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
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Rugby and the Cotswalds
Hello Blog Followers,
It seems as though it has been quite a while since last I've posted. Feeling a little deprived...? I got your remedy right here!
The most noteworthy event of last weekend was the Bath Rugby match. I and my classmates looked on as we trounced Worcestor (no, not Worcestor Massachusetts) by a final score of 37-13, which is quite a high scoring match by rugby standards. It was a cold day to sit in the stands, but the atmosphere was much friendlier than most American sports venues, so it was an enjoyable experience, nonetheless. I will now attempt to explain the rules of rugby to the best of my ability:
- The number one rule of rugby is that you're not allowed to pass the ball forward. All passes must be made in a lateral or backward direction.
-When a player is tackled, a bunch of dudes from both teams jump on top and make a dog pile (don't ask me why, or who, or how many...it just happens) and the player on the bottom forks up the ball to his mates and it magically appears at the back of the pile, which is called a "ruck." At this point, somebody grabs the ball, passes it off, and the whole ordeal starts over again.
-There are various fouls and off-sides rules that occur, and these can result in either a change in possession, a throw-in from out-of-bounds (like soccer, except on steroids, and with less fake tears), or a penalty kick (which is like a field goal attempt in American football).
-The goal of any drive is to score a "try," which is the functional equivalent of a touchdown. It is worth 5 points and an ensuing "conversion" (or field goal) is worth another 2. Any other time a team can get the ball between the uprights, they score 3 points (kind of like going for a field goal in football).
-There are no pads (unless you are concussion-prone, in which case you get a little water-polo type hat), and the game is very rough and tumble. Please check out this small clip from the Bath game!
This weekend, I went on a trip to the Cotswalds, which are a group of low hills (technically a plateau, I think) to the North of the City of Bath. Again, this was a group trip, so we got on a bus and were dropped off at Broadway Tower, the top of which is the highest point in the Cotswalds.
This tower is a type of building that is referred to as a "folly." And appropriately so! It serves no purpose other than aesthetic pleasure. At no point in Broadway Tower's history was it ever intended to be used as a lookout post, a garrison, a prison, or even a broom closet. Whichever duke decided to build it did so merely so that his wife could look out her window from six miles away and see it standing on the heights. Superfluity at its finest!
After Broadway tower, we hiked down a muddy footpath to the town of Broadway, which lies at the base of the hill. It is the prototypical Cotswald hamlet, complete with dry mortar stone walls and honey-colored limestone buildings. After lunch, we were taken to Painswick Gardens, which are famous for their snowdrop displays in early spring. Snowdrops, as the horticulturally-inclined of you may already know, are the very first flowers to bloom in the spring, before even the crocuses and the daffodils. After having a splendid afternoon tea in the gardens, we headed back to Bath.
The last thing that I am excited to tell you all is that I have solidified my travel plans for spring break, which will happen right after my week in Oxford at the end of March. My housemate Dan and I will be flying from London to Lourdes, France on the 28th of March and staying there for a few days, hiking in the Pyrenees, and enjoying the blessed city. On Wednesday, we will board the TGV (TGV = Train-Grande-Vitesse = High Speed Train) and shoot over to Bordeaux for a couple days. There, we will partake in the viticulture and the warm Atlantic climate before hopping on another train to Paris on Saturday morning. After a whirlwind tour of Paris, during which I intend to buy Dan his first Croque-Monsieur sandwich, we will get on the Eurostar and head back to London via the Chunnel. After we catch the first train back to Bath, our vacation will be over (and we will be very tired). I have all of the train/plane tickets purchased (no thanks to some minor credit card debacles), and I'm rearing to go.
I do have some major papers due in a few weeks, so I'm going to try and tackle those before posting anything major. However, be on the lookout for a poem about a conniving vegetable. That's all I'll say for now.
Your flippant friend,
The Wandering Wordsmith
It seems as though it has been quite a while since last I've posted. Feeling a little deprived...? I got your remedy right here!
The most noteworthy event of last weekend was the Bath Rugby match. I and my classmates looked on as we trounced Worcestor (no, not Worcestor Massachusetts) by a final score of 37-13, which is quite a high scoring match by rugby standards. It was a cold day to sit in the stands, but the atmosphere was much friendlier than most American sports venues, so it was an enjoyable experience, nonetheless. I will now attempt to explain the rules of rugby to the best of my ability:
- The number one rule of rugby is that you're not allowed to pass the ball forward. All passes must be made in a lateral or backward direction.
-When a player is tackled, a bunch of dudes from both teams jump on top and make a dog pile (don't ask me why, or who, or how many...it just happens) and the player on the bottom forks up the ball to his mates and it magically appears at the back of the pile, which is called a "ruck." At this point, somebody grabs the ball, passes it off, and the whole ordeal starts over again.
-There are various fouls and off-sides rules that occur, and these can result in either a change in possession, a throw-in from out-of-bounds (like soccer, except on steroids, and with less fake tears), or a penalty kick (which is like a field goal attempt in American football).
-The goal of any drive is to score a "try," which is the functional equivalent of a touchdown. It is worth 5 points and an ensuing "conversion" (or field goal) is worth another 2. Any other time a team can get the ball between the uprights, they score 3 points (kind of like going for a field goal in football).
-There are no pads (unless you are concussion-prone, in which case you get a little water-polo type hat), and the game is very rough and tumble. Please check out this small clip from the Bath game!
This weekend, I went on a trip to the Cotswalds, which are a group of low hills (technically a plateau, I think) to the North of the City of Bath. Again, this was a group trip, so we got on a bus and were dropped off at Broadway Tower, the top of which is the highest point in the Cotswalds.
This tower is a type of building that is referred to as a "folly." And appropriately so! It serves no purpose other than aesthetic pleasure. At no point in Broadway Tower's history was it ever intended to be used as a lookout post, a garrison, a prison, or even a broom closet. Whichever duke decided to build it did so merely so that his wife could look out her window from six miles away and see it standing on the heights. Superfluity at its finest!
After Broadway tower, we hiked down a muddy footpath to the town of Broadway, which lies at the base of the hill. It is the prototypical Cotswald hamlet, complete with dry mortar stone walls and honey-colored limestone buildings. After lunch, we were taken to Painswick Gardens, which are famous for their snowdrop displays in early spring. Snowdrops, as the horticulturally-inclined of you may already know, are the very first flowers to bloom in the spring, before even the crocuses and the daffodils. After having a splendid afternoon tea in the gardens, we headed back to Bath.
