So it finally happened-- my Obligatory Misadventure with Public Transport in [this particular] Foreign Country. The weirdest part is, it was identical to another Obligatory Misadventure with Public Transport in a Foreign Country that occurred while I was in the Netherlands in July 2005.
Today again I wandered all over Berlin, feeling just as free as some sort of free thing that feels free feels. I took a lot of subway trips (because you only have to pay for a ticket if they catch you) and I'd managed just fine for a whole week in Berlin--I'm sure you'll not be surprised to hear that Germany is ever so organized and straight-forward. So goes the public transport. It also helps that I can read the language (though I'm afraid my ability to speak it has withered and died, much to my chagrin and that of my various waitresses and waiters).
Late this afternoon I was running to catch a train to see a Frida Kahlo exhibit, and was examining my map intently when the train started rolling through various stations, so that as soon as I got to Potsdamer Platz I could hop off and make a bee-line for the museum. An announcement came over the p.c. at the station one before mine, and everyone exited the train... except me.
You'd think that would have set off a little alarm in my brain or something. At least I was aware enough this time to have several thoughts while the doors started closing and the train pulled away from the station. They went something like this:
"Hmm, everyone got off the train. That's curious."
"Hmm, it's just like that time in the Netherlands when I didn't listen to the announcement saying the train terminated at that station. Interesting, isn't that?"
"Waaait a second...oh crap. Aaaarg! I can't believe I did the SAME THING. AGAIN. This is going to be fascinating."
When this happened to me in the Netherlands-- I didn't exit a train and ended up parked in the middle of a train yard all by my lonesome-- I was able to jimmy open a door and climb down the side of the train, run across several tracks and exit onto a nearby street (but not without getting mocked soundly by a group of engineers having a smoke near the tracks). THIS time I was in a subway. Like, you know, under the ground and stuff. WAY under the ground. Eventually the train stopped, and immediately claustrophobia set in-- the car was surrounded on both sides by dank stone walls and a faint, eerie blue light. Not such an easy escape for me this time.
However, before I could well and truly start to panic, the driver came through my car, and without even a laugh or a smile (but with much understanding and kindness... or perhaps it was pity?) told me (in English. Of course he knew. One look at me standing there motionless with a dumb-struck deer-in-headlights gaping stare on my face in the middle of that car, all by myself, and he knew I was an American). Anyway, he just said "I'll drive it back to the station." And continued walking to the other end of the train.
So he took the entire train back to the station, let me off, smiled at me knowingly, and drove the train back down the tunnel whence it came. Like I said: this is one efficient country. Even a screw-up like me can't get into too much trouble.
After all that I didn't get to see the Frida Kahlo exhibit-- but I think I like better what I happened to do in the end. I walked back to the river and central station, where I'd been just yesterday at sunset. This time, I stopped to have an ice-cold herbal lemonade by the river and watch the sun set with a dozen or so other Berliners. I sat there in the marvelous heat, soaking in the sun and watching baby ducks avoid the tour boats, and listening to Verdi's Requiem on my iPod. It was really lovely. The perfect end to two days rambling in Berlin.
I've added a few more pictures to my Berlin album from today, so go to the link on this morning's post to see them all. I've also created a new album on my facebook page with pictures of motorcycles I have seen here in Berlin. Ciao ciao!
Monday, July 5, 2010
Die Bilder
That means pictures. Virgil (that's my camera) and I took a 4-hour walk yesterday, and here's what we saw. Note the incredible architecture, oftentimes juxtaposed old and new. This is in fact due to the Allies' prodigious bombing of Berlin in WWII.
I'm also compiling an album of just motorcycle pictures from around the city-- so many fantastic machines. Forthcoming...
I will spend one more afternoon out and about in Berlin, and then I come on home! As always, here's a taste from yesterdays' ramblings:
Der Reichstag. It reads "For the German People"
Brandenburg Gate, complete with Red Cross band playing--what else--Beatles songs
In front of the Berlin Konzerthaus (Concert hall)
p.s. Grandpa-- you were in Berlin once upon a time, yes? Just for a visit (you were stationed in Frankfurt, maybe?) I'd be interested to hear what the city was like only a few years after the war, as opposed to almost half a century...
I'm also compiling an album of just motorcycle pictures from around the city-- so many fantastic machines. Forthcoming...
I will spend one more afternoon out and about in Berlin, and then I come on home! As always, here's a taste from yesterdays' ramblings:
Der Reichstag. It reads "For the German People"
Brandenburg Gate, complete with Red Cross band playing--what else--Beatles songs
In front of the Berlin Konzerthaus (Concert hall)
p.s. Grandpa-- you were in Berlin once upon a time, yes? Just for a visit (you were stationed in Frankfurt, maybe?) I'd be interested to hear what the city was like only a few years after the war, as opposed to almost half a century...
Sunday, July 4, 2010
And the Crowd Goes Wild
I must say, after yesterday I am determined to always travel in countries when their team is winning world cup matches. It is madness, in every good sense of the word.
Friday morning I gave my talk, and it was received well, despite my being a pretend historian (what date was that, again? Who was involved? Where am I?). Several historians came up to me afterwards and suggested various ways that this historical project I presented on might be extended to complement their own particular project, to which I said I need to pass the project on to someone else--like, you know, a real historian. Plus, there's that teensy, itsy bitsy issue of finishing my own dissertation first...
After the conference many of us went to a Biergarten (just an outdoor bar, as you might guess from the name) to reflect on the conference and to watch the soccer game, of course. Though I have managed to avoid Obligatory Misadventures with Public Transport in a Foreign Country in Germany (I've used taxi, bus and subway, too!), I did manage to make a great fool of myself in front of the crowd at the biergarten. Here's what happened.
So as you probably don't know (because who cares about soccer now that the USA is out?), the match on Friday was Uruguay v. Ghana, and it got to the point that they ended the match with penalty shots. A rare, exciting moment in fussball. At this point we had all have a goodly amount of beer and were cheering heartily for our respective though arbitrarily chosen team. I chose Uruguay, because Ghana defeated the U.S. in heartbreaking manner and thus deserved to be crushed. Obviously.
Then, for the penultimate penalty kick, Uruguay made a goal to win the game, and I leapt into the air shouting, in full American accent (*retrospective sigh*): "GO PARAGUAY! YAYA!!" and then enthusiastically inquired as to whether or not the large group of young men standing near me were "Also cheering for Paraguay?". They all start laughing at me, and I noticed everyone in the whole place was laughing. My German buddies from the conference came swiftly to my defense, shouting out to the crowd (in German)
"You will have to excuse her, she is just an American. She doesn't understand football. " [More raucous laughter from the crowd]. I try to explain (in Deutsch-glish, which is my own special cocktail of English and German) that both countries are smaller than one U.S. state and both speak Spanish and end in "Guay", but that didn't seem to convince anyone.
The good news is that after this public mockery and shame-making, I slunk away to the bar for a gin and tonic instead of a beer (to make my American point to myself, I suppose). But this request for non-beer so astounded and amused the three bartenders (or perhaps it was that, plus my charming Deutschglish?) that one of them had to leave the biergarten, take me into the restaurant proper and there mix my cocktail. And then he gave it to me on the house. So there. All was right with the world again.
We stayed well on toward 4 am at the biergarten, because of course after the game ended we reverted to a deep and unending discussion of quantum physics and its history. Finally the very same bartenders (they were a generous trio) brought to our table under the stars enough large beers for the remainder of our party, explaning that if we promised to make this our last round, it was on the house. Let none say the Berliners want for hospitality and free drink-giving. In all, a successful day.
My friend Fábio (from Brasil) and I are staying this weekend with Christian, who works at the Max Planck Institute as part of the quantum history project (the organizers of the erstwhile conference). He has a lovely apartment full of cooking books, physics books, and history books in a very hip part of Berlin. Right now I am writing from Mama Cuccuma, a coffee house down the street from Christian's place. He and Fábio are still sleeping from a long adventurous Saturday. I will tell you about it.
It was over 90 degrees in Berlin yesterday. The streets were packed with people garbed in a bewildering variety of imaginative ways with the German flag, eating in the streets, shopping, meeting friends, and all you'd expect in a lively European capital city on a gloriously hot summer morning. Christian, Fábio and I met up with an older couple--Finn and Gru-- for the day. Finn and Gru live in Copenhagen, and Finn presented at the conference. I cannot tell you how much I adore Finn and Gru. They put up with us youngins the whole day, trying the many delectable and strange dishes from various regions of Germany (we ate....so well. Though I ate slightly less well-- the German cuisine is not particularly amenable to a vegetarian diet), and the unusual drinks that accompanied them-- including a special type of lemonade made with herbs from the Alps and a bit of fresh strawberry. I'm going to pause for a moment to think about that lemonade...
Round about 3:00 we found a pub with a large outdoor screen set up to watch the Germans play Argentina. I've gotta say that this particular game...was one of the most exciting soccer games I have ever seen. I can't believe my good fortune--that I happened to be watching the game surrounded by gleeful, tipsy Germans on a fine July day in Berlin. Everything about it was perfect, save for yet another classic Elise moment:
I hadn't gone to bed until 6 am that morning, so I was more than a little sleep-deprived. I guess I must have nodded off for a few moments during half time, because I woke up to Christian and Fábio poking me and laughing heartily. Once again, I played the American fool-- the Germans were so amused that I had fallen asleep DURING this most incredible football match, that they were taking pictures of me sleeping in front of the tv. Once again, meine lieber friends came to my immediate defense, saying "She is American-- forgive her!" To which I responded, with much exasperation, "IT IS HALF TIME! They're not even PLAYING right now!" No one was convinced; I will assume this is due to my charming Deutschglish.
After that I stayed very much awake, without trouble. As you may know, Germany won 4 to 0. It was really incredible. The streets of Berlin filled with cars racing at top speed, people with German flags hanging out of every window and honking, cheering, yelling, and in general being as merry as one could be.
The group I was with decided to head to a particular neighborhood where a big street party was about to happen. It was strange to see every person for blocks around walking and skipping and running toward the same place. We hopped on the next bus, and it was absolute bedlam. The bus was more crowded than buses in Beijing (which is the most powerful superlative I can think to give), with all the seats at least singly occupied, and every standing space as well. Yet at every stop, new people shiny with sweat and beaming with smiles would, contrary to all physical possibility, manage to join our traveling milieu, amidst much cheering and stamping and singing.
