tasting tour. This tour was phenomenal. I learned so much that I think I might have to write a separate blog post explaining the art of Bordeaux wine-making and how to go about tasting it like a professional. To be concise, though, we visited two Chateaux: Chateau la Tour Blanche (in the Sauternes region) and Chateau Carbonnieux (in the Graves region). We toured the facilities and were given an in-depth wine-tasting tutorial at each one. After returning to the city and having dinner at a nice Indian joint, we hit the hay.
Day 5:
After sleeping in a bit, we wandered around the city until we found an internet cafe to check our email and touch base with the outside world. This endeavor was made considerably more difficult by the fact that French keyboards are not the same as American keyboards. This is due to the fact that the French language has different letter frequencies than English. Let's just say that the letter "Q" would be a lot more popular if Wheel of Fortune was a French show. After lunch, Dan and I spent a few hours in the Bordeaux Wine Museum, which is a fairly new attraction in the city. For 5 Euro, we got an in-depth tour that taught us all about the history of the region, from Roman times through the present day, and two free glasses of wine apiece. Considering that each of the glasses of wine would have cost around 10 Euro at any decent restaurant, we considered ourselves quite lucky. That night, we located Bordeaux's restaurant district and we found a great little place with traditional french cuisine and live music before heading to bed for the night. (I should note here that, in France, dinner doesn't start until 8:00 p.m.)
Day 6:
When we woke up with only one day left in Bordeaux, we knew that we needed to spend some more time in the vineyards. Unfortunately, there are no cable cars that go that far out of the city. So, once again, we strapped on our walking shoes and headed out on a walking adventure. We took a route North out of the city, toward the Medoc region, which is world-famous for its magnificent, tannic red wines. We did eventually find some vineyards (Chateau la Dame Blanche, par example), and between walking around them a bit and getting lost on the way back, I calculated that it was about a 16-17 mile day for us. The dogs were a-barking when we got back, so we passed out for about 3 hours before dinner. Listing our culinary triumphs to this point, I must include: Pate, crepes, moules, croque monsieur (et madame), pain chocoloat, confit du canard, escargot, fois gras, soup de poisson, creme brulee, vin rouge (Medoc), vin blanc (Persac Leognan), and Rosee (Bordeaux appelation).
Day 7:
We woke up at 5:45 a.m. to catch the TGV from Bordeaux to Paris. After arriving there around 11:00 a.m., we printed off our Eurostar tickets at the train station and hopped on the metro to begin our whirlwind tour of the city. This included: Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Tour Eiffel, and Sacre Coeur. We figured that, since we didn't have time to visit any of the places for as long as we wanted, we might as well just get our picture in front of ALL of them. Highlights of this day:
-Getting off the Metro, one of the mother (or teacher)-chaperons for a group of American high school girls rushed past us on the stairs. Catching sight of the two, dashing, dark-haired men who had clearly not shaved in over a week and probably didn't smell like roses, she reminded her girls to "hold on tight to your purses and bags!" (Profiled once again...) I turned to her and assured her that we were not in the purse-snatching business. She was embarrassed, the girls got a good laugh at her expense, and she probably got pick-pocketed later that day by someone who actually was as sketchy at they looked. Such is life.
-On the Champs-Elysee, I had a moment of deja-vu. Upon passing a certain ATM, I felt like I had been there...years before. I stopped dead in my tracks, turned to look it in its smug, little ATM face, and realized that it was the self-same ATM that had eaten my card when I was in Paris as a sophomore in high school. At that moment in my life, I didn't know that entering an incorrect PIN more than twice would have such severe consequences. "So we meet again," I said. It leered at me (cue "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" theme). I turned around, took five deliberate steps, the change in my pocket jingling like spurs, turned, quick as lightening, and drew my wallet before the inanimate object could blink. The day was mine. There wasn't enough room for the both of us in that city.