The last thing that I am excited to tell you all is that I have solidified my travel plans for spring break, which will happen right after my week in Oxford at the end of March. My housemate Dan and I will be flying from London to Lourdes, France on the 28th of March and staying there for a few days, hiking in the Pyrenees, and enjoying the blessed city. On Wednesday, we will board the TGV (TGV = Train-Grande-Vitesse = High Speed Train) and shoot over to Bordeaux for a couple days. There, we will partake in the viticulture and the warm Atlantic climate before hopping on another train to Paris on Saturday morning. After a whirlwind tour of Paris, during which I intend to buy Dan his first Croque-Monsieur sandwich, we will get on the Eurostar and head back to London via the Chunnel. After we catch the first train back to Bath, our vacation will be over (and we will be very tired). I have all of the train/plane tickets purchased (no thanks to some minor credit card debacles), and I'm rearing to go.
I do have some major papers due in a few weeks, so I'm going to try and tackle those before posting anything major. However, be on the lookout for a poem about a conniving vegetable. That's all I'll say for now.
Your flippant friend,
The Wandering Wordsmith
Friday, February 19, 2010
Great....another blog post....
I know what most of you are probably thinking:
"Wow, this kid must be so incredibly bored over there in England if all he does is sit around and write these ridiculous blog posts. I'm sick of reading them, I'm sick of his lame humor, and I'm sick of all these emails clogging up my inbox..."
"Well," I say to those of you who might feel this way, "hold on just a moment."
(I'm going to discontinue the use of quotation marks from this point forward because I will be the only one speaking. I've hypothetically muted you all.)
When I originally started this blog, the intent was for me to put up some of the fruits of my writing labors (for your dismay or enjoyment). So far, I really haven't done that. The time, however, is now. In the words of Loren Eiseley (have you noticed how much I like to quote him?), "the nothing looked out upon the nothing and was not pleased." So let there be poetry!
The poem below is a semi-revised version of one that I've been working on over the past two weeks. Originally, it was a very serious piece. My tutor, however, thought it was quite funny (he has a lovely British sense of humor...) and recommended that I make some pointed revisions. At first, I was a bit dismayed that my tutor was compelling me to rip up a beautiful descriptive poem that meant quite a lot to me, but the revision turned out to be, in his words, "quite droll." The gangly teenager of a poem that you see before you portrays an interaction between a man and a woman (or a boy and a girl, however you want to look at it) and reveals some of the potential dangers of asking vague questions to the average male. Ladies...take notes.
A Portrait
Eric Kozlik
I. “What do I look like?” she asked,
So in his mind, he created a picture of lines,
modest boxes, and gentle planes—
nothing extravagant, you see, just a feathering…
He leaned back, deep in thought, to color it
with the pale whip-dart of gold, hair splayed acutely
on a neck that burned with the slightest pinkening of blood,
And it became a soft and half-refracted image, flowing,
and bending the future into close-fitting lines on her palms,
and they were very simple lines until they tripped out of his mouth.
II. “This is what you look like,” he replied,
And she smiled, sweetly, as the first word got lodged
somewhere between the conscience and the uvula
and came rattling like a tin can across his tongue…
He scribbled, and erased, and left a bluish smudge
right down the middle of her lopsided face, and a gap
between her two slightly crooked front teeth.
So just as he opened his mouth, raising his fell pencil
for another go at her, she stayed his hand and his lips—
“you really do have such a way with words,” she said.
**************************************************************
And so The Wandering Wordsmith has finally smithed some words. "Congratulations," you think, "would he like a cookie? Perhaps a nice pat on the back?" (I've decided to unmute you because I enjoy this hypothetical and hyperbolically antagonistic inner dialogue).
My response: "Although he does enjoy cookies and will accept the odd pat on the back from time to time, the Wandering Wordsmith has made it his policy to accept congratulations (even hypothetical and sarcastic ones) solely in the form of pounds sterling."
"Why do I even bother with people like this?" you think.
The Wandering Wordsmith cannot answer this question.
On a more serious note, I just booked a flight to France for spring break. I'll be flying, along with one of my housemates, Dan, from London to Lourdes at the end of March. We'll be spending a week hiking in the Pyrenees and visiting Bordeaux and Paris via the TGV, France's high speed train. There will CERTAINLY be more to come concerning this trip as the time draws nearer.
However, I have some writing to do today and a Bath Rugby match to attend tomorrow afternoon, so I shall hang up my blogging pen for the moment and very likely get back to you all by the end of this coming week.
No hard feelings about that hypothetical conversation, right?
-The Wandering Wordsmith
"Wow, this kid must be so incredibly bored over there in England if all he does is sit around and write these ridiculous blog posts. I'm sick of reading them, I'm sick of his lame humor, and I'm sick of all these emails clogging up my inbox..."
"Well," I say to those of you who might feel this way, "hold on just a moment."
(I'm going to discontinue the use of quotation marks from this point forward because I will be the only one speaking. I've hypothetically muted you all.)
When I originally started this blog, the intent was for me to put up some of the fruits of my writing labors (for your dismay or enjoyment). So far, I really haven't done that. The time, however, is now. In the words of Loren Eiseley (have you noticed how much I like to quote him?), "the nothing looked out upon the nothing and was not pleased." So let there be poetry!
The poem below is a semi-revised version of one that I've been working on over the past two weeks. Originally, it was a very serious piece. My tutor, however, thought it was quite funny (he has a lovely British sense of humor...) and recommended that I make some pointed revisions. At first, I was a bit dismayed that my tutor was compelling me to rip up a beautiful descriptive poem that meant quite a lot to me, but the revision turned out to be, in his words, "quite droll." The gangly teenager of a poem that you see before you portrays an interaction between a man and a woman (or a boy and a girl, however you want to look at it) and reveals some of the potential dangers of asking vague questions to the average male. Ladies...take notes.
A Portrait
Eric Kozlik
I. “What do I look like?” she asked,
So in his mind, he created a picture of lines,
modest boxes, and gentle planes—
nothing extravagant, you see, just a feathering…
He leaned back, deep in thought, to color it
with the pale whip-dart of gold, hair splayed acutely
on a neck that burned with the slightest pinkening of blood,
And it became a soft and half-refracted image, flowing,
and bending the future into close-fitting lines on her palms,
and they were very simple lines until they tripped out of his mouth.