We were on the upper deck, where a group of young Turkish men with a bull horn that played fight songs on repeat started stamping and pounding the windows and leading the crowd in chants until the bus swayed side to side. Fábio and I just sat laughing, trying to absorb all the happy madness. At one point the bus driver got on the P.C. and gave a little speech. Fábio and I of course assumed he was admonishing the reckless crowd on the upper deck, but Christian translated for us and said that he had in fact said he was bringing us straight to the party instead of the route he was supposed to take, much to the wild approval of the entire bus. So we all streamed off the bus, cheering shouting and dancing down the street toward the party.
For some reason, we did not in the end join the festivities, but instead wandered into a peaceful residential neighborhood to dine at one of Berlin's best specialty restaurants-- it was food from the Stuttgart region (I can't remember the proper name of it), and it was savory and filling. We enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. But not for long-- there was another football match to be seen. At this point I was no longer coherent and needed sleep, so I headed back to the apartment for a quick nap before joining Christian and Fábio for a party later that evening ("Parties in Berlin do not start until before midnight" said Christian,"and the dancing, not until 2 at earliest. It will end at 7 am." I whistled and said that the Berliners really did outdo even the rowdiest of Americans, bid a fond farewell to Finn and Gru, and departed the company. "Come and visit our Sommerhaus in Norway!" Finn yelled after me as I went down into the subway. "Or see us in Copenhagen! You must!"
So it came to pass that after a shower and repacking all my luggage (oh yes-- I forgot to mention this other Elise moment: the morning of my talk--Friday--was also the day I had to check out of my hotel room. But of course I didn't remember this key fact until I was well into a leisurely breakfast with the other conference participants. It was about 9:20 then, and my talk was at 9:45. Needless to say I left my croissant unfinished, race back to my room and packed with unparalleled speed and fury, and without any method. I made it to the conference on time, but my luggage was in complete disarray.)
Back to Saturday night: I had repacked, showered, and settled down on the sofa with the fan pointed at me full blast. It was about 10 pm, and I was happy and exhausted.
The next thing I was aware of was the sound of happy voices and brilliant sunlight: it was 5 am, and Christian and Fábio were just returning from (so I gather) a most successful Berlin party. I had slept through the whole thing. "How can you be so American?" Christian said, throwing a pillow at my face.
And now it is about noon. I have one and a half more days to explore, though I am on my own at the moment. (I have left the boys to, how shall one say, "recover" back at the apartment). I wanted to post pictures, but in all my re-packing I somehow misplaced the camera-to-computer cord. Soon, my friends.
And now I will go and find some lunch. Perhaps today I will again be accused of being too American, but now I won't mind: for it is the Fourth of July!!! Happy Independence Day, dear country! I come home to you soon!
My country tis of theeee *sniff* sweet land of liberteeeeee *sniff* of Thee I siiiiiiiiing...
Friday morning I gave my talk, and it was received well, despite my being a pretend historian (what date was that, again? Who was involved? Where am I?). Several historians came up to me afterwards and suggested various ways that this historical project I presented on might be extended to complement their own particular project, to which I said I need to pass the project on to someone else--like, you know, a real historian. Plus, there's that teensy, itsy bitsy issue of finishing my own dissertation first...
After the conference many of us went to a Biergarten (just an outdoor bar, as you might guess from the name) to reflect on the conference and to watch the soccer game, of course. Though I have managed to avoid Obligatory Misadventures with Public Transport in a Foreign Country in Germany (I've used taxi, bus and subway, too!), I did manage to make a great fool of myself in front of the crowd at the biergarten. Here's what happened.
So as you probably don't know (because who cares about soccer now that the USA is out?), the match on Friday was Uruguay v. Ghana, and it got to the point that they ended the match with penalty shots. A rare, exciting moment in fussball. At this point we had all have a goodly amount of beer and were cheering heartily for our respective though arbitrarily chosen team. I chose Uruguay, because Ghana defeated the U.S. in heartbreaking manner and thus deserved to be crushed. Obviously.
Then, for the penultimate penalty kick, Uruguay made a goal to win the game, and I leapt into the air shouting, in full American accent (*retrospective sigh*): "GO PARAGUAY! YAYA!!" and then enthusiastically inquired as to whether or not the large group of young men standing near me were "Also cheering for Paraguay?". They all start laughing at me, and I noticed everyone in the whole place was laughing. My German buddies from the conference came swiftly to my defense, shouting out to the crowd (in German)
"You will have to excuse her, she is just an American. She doesn't understand football. " [More raucous laughter from the crowd]. I try to explain (in Deutsch-glish, which is my own special cocktail of English and German) that both countries are smaller than one U.S. state and both speak Spanish and end in "Guay", but that didn't seem to convince anyone.
The good news is that after this public mockery and shame-making, I slunk away to the bar for a gin and tonic instead of a beer (to make my American point to myself, I suppose). But this request for non-beer so astounded and amused the three bartenders (or perhaps it was that, plus my charming Deutschglish?) that one of them had to leave the biergarten, take me into the restaurant proper and there mix my cocktail. And then he gave it to me on the house. So there. All was right with the world again.
We stayed well on toward 4 am at the biergarten, because of course after the game ended we reverted to a deep and unending discussion of quantum physics and its history. Finally the very same bartenders (they were a generous trio) brought to our table under the stars enough large beers for the remainder of our party, explaning that if we promised to make this our last round, it was on the house. Let none say the Berliners want for hospitality and free drink-giving. In all, a successful day.
My friend Fábio (from Brasil) and I are staying this weekend with Christian, who works at the Max Planck Institute as part of the quantum history project (the organizers of the erstwhile conference). He has a lovely apartment full of cooking books, physics books, and history books in a very hip part of Berlin. Right now I am writing from Mama Cuccuma, a coffee house down the street from Christian's place. He and Fábio are still sleeping from a long adventurous Saturday. I will tell you about it.
It was over 90 degrees in Berlin yesterday. The streets were packed with people garbed in a bewildering variety of imaginative ways with the German flag, eating in the streets, shopping, meeting friends, and all you'd expect in a lively European capital city on a gloriously hot summer morning. Christian, Fábio and I met up with an older couple--Finn and Gru-- for the day. Finn and Gru live in Copenhagen, and Finn presented at the conference. I cannot tell you how much I adore Finn and Gru. They put up with us youngins the whole day, trying the many delectable and strange dishes from various regions of Germany (we ate....so well. Though I ate slightly less well-- the German cuisine is not particularly amenable to a vegetarian diet), and the unusual drinks that accompanied them-- including a special type of lemonade made with herbs from the Alps and a bit of fresh strawberry. I'm going to pause for a moment to think about that lemonade...
Round about 3:00 we found a pub with a large outdoor screen set up to watch the Germans play Argentina. I've gotta say that this particular game...was one of the most exciting soccer games I have ever seen. I can't believe my good fortune--that I happened to be watching the game surrounded by gleeful, tipsy Germans on a fine July day in Berlin. Everything about it was perfect, save for yet another classic Elise moment:
I hadn't gone to bed until 6 am that morning, so I was more than a little sleep-deprived. I guess I must have nodded off for a few moments during half time, because I woke up to Christian and Fábio poking me and laughing heartily. Once again, I played the American fool-- the Germans were so amused that I had fallen asleep DURING this most incredible football match, that they were taking pictures of me sleeping in front of the tv. Once again, meine lieber friends came to my immediate defense, saying "She is American-- forgive her!" To which I responded, with much exasperation, "IT IS HALF TIME! They're not even PLAYING right now!" No one was convinced; I will assume this is due to my charming Deutschglish.
After that I stayed very much awake, without trouble. As you may know, Germany won 4 to 0. It was really incredible. The streets of Berlin filled with cars racing at top speed, people with German flags hanging out of every window and honking, cheering, yelling, and in general being as merry as one could be.
The group I was with decided to head to a particular neighborhood where a big street party was about to happen. It was strange to see every person for blocks around walking and skipping and running toward the same place. We hopped on the next bus, and it was absolute bedlam. The bus was more crowded than buses in Beijing (which is the most powerful superlative I can think to give), with all the seats at least singly occupied, and every standing space as well. Yet at every stop, new people shiny with sweat and beaming with smiles would, contrary to all physical possibility, manage to join our traveling milieu, amidst much cheering and stamping and singing.
We were on the upper deck, where a group of young Turkish men with a bull horn that played fight songs on repeat started stamping and pounding the windows and leading the crowd in chants until the bus swayed side to side. Fábio and I just sat laughing, trying to absorb all the happy madness. At one point the bus driver got on the P.C. and gave a little speech. Fábio and I of course assumed he was admonishing the reckless crowd on the upper deck, but Christian translated for us and said that he had in fact said he was bringing us straight to the party instead of the route he was supposed to take, much to the wild approval of the entire bus. So we all streamed off the bus, cheering shouting and dancing down the street toward the party.
For some reason, we did not in the end join the festivities, but instead wandered into a peaceful residential neighborhood to dine at one of Berlin's best specialty restaurants-- it was food from the Stuttgart region (I can't remember the proper name of it), and it was savory and filling. We enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. But not for long-- there was another football match to be seen. At this point I was no longer coherent and needed sleep, so I headed back to the apartment for a quick nap before joining Christian and Fábio for a party later that evening ("Parties in Berlin do not start until before midnight" said Christian,"and the dancing, not until 2 at earliest. It will end at 7 am." I whistled and said that the Berliners really did outdo even the rowdiest of Americans, bid a fond farewell to Finn and Gru, and departed the company. "Come and visit our Sommerhaus in Norway!" Finn yelled after me as I went down into the subway. "Or see us in Copenhagen! You must!"
So it came to pass that after a shower and repacking all my luggage (oh yes-- I forgot to mention this other Elise moment: the morning of my talk--Friday--was also the day I had to check out of my hotel room. But of course I didn't remember this key fact until I was well into a leisurely breakfast with the other conference participants. It was about 9:20 then, and my talk was at 9:45. Needless to say I left my croissant unfinished, race back to my room and packed with unparalleled speed and fury, and without any method. I made it to the conference on time, but my luggage was in complete disarray.)