-After seeing all the sights that we wanted to see, Dan and I decided that we wanted one more really nice meal before leaving France. So, we found a nice restaurant near the train station and waltzed right in wearing jeans and toting enormous backpacks. The Maitre d'Hotel was duly impressed and gave us prime seating-- in the back corner, away from the rest of the guests. It was like we had our own private room. They must have thought we were pretty special. At the time, neither of us thought that we would be heading back to mainland Europe (we have since booked a weekend trip to Barcelona...), and so we decided to burn through the remainder of the 75 Euro that we had between us. We each ordered 30 Euro, 3-course meals (starting off with oysters and haddock tar-tar, followed by cod with sweet potato and rice, and topped off by cheesecake and pineapple slices with ice cream and pistachios), and 12 Euro glasses of Sauternes wine, which we had acquired a taste for in Bordeaux. At the end of the meal, a different waiter rung us out, and he failed to include the wine on the bill. Surprised, but sensitive to the fact that this waiter appeared to be a very busy man, we paid and left without interrupting him to mention that he had forgotten to charge us for the wine. It was our good deed for the day.
After dinner, we caught the Eurostar back to London St. Pancras Station, caught the London tube to Paddington Station, and caught the 11:30 First Great Western train back to Bath. Our last triumphant stop before 29 Northampton Street, where our showers and beds were waiting, was Mr. D's Chicken Truck. Where else are you going to get food at 1:30 in the morning?
Well, that's about it for my (mis)adventures. I hope that you've enjoyed this, and again, I apologize for it taking so long to post. Cheers!
-The Wandering Wordsmith
The time has come for me to briefly recount some of my adventures in France. Now, bear in mind that A LOT happened over my 7 day vacation to the mainland, so I'm not going to get to every last detail, but I'll give you a day-by-day breakdown and fill in what I deem to be the highlights. Please bear with the crazy picture layout. There's really nothing I could do to make them any more organized, but I think they're pretty self-explanatory if you read along.
Day 1:
Dan and I woke up around 5:30 a.m. and we headed down to the Bath train station to catch the train to London. We got there only to be informed that a bus would take us two towns over to a different train station because there was construction work on the railway at that time. We freaked out. Thankfully, the bus travel was taken into account in the schedule and we made it to London with enough time to sprint off and meet the airport shuttle. Once at Stanstead airport, my toothpaste was promptly confiscated because it was apparently suspicious-looking. I may or may not have forgotten to leave my novelty turban toothpaste topper at home. Dan's toothpaste was more innocent-looking than mine. We boarded our plane, took a 2-hour flight, and landed in Lourdes early in the afternoon. After walking the 9 miles from the airport to our hotel, we managed to find one of the only restaurants in town that was actually open for dinner. The place seemed deserted, and we didn't know whether it was always like that, or if it was just because of the fact that it was Sunday night. As we sat on an old porch-room in a deserted wing of the hotel that evening, resting and wondering what to make of the place, we suddenly heard singing and organ music bouncing off the Pyrenees. We followed it, wandering through the narrow streets and finally making our way down to the river, and then the Grotto, where hundreds of people were gathered, holding candles and praying the rosary in 5 or 6 different languages. The Basilica of the Rosary was all lit up and the place was beautiful. After drinking from one of the fountains, we headed back to bed for the night.
Day 2:
After an early wake-up, we found a place for breakfast and laced up our hiking boots. We found our way to the base of Pic du Jer, which is the higher of two mountains located just outside of Lourdes. The weather was warm and sunny and we spent the entire morning walking to the top. On the way up, we encountered a peppy dog, whom we named Odie, and some strange trains of caterpillars, all headed somewhere. After taking some pictures and eating lunch at the top, we hiked down and gave our aching feet a rest for the remainder of the afternoon. That night, we headed to the Grotto to take part in a candle-light prayer service. It was just like the one we had wandered into the previous night. There was giant procession around the square and each decade of the rosary was said in a different language to accommodate for all of the different pilgrims there. It was quite an experience.
Day 3:
For our last day in Lourdes, we decided to stick around town and check out all of the religious sites and museums available. We explored the Basilica of the Rosary, the strange, modern Basilica of Pope Pius X, and we walked the outdoor Chemin de la Croix. After a Chinese buffet lunch (which soon returned to haunt me), we spent the afternoon checking out the Chateau in the center of Lourdes. It has a really interesting history involving Moors and Charlemagne, and Eagles dropping giant trout upon the ramparts, so you should really look it up if any of those things appeal to you. That night, we bought a bottle of wine, some cheese, a can of pate, and a baguette for dinner, and we ate them on the same porch we sat on when we heard the music and the prayers on the first night.