II. “This is what you look like,” he replied,
And she smiled, sweetly, as the first word got lodged
somewhere between the conscience and the uvula
and came rattling like a tin can across his tongue…
He scribbled, and erased, and left a bluish smudge
right down the middle of her lopsided face, and a gap
between her two slightly crooked front teeth.
So just as he opened his mouth, raising his fell pencil
for another go at her, she stayed his hand and his lips—
“you really do have such a way with words,” she said.
**************************************************************
And so The Wandering Wordsmith has finally smithed some words. "Congratulations," you think, "would he like a cookie? Perhaps a nice pat on the back?" (I've decided to unmute you because I enjoy this hypothetical and hyperbolically antagonistic inner dialogue).
My response: "Although he does enjoy cookies and will accept the odd pat on the back from time to time, the Wandering Wordsmith has made it his policy to accept congratulations (even hypothetical and sarcastic ones) solely in the form of pounds sterling."
"Why do I even bother with people like this?" you think.
The Wandering Wordsmith cannot answer this question.
On a more serious note, I just booked a flight to France for spring break. I'll be flying, along with one of my housemates, Dan, from London to Lourdes at the end of March. We'll be spending a week hiking in the Pyrenees and visiting Bordeaux and Paris via the TGV, France's high speed train. There will CERTAINLY be more to come concerning this trip as the time draws nearer.
However, I have some writing to do today and a Bath Rugby match to attend tomorrow afternoon, so I shall hang up my blogging pen for the moment and very likely get back to you all by the end of this coming week.
No hard feelings about that hypothetical conversation, right?
-The Wandering Wordsmith
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Oxford Men and Mangledwurzels
Greetings Blog Followers,
Since last we spoke, I've been a very busy little boy. I want to apologize for the inconsistency of my posting habits.
Last Thursday was the day of my first poetry tutorial in Oxford. As you can imagine, there are some serious stigmas and stereotypes that accompany such an undertaking. When one thinks of Oxford, Cambridge, and the rest of the stuffy, hallowed institutions that sort of epitomize the American view of British academia, it's hard to see past the curtains of tweed and corduroy or past the monocles and pipe smoke. Honestly, I can't tell you whether any of those stereotypes are true at the moment because my tutorial takes place in the seclusion of my tutor's residential apartment rather than at one of Oxford's various bustling colleges. My tutor is a rather quirky sort of fellow, which I began to pick up on when he turned me away from his door for showing up ten minutes early. This notion was only further confirmed during a brief explanation of what the city has to offer me, as a student and a human being, when he pointed out the best part of Oxford in which purchase a gun. Another fact that he took the time to make me aware of is that Irish girls have good posture because of all the step dancing they do. Oh...and we talked about writing poetry a good deal as well, but I don't want to bore anyone with that. If I write anything particularly interesting, I'll be sure to post it somewhere down the line.
The REAL highlight of this past week, I feel, was my experience at the Bath Cider Festival. It was an event completely dedicated to the tasting of locally-brewed cider and perry. There were close to 100 different varieties to choose from, ranging from the sweet and admittedly delicious fruity varieties (usually middling somewhere around 9-12 proof)to the formidable "question marks" that had no listed content and tasted more like the barrel they were brewed in than the fruit they were made of. It was more of a tasting event than a consumption contest, so everyone was given small glasses at the door and was required to purchase tokens with which to place their sample orders. Some of the more entertaining cider names include (but are not limited to): "Pheasant Plucker," "Sheep Dip," "Pig Swill," "The Devil's Device," and "Old Rat's Tail." If those names don't get you thirsty, I don't know what will.
The most entertaining aspect of the night by far was the live entertainment. A trio called the Mangledwurzels provided the soundtrack for this particular evening of drinking, belching, and flannel-clad tomfoolery. They (and many of the good folks in attendance) are what I might go so far to define as the "hillbillies" of England. Having grown up in a log cabin with my fair share of flannel, I do not use this term lightly. And they were terrific...if you're into British bluegrass music, which became easier and easier to put up with as the night went on. They belted out such classic tunes as "I am a Cider Drinker," "I've got a Brand New Combine 'Arvester," and "Ey, You, Get Orf of My Land!" (No, there are no typos in the listing of those song titles...) I was lucky enough to have my photo taken with the lads, and I've posted that picture and some links to the original Wurzels songs on Youtube below:
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5SX3A-ifME (Cider Drinker)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=btEpF334Rtc (Combine 'Arvester)
My last noteworthy exploit of the past week is my new volunteer job as a Tower Tour Guide at Bath Abbey. I spoke with the director of tours during my programme's introduction to the Abbey during the first week, and she set me up with a free tower tour, a script, and a uniform shirt. The tower has 212 steps and I will be climbing them twice every Monday that I am in Bath for the rest of the semester. By the end of my stay here, I will hopefully be somewhat versed in the history of the Abbey and the city of Bath. I'll be sure to list any really interesting facts that I come across in the weeks to come.
Alas, my homework beckons, so I must leave this post as it stands. Stay tuned for more in the very near future.
-The Cider-Drinking, Tour-Guiding, Wandering Wordsmith (The artist formerly known as Eric Kozlik)
Since last we spoke, I've been a very busy little boy. I want to apologize for the inconsistency of my posting habits.
Last Thursday was the day of my first poetry tutorial in Oxford. As you can imagine, there are some serious stigmas and stereotypes that accompany such an undertaking. When one thinks of Oxford, Cambridge, and the rest of the stuffy, hallowed institutions that sort of epitomize the American view of British academia, it's hard to see past the curtains of tweed and corduroy or past the monocles and pipe smoke. Honestly, I can't tell you whether any of those stereotypes are true at the moment because my tutorial takes place in the seclusion of my tutor's residential apartment rather than at one of Oxford's various bustling colleges. My tutor is a rather quirky sort of fellow, which I began to pick up on when he turned me away from his door for showing up ten minutes early. This notion was only further confirmed during a brief explanation of what the city has to offer me, as a student and a human being, when he pointed out the best part of Oxford in which purchase a gun. Another fact that he took the time to make me aware of is that Irish girls have good posture because of all the step dancing they do. Oh...and we talked about writing poetry a good deal as well, but I don't want to bore anyone with that. If I write anything particularly interesting, I'll be sure to post it somewhere down the line.