Back to Saturday night: I had repacked, showered, and settled down on the sofa with the fan pointed at me full blast. It was about 10 pm, and I was happy and exhausted.
The next thing I was aware of was the sound of happy voices and brilliant sunlight: it was 5 am, and Christian and Fábio were just returning from (so I gather) a most successful Berlin party. I had slept through the whole thing. "How can you be so American?" Christian said, throwing a pillow at my face.
And now it is about noon. I have one and a half more days to explore, though I am on my own at the moment. (I have left the boys to, how shall one say, "recover" back at the apartment). I wanted to post pictures, but in all my re-packing I somehow misplaced the camera-to-computer cord. Soon, my friends.
And now I will go and find some lunch. Perhaps today I will again be accused of being too American, but now I won't mind: for it is the Fourth of July!!! Happy Independence Day, dear country! I come home to you soon!
My country tis of theeee *sniff* sweet land of liberteeeeee *sniff* of Thee I siiiiiiiiing...
Monday, June 28, 2010
Turns out, I can speak German!
Who knew?
Tonight, after our first day of lectures ( 9 am to 6:45 pm on quantum history, baby-- and four more days to go!!!), a group of us planned to take the "unterweg" into Berlin for supper and to watch Fussball. But of course I didn't pay attention to what time we were gathering, and by the time I sauntered over to the meeting place, no one was around.
Which, secretly, I was glad for.
Not only because I needed some Introvert Time, but also because if I'd gone with the others, the Germans in the group would doubtless have done all the talking. This way, I was forced to venture out on my own... and to speak for myself. Me likey. I got on the next train without purchasing a ticket (it's one of those honor system things, with no turnstiles to collect your tickets. I decided to walk on the wild side today. Also, I didn't have any euros. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson about having foreign coinage on my person during these little trips) and stopped somewhere between the Max-Planck-Gesellschaft zur Förderung der Wissenschaften (where the conference is) and downtown Berlin.
I walked around the neighborhood of Hohenzollern until I found a pub with the game on, and proceeded to order myself a large wheat beer (eine grössen weizen Bier), Vienna-style Schnitzel (Wiener Schnitzel, oder Schnitzel der Art von Wien) with french fries (Pommes Fritas...I don't think that one is German) I even ordered water without bubbles and asked for my bill, and said "many thanks" a lot, all in German. Wee! The waitress knew English (as most people do here), but I think she was far too amused to tell me as much. But I sensed it-- deep down where the Schnitzel went to (i.e., my soul.).
Now I'm back, and thought I'd post a few pictures from my last night in Budapest while my dinner settles-- it was delicious, but for a quasi-vegetarian like myself, a little heavy. I feel like crawling under a piece of furniture and dying... so much bier. So much fried-ness. So much...meat.
While I digest and listen to the Smiths, have some photos:
Tonight, after our first day of lectures ( 9 am to 6:45 pm on quantum history, baby-- and four more days to go!!!), a group of us planned to take the "unterweg" into Berlin for supper and to watch Fussball. But of course I didn't pay attention to what time we were gathering, and by the time I sauntered over to the meeting place, no one was around.
Which, secretly, I was glad for.
Not only because I needed some Introvert Time, but also because if I'd gone with the others, the Germans in the group would doubtless have done all the talking. This way, I was forced to venture out on my own... and to speak for myself. Me likey. I got on the next train without purchasing a ticket (it's one of those honor system things, with no turnstiles to collect your tickets. I decided to walk on the wild side today. Also, I didn't have any euros. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson about having foreign coinage on my person during these little trips) and stopped somewhere between the Max-Planck-Gesellschaft zur Förderung der Wissenschaften (where the conference is) and downtown Berlin.
I walked around the neighborhood of Hohenzollern until I found a pub with the game on, and proceeded to order myself a large wheat beer (eine grössen weizen Bier), Vienna-style Schnitzel (Wiener Schnitzel, oder Schnitzel der Art von Wien) with french fries (Pommes Fritas...I don't think that one is German) I even ordered water without bubbles and asked for my bill, and said "many thanks" a lot, all in German. Wee! The waitress knew English (as most people do here), but I think she was far too amused to tell me as much. But I sensed it-- deep down where the Schnitzel went to (i.e., my soul.).
Now I'm back, and thought I'd post a few pictures from my last night in Budapest while my dinner settles-- it was delicious, but for a quasi-vegetarian like myself, a little heavy. I feel like crawling under a piece of furniture and dying... so much bier. So much fried-ness. So much...meat.
While I digest and listen to the Smiths, have some photos:
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Ich bin ein Berliner
Well, it was a good time to arrive in Germany: just as they scored their 4th goal against England. I could hear people cheering all over the city and exploding things. Willkommen nach Deutschland!
Budapest was fabulous, but I was so busy that I didn't get to see most of what I'd hoped to see. Shall have to go back.
Now, I am going to have a wee nap so I can enjoy Berlin...if there's any time! Ich habe Hoffnung!
Budapest was fabulous, but I was so busy that I didn't get to see most of what I'd hoped to see. Shall have to go back.
Now, I am going to have a wee nap so I can enjoy Berlin...if there's any time! Ich habe Hoffnung!
Saturday, June 26, 2010
"There Once Was a Girl From the States", or, "Hunger in Hungary"
There once was a girl from the States
Who didn't like foreign coin weights
She wielded a card--
T'wasn't meant to be hard
To get bills at the AMT rates
The girl flew down to Budapest
for a scholarly gig and some rest
she tried to get cash
from the cash machine stash
But dispensing bull suited it best
Alas and forsooth, she did find
herself Forint-less and consigned
to sup under par
in l'hotel lobby bar;
on peanuts and Cointreau she dined.
A miracle then did take place!
Next to her sat an old Irish face
Soon joined by a friend,
the two gents did intend
to merrily feast in short space
"To Liszt street," they bade her "do come--
A trio is a happy sum!
We'll pay for your meal
If you give us a spiel;
we've a philosophical green thumb!"
So in Limerick company went she
As pleased as a still-in-pod pea
To drink Chardonnay
At an outdoor café
And to banquet in old Hungary!
Who didn't like foreign coin weights
She wielded a card--
T'wasn't meant to be hard
To get bills at the AMT rates
The girl flew down to Budapest
for a scholarly gig and some rest
she tried to get cash
from the cash machine stash
But dispensing bull suited it best
Alas and forsooth, she did find
herself Forint-less and consigned
to sup under par
in l'hotel lobby bar;
on peanuts and Cointreau she dined.
A miracle then did take place!
Next to her sat an old Irish face
Soon joined by a friend,
the two gents did intend
to merrily feast in short space
"To Liszt street," they bade her "do come--
A trio is a happy sum!
We'll pay for your meal
If you give us a spiel;
we've a philosophical green thumb!"
So in Limerick company went she
As pleased as a still-in-pod pea
To drink Chardonnay
At an outdoor café
And to banquet in old Hungary!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
On the Blue* Danube
*Blue = taupe-ie muddy milky-chocolatey.
Here are a few pics from my fist night's rambling in Buda and Pest. I've got some good stories...and possibly some poetry... forthcoming. For now, I have a talk to finish. Here's a sampling for those of you too lazy to click on the above link (you know who you are).
On the corner of Nádor utca and Zrinyi
If this is the Canadian Embassy, then dude. I think they win this time, 'Merica.
Chain Bridge
Portrait of a Tiny Man.
(Oh, and also the Parliament building)
This city...is lovely. I wish my photography could capture its beauty more faithfully. I shall have to keep practicing...
Here are a few pics from my fist night's rambling in Buda and Pest. I've got some good stories...and possibly some poetry... forthcoming. For now, I have a talk to finish. Here's a sampling for those of you too lazy to click on the above link (you know who you are).
On the corner of Nádor utca and Zrinyi
If this is the Canadian Embassy, then dude. I think they win this time, 'Merica.
Chain Bridge
Portrait of a Tiny Man.
(Oh, and also the Parliament building)
This city...is lovely. I wish my photography could capture its beauty more faithfully. I shall have to keep practicing...
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
I'd like to buy a vowel, please
Üdvözöljük szállodåankaban! Kérjük, vegyék figyelembe, hogy az eltünt értéktárgyakért!
Holy diacritical marks, Batman! Such is Hungarian, I have found. But here's my question: if you emphasize every vowel, doesn't that....doesn't that nullify the point of accenting one in the first place? Baffling, yet delightful. Slavic languages are a new and bewildering experience; it's the same alphabet, to be sure. And yet nothing is recognizable because it isn't a romantic language; it has wholly other origins. The best way to think about how Slavic languages make you feel is to say they're a tease. Like a man in a tux with a gin martini. Hungarian is step up from Chinese, which is utterly alien to the unstudied eye (and ear)...and yet, this Slavic langauge has the false appearance of being manageable, and though it sounds like it could be a kissing-cousin of Russian (so to speak), it isn't. At all. Hence, the language as a tease-- a great big tease.
As you've probably surmised, I've arrived in Budapest. I actually landed (after leaving my B&B in Aberdeen at 4:30 am) about 3 hours ago (2:30 pm), but it took me a bit of time to get to my hotel. Not only is traffic crazy downtown (and I am smack downtown, *awesomeness*), but then you've got to take into account (you knew it was coming) Misadventure With "Public" Transport In A Foreign Country, Part the First (of the 2010 series).
I write "public" with scare-quotes because it had to do with a short, rotund taxi driver...and his taxi..and I can't decide if taxis count as public transport. At any rate you get the picture. So here's the story:
Alta Moda Fashion Hotel--which is brand-baby-spanking new, is across the street from where the conference will be (Central European University), is 5 minutes from the river, and is where I'm staying these next 4 nights/5days--was supposedly going to collect me from the airport and drive me to the lobby of selfsame hotel. No one showed up for "Crull". In fact, no one showed up with a sign at all except for one poor guy who was searching intently for straggling "Music History Conference" participants, and who saw my curious glances in his direction and mistook me for one of his own misplaced flock.