Day 4:
Revenge of Dien Bien Phu. I resolved never to eat Chinese food in France ever again. Dan and I got to our 7:00 a.m. train, the TGV, and watched the Pyrenees dwindle in the distance as we sped toward French wine country. Upon reaching Bordeaux, we located our hotel, had a quick filled baguette next to a monument commemorating the decapitated martyrs of the French Revolution, and found the travel bureau where we were to meet for our wine tasting tour. This tour was phenomenal. I learned so much that I think I might have to write a separate blog post explaining the art of Bordeaux wine-making and how to go about tasting it like a professional. To be concise, though, we visited two Chateaux: Chateau la Tour Blanche (in the Sauternes region) and Chateau Carbonnieux (in the Graves region). We toured the facilities and were given an in-depth wine-tasting tutorial at each one. After returning to the city and having dinner at a nice Indian joint, we hit the hay.
Day 5:
After sleeping in a bit, we wandered around the city until we found an internet cafe to check our email and touch base with the outside world. This endeavor was made considerably more difficult by the fact that French keyboards are not the same as American keyboards. This is due to the fact that the French language has different letter frequencies than English. Let's just say that the letter "Q" would be a lot more popular if Wheel of Fortune was a French show. After lunch, Dan and I spent a few hours in the Bordeaux Wine Museum, which is a fairly new attraction in the city. For 5 Euro, we got an in-depth tour that taught us all about the history of the region, from Roman times through the present day, and two free glasses of wine apiece. Considering that each of the glasses of wine would have cost around 10 Euro at any decent restaurant, we considered ourselves quite lucky. That night, we located Bordeaux's restaurant district and we found a great little place with traditional french cuisine and live music before heading to bed for the night. (I should note here that, in France, dinner doesn't start until 8:00 p.m.)
Day 6:
When we woke up with only one day left in Bordeaux, we knew that we needed to spend some more time in the vineyards. Unfortunately, there are no cable cars that go that far out of the city. So, once again, we strapped on our walking shoes and headed out on a walking adventure. We took a route North out of the city, toward the Medoc region, which is world-famous for its magnificent, tannic red wines. We did eventually find some vineyards (Chateau la Dame Blanche, par example), and between walking around them a bit and getting lost on the way back, I calculated that it was about a 16-17 mile day for us. The dogs were a-barking when we got back, so we passed out for about 3 hours before dinner. Listing our culinary triumphs to this point, I must include: Pate, crepes, moules, croque monsieur (et madame), pain chocoloat, confit du canard, escargot, fois gras, soup de poisson, creme brulee, vin rouge (Medoc), vin blanc (Persac Leognan), and Rosee (Bordeaux appelation).
Day 7:
We woke up at 5:45 a.m. to catch the TGV from Bordeaux to Paris. After arriving there around 11:00 a.m., we printed off our Eurostar tickets at the train station and hopped on the metro to begin our whirlwind tour of the city. This included: Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Tour Eiffel, and Sacre Coeur. We figured that, since we didn't have time to visit any of the places for as long as we wanted, we might as well just get our picture in front of ALL of them. Highlights of this day:
-Getting off the Metro, one of the mother (or teacher)-chaperons for a group of American high school girls rushed past us on the stairs. Catching sight of the two, dashing, dark-haired men who had clearly not shaved in over a week and probably didn't smell like roses, she reminded her girls to "hold on tight to your purses and bags!" (Profiled once again...) I turned to her and assured her that we were not in the purse-snatching business. She was embarrassed, the girls got a good laugh at her expense, and she probably got pick-pocketed later that day by someone who actually was as sketchy at they looked. Such is life.