The REAL highlight of this past week, I feel, was my experience at the Bath Cider Festival. It was an event completely dedicated to the tasting of locally-brewed cider and perry. There were close to 100 different varieties to choose from, ranging from the sweet and admittedly delicious fruity varieties (usually middling somewhere around 9-12 proof)to the formidable "question marks" that had no listed content and tasted more like the barrel they were brewed in than the fruit they were made of. It was more of a tasting event than a consumption contest, so everyone was given small glasses at the door and was required to purchase tokens with which to place their sample orders. Some of the more entertaining cider names include (but are not limited to): "Pheasant Plucker," "Sheep Dip," "Pig Swill," "The Devil's Device," and "Old Rat's Tail." If those names don't get you thirsty, I don't know what will.
The most entertaining aspect of the night by far was the live entertainment. A trio called the Mangledwurzels provided the soundtrack for this particular evening of drinking, belching, and flannel-clad tomfoolery. They (and many of the good folks in attendance) are what I might go so far to define as the "hillbillies" of England. Having grown up in a log cabin with my fair share of flannel, I do not use this term lightly. And they were terrific...if you're into British bluegrass music, which became easier and easier to put up with as the night went on. They belted out such classic tunes as "I am a Cider Drinker," "I've got a Brand New Combine 'Arvester," and "Ey, You, Get Orf of My Land!" (No, there are no typos in the listing of those song titles...) I was lucky enough to have my photo taken with the lads, and I've posted that picture and some links to the original Wurzels songs on Youtube below:
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5SX3A-ifME (Cider Drinker)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=btEpF334Rtc (Combine 'Arvester)
My last noteworthy exploit of the past week is my new volunteer job as a Tower Tour Guide at Bath Abbey. I spoke with the director of tours during my programme's introduction to the Abbey during the first week, and she set me up with a free tower tour, a script, and a uniform shirt. The tower has 212 steps and I will be climbing them twice every Monday that I am in Bath for the rest of the semester. By the end of my stay here, I will hopefully be somewhat versed in the history of the Abbey and the city of Bath. I'll be sure to list any really interesting facts that I come across in the weeks to come.
Alas, my homework beckons, so I must leave this post as it stands. Stay tuned for more in the very near future.
-The Cider-Drinking, Tour-Guiding, Wandering Wordsmith (The artist formerly known as Eric Kozlik)
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Toad in the Hole!
Hello All,
This blog post is just a quick note on food and drink in the U.K. I am trying to vary the content and method of delivery of my blog so that nobody gets bored. Prepare to be educated (in list format).
-Fish and Chips:
Before I came to the U.K. I was informed that fish and chips would be more heavily-battered than in the U.S. This, I found to be true. I also found that a dash of vinegar makes such a dish completely scrumptious.
Eric's Rating: 7/10
-Bangers and Mash:
"Bangers" are what we Brits call little sausages. They are quite satisfying when served with a steaming heap of mashed taters, swimming in gravy, and accompanied by some sort of cabbage side. Or peas. We eat peas with everything. This dish may vary slightly in its composition and presentation depending on where you go, but it's usually a safe bet (if you like sausage, that is).
Eric's Rating: 6/10 (on account of cabbage)
- Toad in the Hole:
This culinary masterpiece is the pinnacle of British soul-food, which, as you may notice, includes anything involving bread, gravy, potatoes, and/or sausage. Basically, the toad in the hole is a sausage sandwich (two sausage links and two slices of cheese in between two slices of bread) baked in a sort of puff pastry and poured over with gravy. I call this heaven on earth. When cooked properly, it simply melts in your mouth. It is salty, savoury, and altogether heart-warming. I have no idea why it was given such wretched name.
Eric's Rating: 9.5/10
-The Cornish Pasty (Pronounced "Past-ee," not "Pay-stee")
Consider, if you will, a chicken pot pie. Now take that chicken pot pie and scrape out the insides and fill it with whatever delightful combination of meat, veggies, cheese, and/or gravy that you wish (some may simply choose to leave the chicken pot pie alone...which is completely fine). Now, take that pie crust and fold it up into something that resembles a cross between a taco and an apple turnover, and you have a Cornish Pasty. Invented so that Cornish miners would be able to pack a nutritious (and dee-lishious) lunch in their coat pockets, the pasty serves as one of Britain's most wonderful grab-and-go foods. As Bath is strewn with pasty shops, I am a lucky man, indeed. My favourite flavour thus far is Chicken and Leek.
Eric's Rating: 8/10
Onto the beer...(Nattie Light is outlawed in Britain)
-Kronenbourg
A light-colored beer, I found it tame. It goes very well with food and can be found at most pubs in town. It's not the cheapest thing around, but you can do a lot worse.
Eric's Rating: 6.5/10
-Fosters with Lime
You've all heard of Fosters (Australian for Beeah), but I'm willing to bet that you may not have had Fosters with lime. It's probably better that way. I tried a sip and found that it was more like soda than beer after the syrup (maybe it's palatable with a real lime?). Avoid this little creation like the plague.
Eric's Rating: 2/10
-John Smith's Smooth
A very dark beer, and as smooth as its name implies. This is the local alternative to Guinness. It comes with a very generous head out of the tap and has a strong caramel after-taste. Sitting down for a friendly chat at your favourite pub, you can't really do much better than John Smith's.
Eric's Rating: 9/10
Also, fun pub anecdote:
The men in Bath are apparently a little bit...friendlier...than American blokes. They are more touchy-feely with other men (even if they're reported to be straight) and they can be rather forward. However, what most surprised me was when I looked over at the chap next to me (who was hitting on one of the girls in my programme) and noticed that he was sporting "man glitter." You heard me. Man. Glitter. His face was positively radiant, and he seemed to be under the impression that he was quite sexy. I'm thinking about picking some man glitter up for myself, so if anybody wants me to ship some to the states, just let me know.
Stay tuned for details on my first trip to Oxford!
-Eric "Blinded by the Man-Glitter" Kozlik
This blog post is just a quick note on food and drink in the U.K. I am trying to vary the content and method of delivery of my blog so that nobody gets bored. Prepare to be educated (in list format).