Although I toyed briefly with the idea of ditching my own conference and joining that one instead (and this may or may not have been in part due to the fact that the guy with the sign was rather handsome), I decided in the end to stick to the original plan. Which is to present on Friday a talk I have yet to finish on the history of the philosophy of quantum mechanics. Yes, I am in Budapest for this. Hurrah! The conference is called "HOPOS", which stands for History of Philosophy of Science. Fantasticalness, yes?
Back to Misadventure with Public Transport in a Foreign Country, Part the First. Once I realized that my hotel had stood me up, I went without stopping to think much (hmm: the more I reflect on it the more it seems these Misadventures involve going without stopping to think. Ah well. I embrace the fact that I'm a Head in the Clouds, Feet in the...Altostratus sort of person. Or something. Aaaanyway...). I jumped in the first taxi I found, and immediately noticed that the price meter thing was NOT in units of Euros. I had paid for my room at Alta Moda Fashion Hotel in euros, and apparently made the badly grounded inference that Hungary operated on that particular currency. Which in fact it does not.
So I tell the taxi driver, whose English is middling-to-bleak, I need to stop at a cash machine.
"Cash machine?" He asks.
"Caaaash MaahSHEEEEeene" I say more slowly, and loudly, as all Americans do because somehow we think this makes English magically intelligible.
"Cash machine?" He asks again. I take out my debit card and wave it.
"CASH machine," I say. He says,
"Oh! Cash machine!"
After about 20 minutes of hairy driving (it reminded me of Beijing taxis-- fast, furious, and confident beyond all reason), the taxi driver pulls over, puts on the hazzards and says, pointing to a building: "Cash machine!"
I jump out and run up the steps. There are two machines. I try the first one four times, and it refuses to dispense any Forint (which I had at least managed to calculate during the drive is approx. 1/200 of a USD). I freak out, and try to run back to the taxi. Only..there is now an entire lane of cars filling the space where MY taxi had once idled. And of course I didn't pay any attention to what color, make or model my taxi was. I didn't even really pay attention to what the driver looked like. I make several noises of frustration, run up to open the rear-left door of a car that looks somewhat familiar and realize *just* before opening the door that, given the look on the driver's face, this was NOT in fact my taxi (or a taxi at ALL. I'm such a ninny). I despair of the situation and turn again up the stairs to try my luck at the second cash machine. After three tries I am SITLL having no luck, but now the taxi driver has parked and come over to me to help the poor dumb blonde American chick.
Though, I must here pause to make confession: whenever I do air-head stuff like this in other countries...I (oh man this is an embarrassing confession)...I feign a British accent. So they won't think I'm a stupid American. That's right. I really do it. And have done it, a lot. Sorry, it's true. I don't have enough pride to stop being an air-head, but I do have enough to fake a different accent.
Anyway, I tell the taxi driver (in faux-British English) what's happened, and he says "Cash machine at hotel?" I say yes, and scamper behind him like a freakishly tall fluff-nugget back to the taxi, whose color I at least have the presence of mind to notice. (It was black. And shiny. But I still don't know the kind of car it was. European?)
We drive into the heart of downtown Budapest, all the while my taxi driver is answering his cell phone constantly and speaking in frustrated Hungarian voice to various other taxi drivers, no doubt telling them something like
"Geez, I got this STUPID American chick in the car. She doesn't have any cash on her, not even a Euro to her name, and she keeps fading in and out of this STUPID British accent. What does she take me for? I am going to charge her SO much more than the usual fee. Stupid American."
I start to feel like, well, a stupid American, sitting there listening to him converse in this foreign tongue while I sit dumbly in the back, praying that I can find cash at the Alta Moda Fashion Hotel. I start peering intently out the window, scanning the streets for the address of the Alta Moda Fashion Hotel, at Nádor Utca 13. Points for knowing the hotel's address, right? Am I right?
After an eternity I spot the street sign and practically shout (in my best Hungarian accent, after listening pensively to the taxi driver's many conversations): "NÁDOR UTCA!" Of course I pronounce it horrendously wrong, but if I've learned one thing it's that one can always save at least some (dumb) (American) face by making charming though naive attempts at the local language. The taxi driver laughed, and corrected me. Several times. But at least he was laughing. And then we had arrived at the lobby of the Alta Moda Fashion Hotel.
The entire building is gorgeous, and less than one month old inside. Everything is done in classy black/white/gold/silver, and the reception desk is manned by 2 endlessly kind Hungarian young men and 1 endlessly amused Hungarian young woman. The taxi driver, who has of course followed me into the lobby of the Alta Moda Fashion Hotel, commences a string of (so I gather) partly amused, partly annoyed, partly sympathetic conversations with each of the receptionists, after which one of the young men opens a tiller, hands my taxi driver 5200 Hungarian Forints, and checks me into my room.
Which is where I am now typing. I unpacked my things, took a few deep breaths, and have now told my story. I'm pretty wiped out, and the light isn't exciting outside right now (it's a bright, beautiful, sunny day...but there is too much sun so as to make photographs flat), so I will take a little nipper, as they say, until the sun is ready to set. And then, onward with the adventures, and the subsequent photos which I shall post, post haste.
I can always finish writing my talk later, right? Of course. For now there's too much adventuring to be done (well, save for the napping part). As Bilbo would say, "It's a dangerous business, going out your front door."
Holy diacritical marks, Batman! Such is Hungarian, I have found. But here's my question: if you emphasize every vowel, doesn't that....doesn't that nullify the point of accenting one in the first place? Baffling, yet delightful. Slavic languages are a new and bewildering experience; it's the same alphabet, to be sure. And yet nothing is recognizable because it isn't a romantic language; it has wholly other origins. The best way to think about how Slavic languages make you feel is to say they're a tease. Like a man in a tux with a gin martini. Hungarian is step up from Chinese, which is utterly alien to the unstudied eye (and ear)...and yet, this Slavic langauge has the false appearance of being manageable, and though it sounds like it could be a kissing-cousin of Russian (so to speak), it isn't. At all. Hence, the language as a tease-- a great big tease.
As you've probably surmised, I've arrived in Budapest. I actually landed (after leaving my B&B in Aberdeen at 4:30 am) about 3 hours ago (2:30 pm), but it took me a bit of time to get to my hotel. Not only is traffic crazy downtown (and I am smack downtown, *awesomeness*), but then you've got to take into account (you knew it was coming) Misadventure With "Public" Transport In A Foreign Country, Part the First (of the 2010 series).
I write "public" with scare-quotes because it had to do with a short, rotund taxi driver...and his taxi..and I can't decide if taxis count as public transport. At any rate you get the picture. So here's the story:
Alta Moda Fashion Hotel--which is brand-baby-spanking new, is across the street from where the conference will be (Central European University), is 5 minutes from the river, and is where I'm staying these next 4 nights/5days--was supposedly going to collect me from the airport and drive me to the lobby of selfsame hotel. No one showed up for "Crull". In fact, no one showed up with a sign at all except for one poor guy who was searching intently for straggling "Music History Conference" participants, and who saw my curious glances in his direction and mistook me for one of his own misplaced flock.
Although I toyed briefly with the idea of ditching my own conference and joining that one instead (and this may or may not have been in part due to the fact that the guy with the sign was rather handsome), I decided in the end to stick to the original plan. Which is to present on Friday a talk I have yet to finish on the history of the philosophy of quantum mechanics. Yes, I am in Budapest for this. Hurrah! The conference is called "HOPOS", which stands for History of Philosophy of Science. Fantasticalness, yes?
Back to Misadventure with Public Transport in a Foreign Country, Part the First. Once I realized that my hotel had stood me up, I went without stopping to think much (hmm: the more I reflect on it the more it seems these Misadventures involve going without stopping to think. Ah well. I embrace the fact that I'm a Head in the Clouds, Feet in the...Altostratus sort of person. Or something. Aaaanyway...). I jumped in the first taxi I found, and immediately noticed that the price meter thing was NOT in units of Euros. I had paid for my room at Alta Moda Fashion Hotel in euros, and apparently made the badly grounded inference that Hungary operated on that particular currency. Which in fact it does not.
So I tell the taxi driver, whose English is middling-to-bleak, I need to stop at a cash machine.
"Cash machine?" He asks.
"Caaaash MaahSHEEEEeene" I say more slowly, and loudly, as all Americans do because somehow we think this makes English magically intelligible.
"Cash machine?" He asks again. I take out my debit card and wave it.
"CASH machine," I say. He says,
"Oh! Cash machine!"
After about 20 minutes of hairy driving (it reminded me of Beijing taxis-- fast, furious, and confident beyond all reason), the taxi driver pulls over, puts on the hazzards and says, pointing to a building: "Cash machine!"
I jump out and run up the steps. There are two machines. I try the first one four times, and it refuses to dispense any Forint (which I had at least managed to calculate during the drive is approx. 1/200 of a USD). I freak out, and try to run back to the taxi. Only..there is now an entire lane of cars filling the space where MY taxi had once idled. And of course I didn't pay any attention to what color, make or model my taxi was. I didn't even really pay attention to what the driver looked like. I make several noises of frustration, run up to open the rear-left door of a car that looks somewhat familiar and realize *just* before opening the door that, given the look on the driver's face, this was NOT in fact my taxi (or a taxi at ALL. I'm such a ninny). I despair of the situation and turn again up the stairs to try my luck at the second cash machine. After three tries I am SITLL having no luck, but now the taxi driver has parked and come over to me to help the poor dumb blonde American chick.
Though, I must here pause to make confession: whenever I do air-head stuff like this in other countries...I (oh man this is an embarrassing confession)...I feign a British accent. So they won't think I'm a stupid American. That's right. I really do it. And have done it, a lot. Sorry, it's true. I don't have enough pride to stop being an air-head, but I do have enough to fake a different accent.
Anyway, I tell the taxi driver (in faux-British English) what's happened, and he says "Cash machine at hotel?" I say yes, and scamper behind him like a freakishly tall fluff-nugget back to the taxi, whose color I at least have the presence of mind to notice. (It was black. And shiny. But I still don't know the kind of car it was. European?)
We drive into the heart of downtown Budapest, all the while my taxi driver is answering his cell phone constantly and speaking in frustrated Hungarian voice to various other taxi drivers, no doubt telling them something like
"Geez, I got this STUPID American chick in the car. She doesn't have any cash on her, not even a Euro to her name, and she keeps fading in and out of this STUPID British accent. What does she take me for? I am going to charge her SO much more than the usual fee. Stupid American."