-On the Champs-Elysee, I had a moment of deja-vu. Upon passing a certain ATM, I felt like I had been there...years before. I stopped dead in my tracks, turned to look it in its smug, little ATM face, and realized that it was the self-same ATM that had eaten my card when I was in Paris as a sophomore in high school. At that moment in my life, I didn't know that entering an incorrect PIN more than twice would have such severe consequences. "So we meet again," I said. It leered at me (cue "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" theme). I turned around, took five deliberate steps, the change in my pocket jingling like spurs, turned, quick as lightening, and drew my wallet before the inanimate object could blink. The day was mine. There wasn't enough room for the both of us in that city.
-After seeing all the sights that we wanted to see, Dan and I decided that we wanted one more really nice meal before leaving France. So, we found a nice restaurant near the train station and waltzed right in wearing jeans and toting enormous backpacks. The Maitre d'Hotel was duly impressed and gave us prime seating-- in the back corner, away from the rest of the guests. It was like we had our own private room. They must have thought we were pretty special. At the time, neither of us thought that we would be heading back to mainland Europe (we have since booked a weekend trip to Barcelona...), and so we decided to burn through the remainder of the 75 Euro that we had between us. We each ordered 30 Euro, 3-course meals (starting off with oysters and haddock tar-tar, followed by cod with sweet potato and rice, and topped off by cheesecake and pineapple slices with ice cream and pistachios), and 12 Euro glasses of Sauternes wine, which we had acquired a taste for in Bordeaux. At the end of the meal, a different waiter rung us out, and he failed to include the wine on the bill. Surprised, but sensitive to the fact that this waiter appeared to be a very busy man, we paid and left without interrupting him to mention that he had forgotten to charge us for the wine. It was our good deed for the day.
After dinner, we caught the Eurostar back to London St. Pancras Station, caught the London tube to Paddington Station, and caught the 11:30 First Great Western train back to Bath. Our last triumphant stop before 29 Northampton Street, where our showers and beds were waiting, was Mr. D's Chicken Truck. Where else are you going to get food at 1:30 in the morning?
Well, that's about it for my (mis)adventures. I hope that you've enjoyed this, and again, I apologize for it taking so long to post. Cheers!
-The Wandering Wordsmith
Saturday, March 27, 2010
A French Toast
Hey,
I know that many of you won't notice that I've posted this because I'm not going to send an email update. No need for such a short post. I'll be in France until next Sunday, so expect some sort of communication indicating that I'm alive sometime on April 4th.
So here's to an incredible week in France, may Dan and I arrive there safely, may the weather smile upon us, may we travel with full stomachs and avoid blisters and such cantankerous inconveniences, and may we return better, wiser, and more alive than when we left.
I can't resist the opportunity to include a poem that takes place in France...hopefully I'll have my own when I come back:
along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memory comes my heart singing like
an idiot whispering like a drunken man
who(at a certain corner suddenly)meets
the tall policeman of my mind.
awake
being not asleep elsewhere our dreams began
which now are folded:but the year completes
his life as a forgotten prisoner
-"Ici?"-"Ah non mon chéri;il fait trop froid"-
they are gone:along these gardens moves a wind bringing
rain and leaves filling the air with fear
and sweetness....pauses. (Halfwhispering....half
singing
stirs the always smiling chevaux de bois)
when you were in Paris we met here
-ee cummings
I know that many of you won't notice that I've posted this because I'm not going to send an email update. No need for such a short post. I'll be in France until next Sunday, so expect some sort of communication indicating that I'm alive sometime on April 4th.
So here's to an incredible week in France, may Dan and I arrive there safely, may the weather smile upon us, may we travel with full stomachs and avoid blisters and such cantankerous inconveniences, and may we return better, wiser, and more alive than when we left.
I can't resist the opportunity to include a poem that takes place in France...hopefully I'll have my own when I come back:
along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memory comes my heart singing like
an idiot whispering like a drunken man
who(at a certain corner suddenly)meets
the tall policeman of my mind.