-Fish and Chips:
Before I came to the U.K. I was informed that fish and chips would be more heavily-battered than in the U.S. This, I found to be true. I also found that a dash of vinegar makes such a dish completely scrumptious.
Eric's Rating: 7/10
-Bangers and Mash:
"Bangers" are what we Brits call little sausages. They are quite satisfying when served with a steaming heap of mashed taters, swimming in gravy, and accompanied by some sort of cabbage side. Or peas. We eat peas with everything. This dish may vary slightly in its composition and presentation depending on where you go, but it's usually a safe bet (if you like sausage, that is).
Eric's Rating: 6/10 (on account of cabbage)
- Toad in the Hole:
This culinary masterpiece is the pinnacle of British soul-food, which, as you may notice, includes anything involving bread, gravy, potatoes, and/or sausage. Basically, the toad in the hole is a sausage sandwich (two sausage links and two slices of cheese in between two slices of bread) baked in a sort of puff pastry and poured over with gravy. I call this heaven on earth. When cooked properly, it simply melts in your mouth. It is salty, savoury, and altogether heart-warming. I have no idea why it was given such wretched name.
Eric's Rating: 9.5/10
-The Cornish Pasty (Pronounced "Past-ee," not "Pay-stee")
Consider, if you will, a chicken pot pie. Now take that chicken pot pie and scrape out the insides and fill it with whatever delightful combination of meat, veggies, cheese, and/or gravy that you wish (some may simply choose to leave the chicken pot pie alone...which is completely fine). Now, take that pie crust and fold it up into something that resembles a cross between a taco and an apple turnover, and you have a Cornish Pasty. Invented so that Cornish miners would be able to pack a nutritious (and dee-lishious) lunch in their coat pockets, the pasty serves as one of Britain's most wonderful grab-and-go foods. As Bath is strewn with pasty shops, I am a lucky man, indeed. My favourite flavour thus far is Chicken and Leek.
Eric's Rating: 8/10
Onto the beer...(Nattie Light is outlawed in Britain)
-Kronenbourg
A light-colored beer, I found it tame. It goes very well with food and can be found at most pubs in town. It's not the cheapest thing around, but you can do a lot worse.
Eric's Rating: 6.5/10
-Fosters with Lime
You've all heard of Fosters (Australian for Beeah), but I'm willing to bet that you may not have had Fosters with lime. It's probably better that way. I tried a sip and found that it was more like soda than beer after the syrup (maybe it's palatable with a real lime?). Avoid this little creation like the plague.
Eric's Rating: 2/10
-John Smith's Smooth
A very dark beer, and as smooth as its name implies. This is the local alternative to Guinness. It comes with a very generous head out of the tap and has a strong caramel after-taste. Sitting down for a friendly chat at your favourite pub, you can't really do much better than John Smith's.
Eric's Rating: 9/10
Also, fun pub anecdote:
The men in Bath are apparently a little bit...friendlier...than American blokes. They are more touchy-feely with other men (even if they're reported to be straight) and they can be rather forward. However, what most surprised me was when I looked over at the chap next to me (who was hitting on one of the girls in my programme) and noticed that he was sporting "man glitter." You heard me. Man. Glitter. His face was positively radiant, and he seemed to be under the impression that he was quite sexy. I'm thinking about picking some man glitter up for myself, so if anybody wants me to ship some to the states, just let me know.
Stay tuned for details on my first trip to Oxford!
-Eric "Blinded by the Man-Glitter" Kozlik
Monday, February 8, 2010
Sleepers Awakened
As the gigantic bus full of drowsy college students rolled quietly through the hills and dales of the British countryside on the morning of February 7th, 2010, I opened my copy of The Unexpected Universe by Loren Eiseley to a chapter that spoke of the rise of man, from his prehistoric origins to his earliest civilizations. It detailed his descent from the trees to the plains, his taming of fire, his mastery of language, and his increasing distance from the natural forces that formed him. The fields that we drove past, pale green despite the frigid weather, and their accompanying farmhouses illustrated man's motivation to domesticate plants, and later, animals. I imagined that the people waking up inside of them led pleasant and simple lives, eating hearty food, and living in one place without the worry of having to uproot or face great change. I looked around and saw fatigue in the faces of my peers, and I knew that if a mirror appeared in front of me that same tired look would shadow my own expression. We had just crossed an ocean, entered into strange culture, and scurried around a strange city for a week. We were tired. We were being shuttled to the middle of nowhere to look at a neolithic pile of stones. The prospect wasn't as exciting as it might be under different circumstances.
The bus passed silently into a bank of fog as I read:
As man entered upon a wild new corridor of existence, some part of himself passed into a hypnotic slumber, but, in the diverse rooms of his mind, other sleepers awakened...
Around me, many of my classmates slumbered, not hypnotically, but in that shallow, interrupted manner that characterizes the process of sleep in a moving vehicle. We were in our own sort of foggy corridor- one that stretched out indeterminately from Bath to Salisbury, England to America, February to May. All of these things are alternately starting points and destinations in relation to the "alternate existence" of our time in England. They linger somewhere ahead of and behind us, under us and under the foundations and feet or our original homes and families. I realized this as we passed, wraith-like, through the mist.
Stonehenge itself is only impressive considering its origins and the lengths that people 5,000 years ago went to in order to construct and place its enormous stanchions. The various rings of stones were quarried dozens of miles away (some even in neighboring Wales), and it took the effort to 200 men almost two weeks to convey the giant rocks to their present location. It was a project that showed advanced planning and social skills. It meant that people were working together for a common purpose, worshiping the same gods, and all of this in the year 3,000 B.C. I don't know where human civilization stood at that particular point in time, what the historians and archaeologists considered ground-breaking, but these facts were impressive to me.
We got off the bus, listened to a brief explanation of the history of the religious site, and were set loose to take pictures and admire the ring of standing stones for a bit. My friends and I took one loop around the place, taking pictures from various sides, but not really gleaning anything magical from them. It is a novelty, I suppose, to have a picture of oneself in front of someone else's accomplishment, like standing next to the World Series Trophy when it comes to the local mall. After a few minutes, most of the students in the program (myself not included on account of being a country boy) were taking pictures of the sheep in the field next door.