I start to feel like, well, a stupid American, sitting there listening to him converse in this foreign tongue while I sit dumbly in the back, praying that I can find cash at the Alta Moda Fashion Hotel. I start peering intently out the window, scanning the streets for the address of the Alta Moda Fashion Hotel, at Nádor Utca 13. Points for knowing the hotel's address, right? Am I right?
After an eternity I spot the street sign and practically shout (in my best Hungarian accent, after listening pensively to the taxi driver's many conversations): "NÁDOR UTCA!" Of course I pronounce it horrendously wrong, but if I've learned one thing it's that one can always save at least some (dumb) (American) face by making charming though naive attempts at the local language. The taxi driver laughed, and corrected me. Several times. But at least he was laughing. And then we had arrived at the lobby of the Alta Moda Fashion Hotel.
The entire building is gorgeous, and less than one month old inside. Everything is done in classy black/white/gold/silver, and the reception desk is manned by 2 endlessly kind Hungarian young men and 1 endlessly amused Hungarian young woman. The taxi driver, who has of course followed me into the lobby of the Alta Moda Fashion Hotel, commences a string of (so I gather) partly amused, partly annoyed, partly sympathetic conversations with each of the receptionists, after which one of the young men opens a tiller, hands my taxi driver 5200 Hungarian Forints, and checks me into my room.
Which is where I am now typing. I unpacked my things, took a few deep breaths, and have now told my story. I'm pretty wiped out, and the light isn't exciting outside right now (it's a bright, beautiful, sunny day...but there is too much sun so as to make photographs flat), so I will take a little nipper, as they say, until the sun is ready to set. And then, onward with the adventures, and the subsequent photos which I shall post, post haste.
I can always finish writing my talk later, right? Of course. For now there's too much adventuring to be done (well, save for the napping part). As Bilbo would say, "It's a dangerous business, going out your front door."
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Balmoral
I needed to get out of Aberdeen. Something fierce.
So yesterday I took a bus along the Royal Deeside, thus named because it is a road built alongside the Dee River so that the Queen could easily get to her residence (and by residence I mean castle) in Balmoral. You know that exquisite scene in the movie The Queen, where she is at the Balmoral Castle, in the highlands, and her life is in shambles, and suddenly she looks up and there's a magnificent stag just standing there, peacefully? Trust me, it's a turning point in the film. Here-- you can watch the scene yourself: the first 3:30 takes place where I was yesterday:
Here are some of the pictures I took from the little day trip. You can see more of them on my Photobucket site, in the Scotland album. [My my, isn't THIS a media-savvy post?]
The Castle at Balmoral (the Royal Family's residence in Scotland)
Crathie, the small village outside of Balmoral Castle
It was wonderfully freeing, especially because I made my own way to the top, avoiding all the tourist routes. In fact, I don't think there were any "designated trails" on the hill I climbed. All the better. And no chance of getting lost (yes, I know it's what you were thinking) because I could always see the Dee, and Balmoral castle below me.
On the way to the top I got in some good rock climbing (on rocks so old that they crumbled, much to my simultaneous amusement and terror), some self-portraits in the forest and at the summit (including one of me putting a stone on the Cairn--or the Ebenezer, perhaps-- at the top), walked through fields covered in 8 inches (at least!) of ancient undergrowth, and in the process of all this managed to coat myself in sufficient quantities of dirt, moss and other unidentified foliage, thorns (yes, lots of thorns--especially near the crumbly rocks), and of course I managed to find some sort of goo to get all over my jeans. I shall save the water in which I wash this climbing outfit then put it into an oaken barrel along with some wheat kernels, and let it sit for 30 years, and then proceed to distill my very own single-malt whiskey. I shall call it "Elisiker", and it shall belong to the Eliselay Scotches--akin to Islay whiskies, but...woodsier.
I had a great deal of fun on the hike. I discovered lots of enormous slugs (which I poked with a twig), the ruins of a small house or shed, lots of deer tracks (and poop), and a small meadow near the peak in which I laid me down amongst the wildflowers and whispery mountain breezes for a wonderful nap...until it started to snow. I climbed several fences, trespassed through a few backyards, stumbled through two boulder fields, walked smack into an expansive marshy-swamp (but escaped before my shoes were completely soaked), and saw the biggest bunny I have ever seen on this earth. I sang old gospel songs all the way down, eating raw sugar-snap peas (which I took one at a time from my pack) between verses.
After my hike the weather turned blustery and bone-chilling, so I took the bus to a quaint nearby village called Ballater. I found a little coffee/tea shop where I sat at a table with two older women from Aberdeen, who were on a day journey in the highlands. They tried to share their tea-cakes with me but I politely declined, explaining that I was drinking coffee and it didn't seem appropriate to eat teacakes whilst drinking coffee.
Then I got back on a bus (no Misadventures with Public Transport the whole trip! I'm a little frightened about what this might mean for my Hungary and Germany tips...you have to understand how this peculiar type of Karma works for me, I guess..) I day-dreamed all the way back to the Union Street Bus Station in Aberdeen, watching the River Dee flow merrily alongside the road. The world was new again.
Today I had much work to do, so I revisited the "secret" cafe, whose name is actually Kilau (see the photo album link above for a few pictures of the coffee shop, as well as my study partner, Julie). During the research I realized that I will only be in Scotland for little more than 48 hours. I packed up my things and headed out in search of a record store, because I had to buy the Stornoway album before I left--it's a Scottish band I mentioned before, and you can't get the album on iTunes. I found a store called 1-Up, which is my new favorite thing in the world. I wiled away the afternoon there, delighted by the large selection of great Indie albums, as well as many favorite bands both old and new-- until closing, at which point I had to make the painful decision to purchase the following (but a subset of the many more I wanted to purchase):
Sigh No More (Mumford & Sons)
Fire: The Jimi Hendrix Collection
Gold (The Velvet Underground)
The Very Best of Nina Simone
The Sound of The Smiths
London Calling (The Clash)
and, of course, Beachcomber's Windowsill, by Stornoway.
While I was finalizing my purchases with the slowest sales clerk I have ever encountered (she even read, with care, all THREE of the receipts generated by the sale), the other sales clerk explained that she and my cashier, Princess Thorough-Pants, were sisters, and that their dad had owned this shop since the 1970s. She also told me they had vinyls downstairs in the basement that I should check out..but unfortunately it was already closing time (well, it was PAST closing by the time Captain Slowface finally handed me my bag). I will do my darnedest to get back to this magical musicland before I leave. I've already listened to the Smith's album (perfection) and the Stornoway album (haunting, beautiful, and very Scottish). I'm finishing Nina Simone as I type. Love me some Nina.
Right now I've gotta get back to work. And by work, I mean half-assed editing of various grant proposals (bleeech) combined with simultaneous full-assed listening to...oh, who should be next? Let's go with Velvet Underground. Yes.
So yesterday I took a bus along the Royal Deeside, thus named because it is a road built alongside the Dee River so that the Queen could easily get to her residence (and by residence I mean castle) in Balmoral. You know that exquisite scene in the movie The Queen, where she is at the Balmoral Castle, in the highlands, and her life is in shambles, and suddenly she looks up and there's a magnificent stag just standing there, peacefully? Trust me, it's a turning point in the film. Here-- you can watch the scene yourself: the first 3:30 takes place where I was yesterday:
Here are some of the pictures I took from the little day trip. You can see more of them on my Photobucket site, in the Scotland album. [My my, isn't THIS a media-savvy post?]
The Castle at Balmoral (the Royal Family's residence in Scotland)
Crathie, the small village outside of Balmoral Castle
It was wonderfully freeing, especially because I made my own way to the top, avoiding all the tourist routes. In fact, I don't think there were any "designated trails" on the hill I climbed. All the better. And no chance of getting lost (yes, I know it's what you were thinking) because I could always see the Dee, and Balmoral castle below me.
On the way to the top I got in some good rock climbing (on rocks so old that they crumbled, much to my simultaneous amusement and terror), some self-portraits in the forest and at the summit (including one of me putting a stone on the Cairn--or the Ebenezer, perhaps-- at the top), walked through fields covered in 8 inches (at least!) of ancient undergrowth, and in the process of all this managed to coat myself in sufficient quantities of dirt, moss and other unidentified foliage, thorns (yes, lots of thorns--especially near the crumbly rocks), and of course I managed to find some sort of goo to get all over my jeans. I shall save the water in which I wash this climbing outfit then put it into an oaken barrel along with some wheat kernels, and let it sit for 30 years, and then proceed to distill my very own single-malt whiskey. I shall call it "Elisiker", and it shall belong to the Eliselay Scotches--akin to Islay whiskies, but...woodsier.
I had a great deal of fun on the hike. I discovered lots of enormous slugs (which I poked with a twig), the ruins of a small house or shed, lots of deer tracks (and poop), and a small meadow near the peak in which I laid me down amongst the wildflowers and whispery mountain breezes for a wonderful nap...until it started to snow. I climbed several fences, trespassed through a few backyards, stumbled through two boulder fields, walked smack into an expansive marshy-swamp (but escaped before my shoes were completely soaked), and saw the biggest bunny I have ever seen on this earth. I sang old gospel songs all the way down, eating raw sugar-snap peas (which I took one at a time from my pack) between verses.
After my hike the weather turned blustery and bone-chilling, so I took the bus to a quaint nearby village called Ballater. I found a little coffee/tea shop where I sat at a table with two older women from Aberdeen, who were on a day journey in the highlands. They tried to share their tea-cakes with me but I politely declined, explaining that I was drinking coffee and it didn't seem appropriate to eat teacakes whilst drinking coffee.
Then I got back on a bus (no Misadventures with Public Transport the whole trip! I'm a little frightened about what this might mean for my Hungary and Germany tips...you have to understand how this peculiar type of Karma works for me, I guess..) I day-dreamed all the way back to the Union Street Bus Station in Aberdeen, watching the River Dee flow merrily alongside the road. The world was new again.