awake
being not asleep elsewhere our dreams began
which now are folded:but the year completes
his life as a forgotten prisoner
-"Ici?"-"Ah non mon chéri;il fait trop froid"-
they are gone:along these gardens moves a wind bringing
rain and leaves filling the air with fear
and sweetness....pauses. (Halfwhispering....half
singing
stirs the always smiling chevaux de bois)
when you were in Paris we met here
-ee cummings
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Oxford: Need for Tweed
Ello Ello,
Fancy that, you think, he's not dead after all... Yes, I know, I've done a less-than-stellar job keeping up my end of the communication bargain lately. So I come to make amends! In my defense, I have been quite busy writing papers, taking long, British strolls from town to town, giving tours at Bath Abbey, battling Gettysburg College Res Life, and trying to get my courses for next year all set. Oh, and did I mention that I'm in Oxford. Yes...I suppose that is a necessary detail. I arrived on Saturday last, and will be here until this Friday, at which time I will pack up, head back to Bath, and get ready to depart for my mid-semester break in France.
I'm staying at University College, which is the oldest college at Oxford University (picture Oxford University as the United States, and each college within the university as a separate state--that's the easiest way to look at it). It was established in the 13th century and is still going strong today. Oxford, on the whole, is a gorgeous city: a must-see if one ever travels to the UK. It is referred to as "The City of Dreaming Spires," and if you do a Google image search of the city, you'll understand why. The architecture is old and grandiose, the food is amazing (if pricey), and I feel steeped in history when I walk out of my room in the morning. This is something that one simply cannot feel anywhere in the United States. Here, history stretches back on a far larger plane. Great men at Oxford taught the next generation of great men, and on and on in a similar manner since the High Middle Ages. Yesterday, I had a pint in the pub where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein frequently shared ideas for their writing. Today, I was given a tour by a man who had once fined Bill Clinton for an overdue library book when they were both students here at University College in the 60's. Robert Hooke discovered cells right across the quad from where I sleep every night. This is no normal place. It is a place of great academic reverence and rigor (in the good way, not the stiff, dead way), and I feel both small and very comfortable within its walls.
One nifty little excursion that my programme made available for us was a punting trip on the Thames. As I refrain from making jokes about kicking small people long distances, I shall explain that a punt is a small, flat-bottomed boat that is very similar to Venice's gondolas. It is propelled by a long pole that is both pushed against the bottom to move the craft, and used as a rudder to steer it. The technique takes a bit of getting used to (especially in moving water), but I managed to catch on quickly. I dressed up in some classy British clothing for the event in order to get a good photo op for all of you back home.
This is the only picture I've managed to wrangle from a friend, since I left my camera cord back in Bath, so you'll have to wait a couple of days until I can get the rest of them uploaded to my flickr account.
Also, if you have razor-sharp vision, you may just be able to make out one of the other things that has been keeping me busy recently: growing a beard! (At this point, ladies everywhere shed a mournful tear, men wish to pat me on the back, and my uncle Joe knows that it will never be anywhere NEAR as good as his) Yes, it is a fine looking, fuzzy thing. I'm growing it in anticipation of not being able to shave while in France, being confined only to a backpack for 6 days of travel. I'd rather have the beard than look like a bum the entire time. But not to worry, I promise to shave it off before I return home (unless it grows on me, which it already seems to be doing...). You knew that I couldn't resist doing something nifty with my facial hair while I have no one in particular to impress. Boys will be boys, you know.
As you can see from the punting picture, I've managed to pick myself up a messenger cap for pretty cheap, and I'm really looking high and low for a nice tweed jacket to go with it. Alas, it seems like only the British chaps with short arms bring their old coats to the thrift shops I've been looking in. So if any of you know a good place to go for such a thing either in Bath or Oxford, please give me a heads-up. I've got the need: the need for tweed.
Toodles for now-
The Wandering Wordsmith
Fancy that, you think, he's not dead after all... Yes, I know, I've done a less-than-stellar job keeping up my end of the communication bargain lately. So I come to make amends! In my defense, I have been quite busy writing papers, taking long, British strolls from town to town, giving tours at Bath Abbey, battling Gettysburg College Res Life, and trying to get my courses for next year all set. Oh, and did I mention that I'm in Oxford. Yes...I suppose that is a necessary detail. I arrived on Saturday last, and will be here until this Friday, at which time I will pack up, head back to Bath, and get ready to depart for my mid-semester break in France.