When we returned to the bus and headed off to visit one of the many Cathedrals that we Americans flock to Europe to see (and not without reason, for they are impressive), I wondered about Eiseley's "other sleepers." What had awakened when man fell into the sleep of collective thought, the written word, and complex tools? What was it that slumbered peacefully through all those thousands of years of evolution, only to wake up and see a ring of colossal stones? And as I remembered the words of our tour guide, Andrew Butterworth, I began to understand. Amid the mechanical hum of highway travel, the other sleepers began to stir in my memory.
Recent archaeological discoveries, Andrew had said, his voice dampened by the gray and the fog, indicated that Stonehenge was a burial site. It was a place to celebrate the winter solstice, the darkest time of year, when shadows leaped and men shivered, and to inter the remains of the dead. The remains that were analyzed were not bones, but ashes, implying that the ritual may have involved burning- a release of the souls into the frigid and shelterless skies of the plain. Perhaps, I began to think, these men had awoken other sleepers within themselves. Perhaps the distance from the sheltered wood of their simian beginnings and their sudden recognition of a certain hugeness of the universe had roused those parts of our minds that tell us how homeless we are, how far we've yet to travel.
And yet, all of this occurred to me because the early folk of Salisbury burned their dead. It might have been an attempt to prevent animals from desecrating primitive grave sites, or a method of appeasing some vague, early goddess, but I preferred to look at the cremation as a form of supplication, a human yell in the desert places of Britain. These simple people, despite their lack of technology or culture, came with the remains of people they had known and released their spirits into the blackness at the annual height of its power. They saw the brown dampness of the earth and the slate walls of cloud that blocked the sun and released the life forces of their most loved and honored kin to infuse life back into a desolate landscape. These people knew somehow that there were magic things at work beyond their control, indeed, the positioning of the stones implies that they could calculate them, even anticipate their movement. And yet they sought to touch these powers, if only briefly, through the souls of the dead. Perhaps they merely wanted to ask for warmth, a turn of season, or a blessing on the land. Perhaps they thought that their past comrades would join the universal forces and look down favorably upon them. In either circumstance, the days gradually grew longer and warmer following the ceremony on the solstice, and the memories of the dead faded gently into the pale green fabric of the Salisbury Plains.
I closed my book. The people around me were less drowsy, reinvigorated by sleep or coffee, and we all watched the countryside unfold on either side of us, rolling toward Cathedrals, and warm pubs with good food. The day was a good one. We had awoken, as from a sleep.
Monday, February 1, 2010
City of Angles
Hello folks!
As most of you know, I'm safely in Bath and have been for a few days now. The most difficult part of getting here was going through security at Logan International Airport in Boston...apparently I just look like the kind of guy who would have explosives residue on his hands (which they "randomly selected" to test me for) and razor blades in his carry-on. I promise, I am not. The 6'6" NSA man with the gun needed some convincing, however. After that, I sailed through my flights, meeting at least half of the programme on the plane from Newark to Bristol, and then had a lovely taxi ride through the British countryside from Bristol to Bath. If any of you think that driving in The States is precarious, you have obviously not traversed the narrow cow paths of the British countryside with a burly English bloke. He was having a jolly good time watching the American boys hyperventilate as he weaved through the streets and went through roundabouts on the left.
Representatives from the programme met us at the train station and bussed us to our lovely homes. (I shall take this opportunity to state that I live at 29 Northampton Street, Bath BA1 2SW, England. Please send any paper mail to this address. If by chance anyone feels motivated to send any (non-ticking) packages, they may be addressed to me and sent to: Nelson House, 2 Pierrepont Street, Bath, BA1 1LB, England.) My house is a beautiful 18th century Georgian structure on a hill above the city. I am right up the road from a portion of Bath called "The Royal Crescent," which currently contains a residence of one Nicholas Cage (I say the Brits can keep him). My house has 4 floors, the second of which contains my bedroom, and houses 8 students. We even have our own little garden in the back! I will post some pictures when I get the chance.
For the past few days, I have basically been put through the paces by ASE Bath (my academic institution) with a rigorous orientation schedule. My fellow students and I have been orientated on everything from culture, to academics, to travel, to community involvement. On top of all this, we have to write 4 "diagnostic papers" (one for each class) that are basically just long essays on a general topic to give the professors (or "tutors" as we call them) an idea of where we all stand academically. At first, I was mildly annoyed by the inconvenience...but then I realized that I am taking 4 classes I am genuinely interested in: One on Shakespeare, one on writing short fiction, one on science and religion, and one poetry writing tutorial. As I was completing my diagnostic paper on Shakespeare today I realized how happy I will be here. .
Bath is a very fascinating and complex city. Lots of winding, cobblestone streets and pubs, and posh shopping destinations, and such. I will be filling you in with many of the details throughout the course of this blog, but I have learned so much in the past few days that I don't want to b(l)og [<--notice the pun] you down with too much all at once. Here is one of the most interesting facts, however: every building in Bath (with a slender few exceptions) is constructed from what we call "Bath Stone," and following the stylistic parameters of 18th century Georgian Architecture. Bath stone is a pale whitish-beige color and comes from a nearby mine. If you don't build your house out of Bath Stone, you don't get to build a house in Bath. Period.
After a few awkward moments asking for directions, I have managed to get a pretty good handle of the city. I walked across it almost in its entirety this evening on the way to and from a meeting, and I must say that it felt glorious to let my legs stretch out and tackle the hills and cobblestone alleys. It was very quiet and the wet pavers glistened in the dim light of the street lamps. As for myself, I am quite excited, un-jet-lagged, and ready for whatever this semester has to throw at me. You can expect many more interesting blogs than this one when I get the chance to fully form my thoughts. Until then, keep on keepin on, and know that I'm doing my thing here in the City of Angles.
Things to look out for:
1.) My professional description/rating of some of Britain's finest cuisine.
2.) Pictures from out and about Bath
3.) And somewhat later...an update on the trip to Stonehenge I will be taking on Sunday! Go Druids!
I can't call myself a "Wandering Wordsmith" in this post because I didn't smith you any good words, so I'll just bid you good night.