Today I had much work to do, so I revisited the "secret" cafe, whose name is actually Kilau (see the photo album link above for a few pictures of the coffee shop, as well as my study partner, Julie). During the research I realized that I will only be in Scotland for little more than 48 hours. I packed up my things and headed out in search of a record store, because I had to buy the Stornoway album before I left--it's a Scottish band I mentioned before, and you can't get the album on iTunes. I found a store called 1-Up, which is my new favorite thing in the world. I wiled away the afternoon there, delighted by the large selection of great Indie albums, as well as many favorite bands both old and new-- until closing, at which point I had to make the painful decision to purchase the following (but a subset of the many more I wanted to purchase):
Sigh No More (Mumford & Sons)
Fire: The Jimi Hendrix Collection
Gold (The Velvet Underground)
The Very Best of Nina Simone
The Sound of The Smiths
London Calling (The Clash)
and, of course, Beachcomber's Windowsill, by Stornoway.
While I was finalizing my purchases with the slowest sales clerk I have ever encountered (she even read, with care, all THREE of the receipts generated by the sale), the other sales clerk explained that she and my cashier, Princess Thorough-Pants, were sisters, and that their dad had owned this shop since the 1970s. She also told me they had vinyls downstairs in the basement that I should check out..but unfortunately it was already closing time (well, it was PAST closing by the time Captain Slowface finally handed me my bag). I will do my darnedest to get back to this magical musicland before I leave. I've already listened to the Smith's album (perfection) and the Stornoway album (haunting, beautiful, and very Scottish). I'm finishing Nina Simone as I type. Love me some Nina.
Right now I've gotta get back to work. And by work, I mean half-assed editing of various grant proposals (bleeech) combined with simultaneous full-assed listening to...oh, who should be next? Let's go with Velvet Underground. Yes.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
LoTR
I can't go very long without reading my favorite book. I finished Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises yesterday afternoon and then realized I had read everything I brought with me on the trip. So I went to a used bookstore after work and bought my second copy of Lord of the Rings. Ahhhh....wonderfulness.
I don't get the big deal with Hemingway, anyway. If you want to understand the disillusionment of a generation, all you have to do is watch a few minutes of MTV's The Real World, or observe any number of platinum blondes with fake nails driving third-generation Hummers whilst drinking Venti Soy Non-fat Lite Raspberry Mochafrappacchinos and texting friends about how disappointed she is with the latest Gossip Girl plot twist and how annoyed she is about the BP oil spill, because, like, can't they get over it already?
Now *that's* disillusionment. And we didn't even have a World War to disillusion us--we did it all by ourselves. So take that, Ernie.
Although, in the end I liked the book okay. It made me want to go to Spain. That's how disillusioned I am-- that I read a book chronicling the subtle but poignant love affairs or denials, waning friendships and existential crises among a group of young expatriates, and I thought the best part was Hemingway's description of the Matador's shiny green pants. Oh well. I do love green pants. And shiny things.
Yesterday Guido and I wrote a book proposal and sent it to Cambridge University Press. We did it in one hour, which got Guido very exited. He thinks we broke some sort of book-proposal-writing record. Maybe CUP will give us a trophy. That'd be nice. Maybe it will be shiny. OR green.
Today I am working on proposals for grants again (and the peasants rejoiced?). But if I work hard, then I can go home and read more Tolkien! (and the geeks rejoiced!) But really, how can one help it? --here, surrounded by shires and sheeps and Lothians and...well, the mood is trés apropos. As it were. This weekend I will take a day trip out of Aberdeenshire to do some "tramping" of my own. It has been far too long...
I don't get the big deal with Hemingway, anyway. If you want to understand the disillusionment of a generation, all you have to do is watch a few minutes of MTV's The Real World, or observe any number of platinum blondes with fake nails driving third-generation Hummers whilst drinking Venti Soy Non-fat Lite Raspberry Mochafrappacchinos and texting friends about how disappointed she is with the latest Gossip Girl plot twist and how annoyed she is about the BP oil spill, because, like, can't they get over it already?
Now *that's* disillusionment. And we didn't even have a World War to disillusion us--we did it all by ourselves. So take that, Ernie.
Although, in the end I liked the book okay. It made me want to go to Spain. That's how disillusioned I am-- that I read a book chronicling the subtle but poignant love affairs or denials, waning friendships and existential crises among a group of young expatriates, and I thought the best part was Hemingway's description of the Matador's shiny green pants. Oh well. I do love green pants. And shiny things.
Yesterday Guido and I wrote a book proposal and sent it to Cambridge University Press. We did it in one hour, which got Guido very exited. He thinks we broke some sort of book-proposal-writing record. Maybe CUP will give us a trophy. That'd be nice. Maybe it will be shiny. OR green.
Today I am working on proposals for grants again (and the peasants rejoiced?). But if I work hard, then I can go home and read more Tolkien! (and the geeks rejoiced!) But really, how can one help it? --here, surrounded by shires and sheeps and Lothians and...well, the mood is trés apropos. As it were. This weekend I will take a day trip out of Aberdeenshire to do some "tramping" of my own. It has been far too long...
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
American Populace Enthralled By Idea Of Getting Enthralled By World Cup
Oh how I love The Onion (from which I took above headline). It makes me miss the homeland.
I haven't written a real post in a long time. Part of that is because I'm working really, really, ridiculously hard and that diminishes the potential for boredom which diminishes the potential for adventures. I haven't even had my Obligatory Misadventure With Public Transport In A Foreign Country yet. Maybe something special awaits me in Hungary or Germany. I leave Scotland in exactly one week. ONE WEEK!
Also, I happened to have a very difficult weekend, and so haven't felt much like writing about anything uplifting because I've been feeling pretty rotten. In shambles, in fact. And being in shambles alone in a far distant country (no matter how green) is tough. Nay-- awful. So yeah. That's what's up. But you know, the sun is back today, for the first time in almost a week, and...what else. And I got to have a chocolate cookie at breakfast today, so there's that.
Though through these last few days I have had something of a revelation: when life gives you lemons, read The Onion. You can write that down.
Here's a smart-alecky little interactive feature from aforementioned news source, in line with the title of this post. I do enjoy how Americans are able to make fun of themselves. I think it's fairly unique, actually. At least I don't get that hearty sense of self-deprecation from any other nation. U. S. A. ! U. S. A. !
I haven't written a real post in a long time. Part of that is because I'm working really, really, ridiculously hard and that diminishes the potential for boredom which diminishes the potential for adventures. I haven't even had my Obligatory Misadventure With Public Transport In A Foreign Country yet. Maybe something special awaits me in Hungary or Germany. I leave Scotland in exactly one week. ONE WEEK!
Also, I happened to have a very difficult weekend, and so haven't felt much like writing about anything uplifting because I've been feeling pretty rotten. In shambles, in fact. And being in shambles alone in a far distant country (no matter how green) is tough. Nay-- awful. So yeah. That's what's up. But you know, the sun is back today, for the first time in almost a week, and...what else. And I got to have a chocolate cookie at breakfast today, so there's that.
Though through these last few days I have had something of a revelation: when life gives you lemons, read The Onion. You can write that down.
Here's a smart-alecky little interactive feature from aforementioned news source, in line with the title of this post. I do enjoy how Americans are able to make fun of themselves. I think it's fairly unique, actually. At least I don't get that hearty sense of self-deprecation from any other nation. U. S. A. ! U. S. A. !
Sunday, June 13, 2010
US 1, England 1
Okay, so the game wasn't entirely bad. We were far too often playing on the defensive, though. Not a strong showing in the latter half in particular. I ended up just watching the match in my room at Arkaig house because I was feeling introverted. I'd been too much of an extrovert Friday night-- a friend and I went out for dinner and dancing, and had a grand time but only left the club at 4 am, by which time the sun was already up. Weird.
But enough about that. Right now I'm killing time before the same friend (she is from France and is also visiting Guido this month) and I study downtown at a café *so* hip that it doesn't have a sign out front, and the door isn't marked. You have to "hear" about its location from other people. Hilarious! I will sneak in my camera and take pictures. I find it entirely amusing that there's a coffee joint-- not even a club or restaurant-- that is soooo cool that it can only be found by the most elite of all Aberdeen's hipsters. Ha! Needless to say I have huge expectations.
For now I just wanted to share a little story about Mark, my office mate, who told me where to find this hidden café, and who is fast becoming one of my favorite applied theologians ever. His wife Ellen, who I just met Friday afternoon, is also one of those people you only meet for a moment but you still sense their intrinsic fabulousness. They are both ordained preachers in the Church of Scotland--they met at Union Seminary in NYC, in fact.
Anyway, Mark is in the process of finishing up his dissertation, though he's already got a position as a lecturer at the Uni and also is a chaplin down in Edinburgh once a week, and other things. He rightly complains, "I'm an applied theologian. What's the point of writing an esoteric book when I could be out ministering?" True that. Alas, the powers of the academy being such as they are, he's been coming in to the office to get a certain number of words written on the diss each day. I can empathize with the humdrumness of slogging through certain chapters, boy howdy.
So there we were Friday afternoon; we'd both been quietly working at our respective desks for an hour or so uninterrupted--Mark type type typing and me, well, translating translating translating, and of course talking to myself now and again. After a while I hear Mark stop typing, sigh an enormous Scottish sigh, lean back in his leather office chair and say under his breath, with all composure,
"Ach... what would Jesus type?"
I laughed so hard at this unexpected externalized monologuing that I spat out my coffee AND managed to snort, in that order. We both had a good laugh, because it's true in some sense that Mark does want to write what Jesus would write-- he's doing Christian theology after all. Not so much the same for me, as I'm working on translating a particularly dense, neo-Kantian philosophical treatise on quantum mechanics these days. [Caveat on this: it's fascinating. The essay was written by this woman Grete Hermann, who, because she wasn't in the right social circles in 1930s Germany and she wasn't a MAN-- didn't get very much attention. But now that I've been studying her philosophy of physics I can't believe that this particular thesis got lost until now! It's so good-- so amazingly deep. She GOT stuff, you know, about quantum physics, that many of her contemporaries debated for decades to come. And then she explained what she "got" in a philosophically careful and deep way, which many of the physicists themselves couldn't do-- and that includes Heisenbergy, Dirac, Pauli, and others--because they weren't trained in philosophy (KANTian philosophy, to boot) the way she was. It's both an exhilarating discovery and a tragic historical fact that this amazing woman, who's known (if at all) for work on a few mathematical theorems--was nevertheless ignored by the quantum physicists. Caveat over.]