I'm staying at University College, which is the oldest college at Oxford University (picture Oxford University as the United States, and each college within the university as a separate state--that's the easiest way to look at it). It was established in the 13th century and is still going strong today. Oxford, on the whole, is a gorgeous city: a must-see if one ever travels to the UK. It is referred to as "The City of Dreaming Spires," and if you do a Google image search of the city, you'll understand why. The architecture is old and grandiose, the food is amazing (if pricey), and I feel steeped in history when I walk out of my room in the morning. This is something that one simply cannot feel anywhere in the United States. Here, history stretches back on a far larger plane. Great men at Oxford taught the next generation of great men, and on and on in a similar manner since the High Middle Ages. Yesterday, I had a pint in the pub where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein frequently shared ideas for their writing. Today, I was given a tour by a man who had once fined Bill Clinton for an overdue library book when they were both students here at University College in the 60's. Robert Hooke discovered cells right across the quad from where I sleep every night. This is no normal place. It is a place of great academic reverence and rigor (in the good way, not the stiff, dead way), and I feel both small and very comfortable within its walls.
One nifty little excursion that my programme made available for us was a punting trip on the Thames. As I refrain from making jokes about kicking small people long distances, I shall explain that a punt is a small, flat-bottomed boat that is very similar to Venice's gondolas. It is propelled by a long pole that is both pushed against the bottom to move the craft, and used as a rudder to steer it. The technique takes a bit of getting used to (especially in moving water), but I managed to catch on quickly. I dressed up in some classy British clothing for the event in order to get a good photo op for all of you back home.
This is the only picture I've managed to wrangle from a friend, since I left my camera cord back in Bath, so you'll have to wait a couple of days until I can get the rest of them uploaded to my flickr account.
Also, if you have razor-sharp vision, you may just be able to make out one of the other things that has been keeping me busy recently: growing a beard! (At this point, ladies everywhere shed a mournful tear, men wish to pat me on the back, and my uncle Joe knows that it will never be anywhere NEAR as good as his) Yes, it is a fine looking, fuzzy thing. I'm growing it in anticipation of not being able to shave while in France, being confined only to a backpack for 6 days of travel. I'd rather have the beard than look like a bum the entire time. But not to worry, I promise to shave it off before I return home (unless it grows on me, which it already seems to be doing...). You knew that I couldn't resist doing something nifty with my facial hair while I have no one in particular to impress. Boys will be boys, you know.
As you can see from the punting picture, I've managed to pick myself up a messenger cap for pretty cheap, and I'm really looking high and low for a nice tweed jacket to go with it. Alas, it seems like only the British chaps with short arms bring their old coats to the thrift shops I've been looking in. So if any of you know a good place to go for such a thing either in Bath or Oxford, please give me a heads-up. I've got the need: the need for tweed.
Toodles for now-
The Wandering Wordsmith
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Flapjacks Aren't Just for Lumberjacks
Hello Everybody,
I'm pleased to inform you that I am writing this blog post upon the completion of my first of three papers that are due within the next couple weeks. So this is kind of a pleasant study break for me. I feel like I have a lot to share, however.
First and foremost, I would like to announce my plans for the summer. I GOT MY MELLON GRANT! This means that I'll be in Gettysburg for the majority of the summer working with kids in the Gettysburg High School summer program to establish a pilot curriculum for the writing therapy research I plan to do in the fall. It's fairly complicated, but it's really interesting stuff, so if anyone is interested in hearing more, please send me an email or request en-masse for a a full-fledged blog post. (Yes, I take requests) Unfortunately for me, this grant means that I will not be working at the Edward J. Madden Open Hearts camp in Great Barrington, MA again this summer. My heart and my best wishes go out to David and the rest of the staff that will be returning this summer. It is a place that has had a big impact on who I am and the type of work I want to do in the future.
Another very exciting thing that happened this week was a visit from my friend Rachel, who is currently studying in Copenhagen. She just happened to be in London for the week, and her program just happened to take a trip to see Stonehenge this past Wednesday, and then just happened to stop by Bath for lunch and a tour, so it appeared as if the stars had aligned perfectly. Just as we had planned a few nights earlier, I met Rachel in front of Bath Abbey at 12:30 and we had my version of the classic Bath lunch: a pasty and a flapjack. For a total of about 3 pounds apiece, we purchased lunch and dessert, and that's a great deal! (Now, I have another very important thing to mention about Rachel's visit, but I must first stop to say that I will come back later in this blog post to explain exactly what a "flapjack" is...)