Your Friend,
Eric Kozlik
As most of you know, I'm safely in Bath and have been for a few days now. The most difficult part of getting here was going through security at Logan International Airport in Boston...apparently I just look like the kind of guy who would have explosives residue on his hands (which they "randomly selected" to test me for) and razor blades in his carry-on. I promise, I am not. The 6'6" NSA man with the gun needed some convincing, however. After that, I sailed through my flights, meeting at least half of the programme on the plane from Newark to Bristol, and then had a lovely taxi ride through the British countryside from Bristol to Bath. If any of you think that driving in The States is precarious, you have obviously not traversed the narrow cow paths of the British countryside with a burly English bloke. He was having a jolly good time watching the American boys hyperventilate as he weaved through the streets and went through roundabouts on the left.
Representatives from the programme met us at the train station and bussed us to our lovely homes. (I shall take this opportunity to state that I live at 29 Northampton Street, Bath BA1 2SW, England. Please send any paper mail to this address. If by chance anyone feels motivated to send any (non-ticking) packages, they may be addressed to me and sent to: Nelson House, 2 Pierrepont Street, Bath, BA1 1LB, England.) My house is a beautiful 18th century Georgian structure on a hill above the city. I am right up the road from a portion of Bath called "The Royal Crescent," which currently contains a residence of one Nicholas Cage (I say the Brits can keep him). My house has 4 floors, the second of which contains my bedroom, and houses 8 students. We even have our own little garden in the back! I will post some pictures when I get the chance.
For the past few days, I have basically been put through the paces by ASE Bath (my academic institution) with a rigorous orientation schedule. My fellow students and I have been orientated on everything from culture, to academics, to travel, to community involvement. On top of all this, we have to write 4 "diagnostic papers" (one for each class) that are basically just long essays on a general topic to give the professors (or "tutors" as we call them) an idea of where we all stand academically. At first, I was mildly annoyed by the inconvenience...but then I realized that I am taking 4 classes I am genuinely interested in: One on Shakespeare, one on writing short fiction, one on science and religion, and one poetry writing tutorial. As I was completing my diagnostic paper on Shakespeare today I realized how happy I will be here. .
Bath is a very fascinating and complex city. Lots of winding, cobblestone streets and pubs, and posh shopping destinations, and such. I will be filling you in with many of the details throughout the course of this blog, but I have learned so much in the past few days that I don't want to b(l)og [<--notice the pun] you down with too much all at once. Here is one of the most interesting facts, however: every building in Bath (with a slender few exceptions) is constructed from what we call "Bath Stone," and following the stylistic parameters of 18th century Georgian Architecture. Bath stone is a pale whitish-beige color and comes from a nearby mine. If you don't build your house out of Bath Stone, you don't get to build a house in Bath. Period.
After a few awkward moments asking for directions, I have managed to get a pretty good handle of the city. I walked across it almost in its entirety this evening on the way to and from a meeting, and I must say that it felt glorious to let my legs stretch out and tackle the hills and cobblestone alleys. It was very quiet and the wet pavers glistened in the dim light of the street lamps. As for myself, I am quite excited, un-jet-lagged, and ready for whatever this semester has to throw at me. You can expect many more interesting blogs than this one when I get the chance to fully form my thoughts. Until then, keep on keepin on, and know that I'm doing my thing here in the City of Angles.
Things to look out for:
1.) My professional description/rating of some of Britain's finest cuisine.
2.) Pictures from out and about Bath
3.) And somewhat later...an update on the trip to Stonehenge I will be taking on Sunday! Go Druids!
I can't call myself a "Wandering Wordsmith" in this post because I didn't smith you any good words, so I'll just bid you good night.
Your Friend,
Eric Kozlik
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Goodbye...
Well, this is it- the final blog post to be written in North America until I return from my travels. As you can imagine, there are a lot of things to think about: packing lists, travel documents, conversion rates, airport security strip searches...but that's all going to dissipate when I get on that plane in a matter of hours. Pardon me, I'll be getting in the plane. According to the late George Carlin, it's less windy in there. Anywho, what kind of Wandering Wordsmith would I be if I didn't provide you all with some sort of fascinating prose or poetry to browse on the eve of my departure?
I have chosen to highlight one of my soon-to-be-fellow Brits, J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm sure that you are familiar with him from his fantasy tales, The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. However, in light of the success of those stories, it is very easy to overlook his talent as a lyrical poet. His poetry usually takes the form of song, issuing from the mouths of the various creatures and magical beings that people his fictitious realms, and the journey motif quite often comes into play in their verses. Any who are particularly familiar with The Lord of the Rings will surely recognize these two stanzas:
The road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the road has gone
And I must follow if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
It is simple, to the point, and some might even argue that the literal meaning barely masks the metaphor Tolkien intends to convey. I, however, am of the opinion that there is a mingling of word and purpose. As carefully-chosen words represent a purpose, that purpose is suddenly tied to those words. And so, as I follow my own road down from the door where it begins, I hope to remain in that mingling. I hope that my adventures lead to many a verse and stanza, and that my writing will keep me in touch with the person I want to be and the places I wish to go (even if neither of those are completely clear).
Before I leave, I would like to send out a quick thank you to my friends Pat and Lisa for their fashion advice, and to Miss Fontana for her list of British culinary "must-try" items (Kidney pie, here I come!).
As a parting gift, I will subject you all to one of the lists that I came up with this past semester in my "Writing the Personal Essay" class (so for those few of you who have already suffered through it, I apologize profusely). It sort of sums up my many and varied motivations for traveling:
I travel to have fun, to climb mountains, to write poetry and drink wine in a French café, to sip a pint next to a burly Englishman, to make funny faces at children on planes, to have baguette sword fights, to walk on cobblestone streets, to experience new kinds of wilderness, to gaze up at strange constellations, to acquire goofy accents, to send inappropriate postcards, to get lost, to find incredible secrets, to scoff at boorish tourists (you know, the kind who have baguette sword fights), to develop a reputation, and to become a Renaissance man. I travel because I want to, because idle feet do the devil’s work, because I can always rest when I’m dead, because I’m good with maps, because a fortune cookie once told me to, because it will make me a better citizen of the earth, because riding off into the sunset is sexy, because the smell of ocean appeals to me, and because sitting still for too long makes my butt fall asleep.
Well, I suppose that's all I have for now. I promise to come back with many stories and British things. If you are the religious sort, say a prayer that I reach my destination safely and that (in the words of Matt Milloway) I don't get stuck sitting next to a crying baby on the plane. Good luck, and Godspeed, my friends, and I promise that I'll be back before you know it.
Stay tuned and live vicariously through my exploits!