When Mark left the office for the day ("At last! I've met my quota!" he cried, and then packed up his computer and papers faster than you can say "noggle that niggle"), he stopped over my desk, put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Just think Elise: what would Jesus translate."
A fair question, Mark. A fair question.
But enough about that. Right now I'm killing time before the same friend (she is from France and is also visiting Guido this month) and I study downtown at a café *so* hip that it doesn't have a sign out front, and the door isn't marked. You have to "hear" about its location from other people. Hilarious! I will sneak in my camera and take pictures. I find it entirely amusing that there's a coffee joint-- not even a club or restaurant-- that is soooo cool that it can only be found by the most elite of all Aberdeen's hipsters. Ha! Needless to say I have huge expectations.
For now I just wanted to share a little story about Mark, my office mate, who told me where to find this hidden café, and who is fast becoming one of my favorite applied theologians ever. His wife Ellen, who I just met Friday afternoon, is also one of those people you only meet for a moment but you still sense their intrinsic fabulousness. They are both ordained preachers in the Church of Scotland--they met at Union Seminary in NYC, in fact.
Anyway, Mark is in the process of finishing up his dissertation, though he's already got a position as a lecturer at the Uni and also is a chaplin down in Edinburgh once a week, and other things. He rightly complains, "I'm an applied theologian. What's the point of writing an esoteric book when I could be out ministering?" True that. Alas, the powers of the academy being such as they are, he's been coming in to the office to get a certain number of words written on the diss each day. I can empathize with the humdrumness of slogging through certain chapters, boy howdy.
So there we were Friday afternoon; we'd both been quietly working at our respective desks for an hour or so uninterrupted--Mark type type typing and me, well, translating translating translating, and of course talking to myself now and again. After a while I hear Mark stop typing, sigh an enormous Scottish sigh, lean back in his leather office chair and say under his breath, with all composure,
"Ach... what would Jesus type?"
I laughed so hard at this unexpected externalized monologuing that I spat out my coffee AND managed to snort, in that order. We both had a good laugh, because it's true in some sense that Mark does want to write what Jesus would write-- he's doing Christian theology after all. Not so much the same for me, as I'm working on translating a particularly dense, neo-Kantian philosophical treatise on quantum mechanics these days. [Caveat on this: it's fascinating. The essay was written by this woman Grete Hermann, who, because she wasn't in the right social circles in 1930s Germany and she wasn't a MAN-- didn't get very much attention. But now that I've been studying her philosophy of physics I can't believe that this particular thesis got lost until now! It's so good-- so amazingly deep. She GOT stuff, you know, about quantum physics, that many of her contemporaries debated for decades to come. And then she explained what she "got" in a philosophically careful and deep way, which many of the physicists themselves couldn't do-- and that includes Heisenbergy, Dirac, Pauli, and others--because they weren't trained in philosophy (KANTian philosophy, to boot) the way she was. It's both an exhilarating discovery and a tragic historical fact that this amazing woman, who's known (if at all) for work on a few mathematical theorems--was nevertheless ignored by the quantum physicists. Caveat over.]
When Mark left the office for the day ("At last! I've met my quota!" he cried, and then packed up his computer and papers faster than you can say "noggle that niggle"), he stopped over my desk, put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Just think Elise: what would Jesus translate."
A fair question, Mark. A fair question.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
International March Madness
The World Cup starts tonight, and you can feel it in the air. And by feel it in the air, I mean hear it in the air, and by hear it in the air, I mean it's freakishly quiet around town-- even the seagulls, those pestilent winged rats--are sleeping in to prepare for the next few weeks of literal non-stop footballing madness.
My two picks are (one must vote for the home country!) U.S. and the Netherlands. But more about all that later.
This is just a quick post to say that I've been really busy. Workin' 9 to 7, as it were. Almost no time for adventures this year in Scotland. But over the weekend I do have some going-out-and-about plans, so we'll see if we can't shake things up a bit. And I may post more later today. We'll see...
Second, I want to wish a happy belated anniversary to Brettski and JulieJules (though they are themselves in Paris at the moment!) I love you both. I'm indescribably happy with my approximately-twin brother's falling in love with a most incredible woman, who loves the Skeeter even though he eats raw garlic cloves and sometimes forgets to put verbs in sentences. Heck, she loves him FOR it.
Here are some pictures from the day way back when, because I like them and because I haven't taken new pictures of Scotland yet. (I especially enjoy the one of Gramp and Gramps. What *were* you guys doing?).
At last, a sister of my very own
Most handsome guy ever. The Maestro, my dad.
My two picks are (one must vote for the home country!) U.S. and the Netherlands. But more about all that later.
This is just a quick post to say that I've been really busy. Workin' 9 to 7, as it were. Almost no time for adventures this year in Scotland. But over the weekend I do have some going-out-and-about plans, so we'll see if we can't shake things up a bit. And I may post more later today. We'll see...
Second, I want to wish a happy belated anniversary to Brettski and JulieJules (though they are themselves in Paris at the moment!) I love you both. I'm indescribably happy with my approximately-twin brother's falling in love with a most incredible woman, who loves the Skeeter even though he eats raw garlic cloves and sometimes forgets to put verbs in sentences. Heck, she loves him FOR it.
Here are some pictures from the day way back when, because I like them and because I haven't taken new pictures of Scotland yet. (I especially enjoy the one of Gramp and Gramps. What *were* you guys doing?).
At last, a sister of my very own
Most handsome guy ever. The Maestro, my dad.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Singing in der Regen
Most people say they love the smell after the rain. But let's face it, people: it usually smells like worms. Lots and lots of worms. And maybe a bit like grass.
The aroma during the rain in Scotland is marvelous, and has lifted my mood entirely. It is the smell of fresh herbs sliced for cooking plus new blossoms whose perfumes instead of being lost to the wide sky, gently hover at lower altitudes for the pleasure of mere mortals. It's also the smell of wild, tangly shrubs and a hint of far distant meadows and, ever so faintly, smoke from ancient stone chimneys.
Maybe it isn't gray skies alone, but gray skies and no rain that bring heaviness of heart. But when it's raining, there's a sense of freedom in everything--a sort of peaceful abandon in the weather-though that sounds contradictory- that justifies the feeling in us, too: As goes weather, so goes the heart.
But enough about the weather.
This morning, I overslept breakfast and so left Arkaig House for the University on an empty stomach and uncaffeinated mind. The unusualness of this state of affairs might grant me absolution regarding my first social attempt of the day: buying coffee. I stopped in at the faculty lounge for today's cuppa, and much to my delight found they offered an espresso version of my favorite Scottish food: sticky toffee pudding. I was so excited (and, recall, as yet uncaffeinated) that I may or may not have tried to buy said coffee with Swiss Francs (oh my, how did *those* coins get in there?). The barista was not as amused as I was.
Of course, as soon as I've drained that most delicious of drinks, I feel the energy sink into my bones... and immediately commence freaking out about the amount of work I must do in the next two weeks. Yes! Only TWO WEEKS already until I fly to Budapest. SO much research yet to do-- we've hardly begun! --Additionally I've somehow got to put together two talks on research I'm still very much in the midst of. Then there's the other non-Guido work to do: two papers to be revised for publication, which is a ridiculous amount of work as it requires indefatigable patience. And I don't even come within a furlong of patience. Oh, right: then there's the ever-present dissertation, which I actually miss. Like it is its own entity. A Frankenstein's monster, so to speak. Which makes me Frankenstein. I should give the thing a name... has anyone else named their dissertation? Seems reasonable. But, alas, my focus has had to be elsewhere since about mid-April, and I'm starting to forget its face.
Mulling over all the work I have to do has brought me to feeling right again, strange as that sounds. I love what I do. I love thinking about it, talking about it, dreaming about it (well, okay, not that last thing...having dreams in German is über disturbing). This morning while I was drinking the coffee (which I eventually paid the appropriate amount of British Pounds Sterling for) and feigning work, I watched various other faculty members come in and out of the cafe, all in the midst of intense discussion about their various issues, all behaving in idiosyncratic professorish ways (but with Scottish flare! And by flare I mean accents) and I thought, this is it. Instead of serving Sticky Toffee Espressos at a university cafe (which, admittedly, sometimes seems far preferable to the academic grind), I get to think about stuff and then write down the stuff and then travel places to talk to the people in the place about the stuff...
And so there it is. As the Brits would say, things are "right as rain again". And as the Germans would say, "ALLESACHENSINDWIEDERWIEDERREGENRECHT, JA!!!"
The aroma during the rain in Scotland is marvelous, and has lifted my mood entirely. It is the smell of fresh herbs sliced for cooking plus new blossoms whose perfumes instead of being lost to the wide sky, gently hover at lower altitudes for the pleasure of mere mortals. It's also the smell of wild, tangly shrubs and a hint of far distant meadows and, ever so faintly, smoke from ancient stone chimneys.
Maybe it isn't gray skies alone, but gray skies and no rain that bring heaviness of heart. But when it's raining, there's a sense of freedom in everything--a sort of peaceful abandon in the weather-though that sounds contradictory- that justifies the feeling in us, too: As goes weather, so goes the heart.
But enough about the weather.
This morning, I overslept breakfast and so left Arkaig House for the University on an empty stomach and uncaffeinated mind. The unusualness of this state of affairs might grant me absolution regarding my first social attempt of the day: buying coffee. I stopped in at the faculty lounge for today's cuppa, and much to my delight found they offered an espresso version of my favorite Scottish food: sticky toffee pudding. I was so excited (and, recall, as yet uncaffeinated) that I may or may not have tried to buy said coffee with Swiss Francs (oh my, how did *those* coins get in there?). The barista was not as amused as I was.
Of course, as soon as I've drained that most delicious of drinks, I feel the energy sink into my bones... and immediately commence freaking out about the amount of work I must do in the next two weeks. Yes! Only TWO WEEKS already until I fly to Budapest. SO much research yet to do-- we've hardly begun! --Additionally I've somehow got to put together two talks on research I'm still very much in the midst of. Then there's the other non-Guido work to do: two papers to be revised for publication, which is a ridiculous amount of work as it requires indefatigable patience. And I don't even come within a furlong of patience. Oh, right: then there's the ever-present dissertation, which I actually miss. Like it is its own entity. A Frankenstein's monster, so to speak. Which makes me Frankenstein. I should give the thing a name... has anyone else named their dissertation? Seems reasonable. But, alas, my focus has had to be elsewhere since about mid-April, and I'm starting to forget its face.