After lunch, Rachel and I strolled casually over to Queen's Square to check out the little gold medal parade that was being held that day, and after that, we headed back to...WAIT!! GOLD MEDAL PARADE!? you think, YOU CAN'T JUST MENTION SOMETHING LIKE THAT LIKE IT'S NO BIG DEAL AND KEEP ON TALKING!...okay, okay, so maybe it was kind of a big deal...I'll explain.
Amy Williams is Britain's first female individual medalist in like a billion years, so when she won the Skeleton event in Vancouver, everyone was quite excited. Just so happens that Amy is from Bath, so we decided to throw her a little coming-home-parade on Wednesday. And so, at about 1:30 people came out of their work places and lined the streets to watch the open-topped bus with the gold medalist and her entourage pass through the streets. I have included a quick video from the second time the bus came around Queen's Square. But the First time (oh, the first time) there were a few sparks flying...let me paint the picture for you:
The bus turns the corner, and there's not a lot of people lining the parade route so Rachel and I are right on the street. I see the gold medal glinting in the...well...it was actually pretty cloudy...Anyway, the bus approaches slowly, majestically, and Amy looks down at me, looking very generic in my jeans and black North Face fleece, AND SHE WINKS! Now, there are some parties who might be so silly as to propose that the breeze was blowing briskly (not balmily, like in the Berkshires) and that small bits of debris were flying. Now, I WILL ADMIT, it is possible that she might have gotten something in here eye (which could explain the strange face she made simultaneously, now that I think about it...), but we're just going to go on the faith of my good looks and magnetism and say that she actually did wink at me. It will make a better story to tell my grandchildren, so humor me, I pray thee.
Now, back to the flapjacks. A flapjack is the functional equivalent of a cross between a rice-krispy treat and a Nature Valley (granola) bar. It is buttery, it is heavy, it is sweet as sweet can be, and it melts in your mouth. I would like to give a shout-out to my grandmother, who tried out a flapjack recipe the other day, and claims that they came out pretty tasty. I'll be the final judge, but the reports that are filtering in seem to indicate a success, so great job Mem!
Finally, I suppose I will paste in a rough version of the poem that I hinted at last week. I haven't had time to edit it, so it's not very good, but I know that some people are expecting it. I guess that's what I get for making promises about future blog posts...It's called The Onion of Thought and was partially inspired by the fact that all of the knives in my house are terribly dull and hard to work with. Don't worry, I still have all 10 fingers. Enjoy:
The Onion of Thought
Working with a dull blade is foolish, they say—
because one slip of the hand, the eyelid, or the steel,
one extra pump of the adrenal gland, will feel
the bloodying of an innocent leek, or worse,
a primrose path that paves itself redly across the board,
dribbling inch by inch through the asparagus sward.
Every thought, an onion, is homicidal; it squats plotting
and naked on the block of wood—“how to slip,” it ponders,
“and escape when the mind’s blade wanders.”
And while the synapses chop and dissect, and the onion
is whittled down to its stump, it sees its chance to strike disaster:
a quarter inch, and the mind will abrade its master.
That's all for now. I will write again when the rest of my papers are finished, so until then, be well.
-The Wandering Wordsmith
I'm pleased to inform you that I am writing this blog post upon the completion of my first of three papers that are due within the next couple weeks. So this is kind of a pleasant study break for me. I feel like I have a lot to share, however.
First and foremost, I would like to announce my plans for the summer. I GOT MY MELLON GRANT! This means that I'll be in Gettysburg for the majority of the summer working with kids in the Gettysburg High School summer program to establish a pilot curriculum for the writing therapy research I plan to do in the fall. It's fairly complicated, but it's really interesting stuff, so if anyone is interested in hearing more, please send me an email or request en-masse for a a full-fledged blog post. (Yes, I take requests) Unfortunately for me, this grant means that I will not be working at the Edward J. Madden Open Hearts camp in Great Barrington, MA again this summer. My heart and my best wishes go out to David and the rest of the staff that will be returning this summer. It is a place that has had a big impact on who I am and the type of work I want to do in the future.