-Eric
AKA: The Wandering Wordsmith
I have chosen to highlight one of my soon-to-be-fellow Brits, J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm sure that you are familiar with him from his fantasy tales, The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. However, in light of the success of those stories, it is very easy to overlook his talent as a lyrical poet. His poetry usually takes the form of song, issuing from the mouths of the various creatures and magical beings that people his fictitious realms, and the journey motif quite often comes into play in their verses. Any who are particularly familiar with The Lord of the Rings will surely recognize these two stanzas:
The road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the road has gone
And I must follow if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
It is simple, to the point, and some might even argue that the literal meaning barely masks the metaphor Tolkien intends to convey. I, however, am of the opinion that there is a mingling of word and purpose. As carefully-chosen words represent a purpose, that purpose is suddenly tied to those words. And so, as I follow my own road down from the door where it begins, I hope to remain in that mingling. I hope that my adventures lead to many a verse and stanza, and that my writing will keep me in touch with the person I want to be and the places I wish to go (even if neither of those are completely clear).
Before I leave, I would like to send out a quick thank you to my friends Pat and Lisa for their fashion advice, and to Miss Fontana for her list of British culinary "must-try" items (Kidney pie, here I come!).
As a parting gift, I will subject you all to one of the lists that I came up with this past semester in my "Writing the Personal Essay" class (so for those few of you who have already suffered through it, I apologize profusely). It sort of sums up my many and varied motivations for traveling:
I travel to have fun, to climb mountains, to write poetry and drink wine in a French café, to sip a pint next to a burly Englishman, to make funny faces at children on planes, to have baguette sword fights, to walk on cobblestone streets, to experience new kinds of wilderness, to gaze up at strange constellations, to acquire goofy accents, to send inappropriate postcards, to get lost, to find incredible secrets, to scoff at boorish tourists (you know, the kind who have baguette sword fights), to develop a reputation, and to become a Renaissance man. I travel because I want to, because idle feet do the devil’s work, because I can always rest when I’m dead, because I’m good with maps, because a fortune cookie once told me to, because it will make me a better citizen of the earth, because riding off into the sunset is sexy, because the smell of ocean appeals to me, and because sitting still for too long makes my butt fall asleep.
Well, I suppose that's all I have for now. I promise to come back with many stories and British things. If you are the religious sort, say a prayer that I reach my destination safely and that (in the words of Matt Milloway) I don't get stuck sitting next to a crying baby on the plane. Good luck, and Godspeed, my friends, and I promise that I'll be back before you know it.
Stay tuned and live vicariously through my exploits!
-Eric
AKA: The Wandering Wordsmith
Friday, January 22, 2010
Getting Ready to Depart
Hello All,
This is the first installment of "Across the Pond," a travel blog that I will keep throughout my travels to jolly old England and beyond. Presently, I'm about 9 days away from leaving, which is fairly frightening, considering how much work and packing I have to accomplish between now and then. So that you're all familiar with my travel plans, I will be departing from Boston late on Sunday, January 31, doing a brief layover at Newark, and then heading to Bristol where I will land around 8:30 a.m. Prime Meridian time. From there, I will split cab fare with one or two other students who will doubtless be on the same flight as me, and we will head down the road to Bath.
While I'm in England I will be taking four courses (one of which will be at Oxford University), living apartment-style and cooking for myself in the beautiful city of Bath, and taking some exciting side trips on the Island and perhaps even to the mainland. You're in for many more details and specifics in posts to come, but I don't want to clutter up the first one. If anyone has any tips for packing or travel, I would love to hear them (I already have my power converter and plug adapters and my rain coat), so feel free to shoot me an email or a call.
The last thing I want to leave you all with in this post are my intentions for this blog. First of all, I suppose it is important to note that I have never kept a blog before, so this will be a work in progress. That said, I wish this to be an experience, not a hassle, not a bore, and not something that you delete from your inbox. Rather, I would like it to be one of those things that you look forward to reading, so if there's anything you want more or less of, don't hesitate to tell me! If you stay tuned, you'll receive a good dose of British history and culture, a smattering of humor, perhaps a dash of philosophy, and a dram of poetry here and there (because why else would I come all the way to England if not to write a bit of verse?). So settle in, pour yourself a cup of tea, or perhaps a tall tankard of ale, and enjoy the next four months of literary narration as I seek to make my mark on the place where all the history comes from.
Fondest wishes,
Eric Kozlik
(Henceforth to be known as "The Wandering Wordsmith")
(...because it's a cool, alliterative pen name)
This is the first installment of "Across the Pond," a travel blog that I will keep throughout my travels to jolly old England and beyond. Presently, I'm about 9 days away from leaving, which is fairly frightening, considering how much work and packing I have to accomplish between now and then. So that you're all familiar with my travel plans, I will be departing from Boston late on Sunday, January 31, doing a brief layover at Newark, and then heading to Bristol where I will land around 8:30 a.m. Prime Meridian time. From there, I will split cab fare with one or two other students who will doubtless be on the same flight as me, and we will head down the road to Bath.
While I'm in England I will be taking four courses (one of which will be at Oxford University), living apartment-style and cooking for myself in the beautiful city of Bath, and taking some exciting side trips on the Island and perhaps even to the mainland. You're in for many more details and specifics in posts to come, but I don't want to clutter up the first one. If anyone has any tips for packing or travel, I would love to hear them (I already have my power converter and plug adapters and my rain coat), so feel free to shoot me an email or a call.
The last thing I want to leave you all with in this post are my intentions for this blog. First of all, I suppose it is important to note that I have never kept a blog before, so this will be a work in progress. That said, I wish this to be an experience, not a hassle, not a bore, and not something that you delete from your inbox. Rather, I would like it to be one of those things that you look forward to reading, so if there's anything you want more or less of, don't hesitate to tell me! If you stay tuned, you'll receive a good dose of British history and culture, a smattering of humor, perhaps a dash of philosophy, and a dram of poetry here and there (because why else would I come all the way to England if not to write a bit of verse?). So settle in, pour yourself a cup of tea, or perhaps a tall tankard of ale, and enjoy the next four months of literary narration as I seek to make my mark on the place where all the history comes from.
Fondest wishes,
Eric Kozlik
(Henceforth to be known as "The Wandering Wordsmith")
(...because it's a cool, alliterative pen name)
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