Another very exciting thing that happened this week was a visit from my friend Rachel, who is currently studying in Copenhagen. She just happened to be in London for the week, and her program just happened to take a trip to see Stonehenge this past Wednesday, and then just happened to stop by Bath for lunch and a tour, so it appeared as if the stars had aligned perfectly. Just as we had planned a few nights earlier, I met Rachel in front of Bath Abbey at 12:30 and we had my version of the classic Bath lunch: a pasty and a flapjack. For a total of about 3 pounds apiece, we purchased lunch and dessert, and that's a great deal! (Now, I have another very important thing to mention about Rachel's visit, but I must first stop to say that I will come back later in this blog post to explain exactly what a "flapjack" is...)
After lunch, Rachel and I strolled casually over to Queen's Square to check out the little gold medal parade that was being held that day, and after that, we headed back to...WAIT!! GOLD MEDAL PARADE!? you think, YOU CAN'T JUST MENTION SOMETHING LIKE THAT LIKE IT'S NO BIG DEAL AND KEEP ON TALKING!...okay, okay, so maybe it was kind of a big deal...I'll explain.
Amy Williams is Britain's first female individual medalist in like a billion years, so when she won the Skeleton event in Vancouver, everyone was quite excited. Just so happens that Amy is from Bath, so we decided to throw her a little coming-home-parade on Wednesday. And so, at about 1:30 people came out of their work places and lined the streets to watch the open-topped bus with the gold medalist and her entourage pass through the streets. I have included a quick video from the second time the bus came around Queen's Square. But the First time (oh, the first time) there were a few sparks flying...let me paint the picture for you:
The bus turns the corner, and there's not a lot of people lining the parade route so Rachel and I are right on the street. I see the gold medal glinting in the...well...it was actually pretty cloudy...Anyway, the bus approaches slowly, majestically, and Amy looks down at me, looking very generic in my jeans and black North Face fleece, AND SHE WINKS! Now, there are some parties who might be so silly as to propose that the breeze was blowing briskly (not balmily, like in the Berkshires) and that small bits of debris were flying. Now, I WILL ADMIT, it is possible that she might have gotten something in here eye (which could explain the strange face she made simultaneously, now that I think about it...), but we're just going to go on the faith of my good looks and magnetism and say that she actually did wink at me. It will make a better story to tell my grandchildren, so humor me, I pray thee.
Now, back to the flapjacks. A flapjack is the functional equivalent of a cross between a rice-krispy treat and a Nature Valley (granola) bar. It is buttery, it is heavy, it is sweet as sweet can be, and it melts in your mouth. I would like to give a shout-out to my grandmother, who tried out a flapjack recipe the other day, and claims that they came out pretty tasty. I'll be the final judge, but the reports that are filtering in seem to indicate a success, so great job Mem!
Finally, I suppose I will paste in a rough version of the poem that I hinted at last week. I haven't had time to edit it, so it's not very good, but I know that some people are expecting it. I guess that's what I get for making promises about future blog posts...It's called The Onion of Thought and was partially inspired by the fact that all of the knives in my house are terribly dull and hard to work with. Don't worry, I still have all 10 fingers. Enjoy:
The Onion of Thought
Working with a dull blade is foolish, they say—
because one slip of the hand, the eyelid, or the steel,
one extra pump of the adrenal gland, will feel
the bloodying of an innocent leek, or worse,
a primrose path that paves itself redly across the board,
dribbling inch by inch through the asparagus sward.
Every thought, an onion, is homicidal; it squats plotting
and naked on the block of wood—“how to slip,” it ponders,
“and escape when the mind’s blade wanders.”
And while the synapses chop and dissect, and the onion
is whittled down to its stump, it sees its chance to strike disaster:
a quarter inch, and the mind will abrade its master.
That's all for now. I will write again when the rest of my papers are finished, so until then, be well.
-The Wandering Wordsmith
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