Mulling over all the work I have to do has brought me to feeling right again, strange as that sounds. I love what I do. I love thinking about it, talking about it, dreaming about it (well, okay, not that last thing...having dreams in German is über disturbing). This morning while I was drinking the coffee (which I eventually paid the appropriate amount of British Pounds Sterling for) and feigning work, I watched various other faculty members come in and out of the cafe, all in the midst of intense discussion about their various issues, all behaving in idiosyncratic professorish ways (but with Scottish flare! And by flare I mean accents) and I thought, this is it. Instead of serving Sticky Toffee Espressos at a university cafe (which, admittedly, sometimes seems far preferable to the academic grind), I get to think about stuff and then write down the stuff and then travel places to talk to the people in the place about the stuff...
And so there it is. As the Brits would say, things are "right as rain again". And as the Germans would say, "ALLESACHENSINDWIEDERWIEDERREGENRECHT, JA!!!"
Monday, June 7, 2010
When Mondays feel like Mondays
Today I woke up and knew it was just going to be one of those days. You know. The days where no matter how much you try to think about all the good in your life you still feel unbelievably poo-ish. Maybe it was the gray skies. Or maybe it was feeling too keenly that everyone you love--heck, everyone you can sit on the porch, drink a beer and feel blue with for a while-- is at least 3200 miles away. I know-- trust me, I know how lucky I am. But at some point, no matter how many adventures one has, they only amount to so much if one is, well, just one. Maybe I'll borrow a puppy or a baby or something.
I tried to be positive about the gloomy day by leaving the office at about 3:00 and going for a walk through the Botanical Gardens and around Seaton Park. This, I decided, was a far better choice than crying into my pillow (how emo is that?) whilst eating lemon-flavored cookies (I ate 3 anyway) and watching re-runs of Britain's Got Talent (I start to wonder if it does...)
I took some pictures of the walk. And yeah, it really is this green.
I tried to be positive about the gloomy day by leaving the office at about 3:00 and going for a walk through the Botanical Gardens and around Seaton Park. This, I decided, was a far better choice than crying into my pillow (how emo is that?) whilst eating lemon-flavored cookies (I ate 3 anyway) and watching re-runs of Britain's Got Talent (I start to wonder if it does...)
I took some pictures of the walk. And yeah, it really is this green.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Hipster Abides
It's the third whole day in Scotland and I'm in full research mode. I have an office, a regular lunch spot in the courtyard, a Uni Aberdeen library card, a regular coffee stop and a regular lunch place. The latter is the most hipstery things I've yet come across in Aberdeen. Don't judge, people-- I go there not because I worship the hipsters, as some of you suspect, nor am I myself a hipster by a long shot-- but rather because it's the only place on campus you can find vegetarian food. Organic vegetarian food, of course. Haha.
As for "my office" in the Old Brewery, I actually share it with a smart-alecky "applied theologian" in his mid-30s called Mark, whose first words upon entering the office this morning were (in thoroughly Scottish brogue):
"Ay! It smells absoloot'ly frooity in here!"
I said (in thoroughly indeterminate US accent) "Yeah, it's my new organic shampoo from Sainsbury's. Sorry to make the place smell so 'girlie'. I'll smoke a cigar in here later."
"Aye, you will? Good, good."
Mark likes to dish on other denominations (who doesn't? Certainly not Church of Scotland Prezbies, which Mark is through-and-through), especially Catholics. But especially Episcopalians. I'm delighted to join in over the Catholics, but regarding the Episcopalians...ach. Too soon.
Mark also happens to be married to an American woman, hence his easy tolerance for my 'Merican ways, e.g.:
(i) not smoking in my office
(ii) not smoking at all
(iii) bugging him for the location of coffee shops in which I can work
(iv) bugging him by saying "you GOTTA see THIS!" every quarter-hour, and subsequently playing stupid YouTube videos, and
(v) arriving at work before 10 in the morning. Yes, that's right, folks: I'm an early-riser here, by comparison. AND a hard worker. It's all so delicious. When I was in Beijing I felt like such a hobo compared to the industrious Chinese ph.D students there. They operate on a whole 'nother level.
Turns out Mark's 'Merican wife grew up only a few miles from where I lived for 9 years, near Mitchell, South Dakota. MITCHELL. SOUTH DAKOTA. It's all very twilight-zonish, or Coen-brothersish, or something. Mark has already told me how much he loves visiting Mitchell- especially the Doll Museum. I remember well the old Doll Museum. I'm pretty sure he's joking, but Scotsmen can be danged subtle when they want to be. I know that's not the stereotype, but there it is.
I'm alone in the office for the rest of today (hence the blogging). Mark's left to attend a conference at which he said he will give a "less-than-serious" talk "because no future employers of mine will be there." The paper is about Erasmus (who was dogmatically Catholic throughout the Reformation, but whose place of eternal rest in the Netherlands has since been converted into a Reformed Church, irony of ironies). Specifically, Mark said he was giving a most irreverent talk about various rules of conduct set down by Erasmus for the education of young boys, e.g. when you can fart, or when you can play with your hair or your ears during class, etc. Mark's main locus of research is on the topic of shame, so I told him it was good practice to experience his area first-hand every so often, as he was sure to do today. He laughed and left our fruity office.
I'd better get back to work. But first I've gotta finish my hipster coffee and my hipster vegetarian sandwich, and read this article on my new favorite hipster band from the UK.
As for "my office" in the Old Brewery, I actually share it with a smart-alecky "applied theologian" in his mid-30s called Mark, whose first words upon entering the office this morning were (in thoroughly Scottish brogue):
"Ay! It smells absoloot'ly frooity in here!"
I said (in thoroughly indeterminate US accent) "Yeah, it's my new organic shampoo from Sainsbury's. Sorry to make the place smell so 'girlie'. I'll smoke a cigar in here later."
"Aye, you will? Good, good."
Mark likes to dish on other denominations (who doesn't? Certainly not Church of Scotland Prezbies, which Mark is through-and-through), especially Catholics. But especially Episcopalians. I'm delighted to join in over the Catholics, but regarding the Episcopalians...ach. Too soon.
Mark also happens to be married to an American woman, hence his easy tolerance for my 'Merican ways, e.g.:
(i) not smoking in my office
(ii) not smoking at all
(iii) bugging him for the location of coffee shops in which I can work
(iv) bugging him by saying "you GOTTA see THIS!" every quarter-hour, and subsequently playing stupid YouTube videos, and
(v) arriving at work before 10 in the morning. Yes, that's right, folks: I'm an early-riser here, by comparison. AND a hard worker. It's all so delicious. When I was in Beijing I felt like such a hobo compared to the industrious Chinese ph.D students there. They operate on a whole 'nother level.
Turns out Mark's 'Merican wife grew up only a few miles from where I lived for 9 years, near Mitchell, South Dakota. MITCHELL. SOUTH DAKOTA. It's all very twilight-zonish, or Coen-brothersish, or something. Mark has already told me how much he loves visiting Mitchell- especially the Doll Museum. I remember well the old Doll Museum. I'm pretty sure he's joking, but Scotsmen can be danged subtle when they want to be. I know that's not the stereotype, but there it is.
I'm alone in the office for the rest of today (hence the blogging). Mark's left to attend a conference at which he said he will give a "less-than-serious" talk "because no future employers of mine will be there." The paper is about Erasmus (who was dogmatically Catholic throughout the Reformation, but whose place of eternal rest in the Netherlands has since been converted into a Reformed Church, irony of ironies). Specifically, Mark said he was giving a most irreverent talk about various rules of conduct set down by Erasmus for the education of young boys, e.g. when you can fart, or when you can play with your hair or your ears during class, etc. Mark's main locus of research is on the topic of shame, so I told him it was good practice to experience his area first-hand every so often, as he was sure to do today. He laughed and left our fruity office.
I'd better get back to work. But first I've gotta finish my hipster coffee and my hipster vegetarian sandwich, and read this article on my new favorite hipster band from the UK.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Sainsbury's
Sainsbury's is the Meijer of Scotland, and I love it. Probably because I'm ignorant of all its foibles and other nefarious dealings as a foreign mega-corporation. Nevertheless, I just got back from a bit of shopping, and of all the delightful organic produce and food products (including--drum roll--a new favorite food: a cereal (gasp!) that's basically shredded wheat (gasp! without chocolate and/or peanut butter!) filled with heavenly (organic) apricot goo...mmmm) and organic soaps and organic, locally-grown q-tips (You're surprised? What sheep-related product ISN'T local in the wee sheep-ie country of Scotland? Although I could definitely see picking up some cotton swabs at the Scottish Wal-mart only to see "Made in Macao" printed on the back. They...they don't even HAVE sheep in Macao.*)
Well, I think the jet-lag is finally catching up to me. Or rather, the fact that I went to bed at 3 and got up at 7 is catching up to me. I had to slap myself in the face on several occasions today whilst doing some translation work (thankfully, Guido was not present during the face-slapping). So yes, I need to get with the time-zone, as they say. Which I can't even do in my usual time-zone. Ah, well... "You can take Elise out of the country, but you can't take the Elise out of Elise."**
*I stand self-corrected.
**Unless, like, I named one of my teeth "Elise". Then you could take it out of Elise. Or maybe a liver. Those are those things you have two of, right Bub? Mine is below my stomach and to the left of my body [inside joke. Teehee.] No, of course I know where my liver is-- it's where all the Talisker goes! Giddyup.
Well, I think the jet-lag is finally catching up to me. Or rather, the fact that I went to bed at 3 and got up at 7 is catching up to me. I had to slap myself in the face on several occasions today whilst doing some translation work (thankfully, Guido was not present during the face-slapping). So yes, I need to get with the time-zone, as they say. Which I can't even do in my usual time-zone. Ah, well... "You can take Elise out of the country, but you can't take the Elise out of Elise."**
*I stand self-corrected.
**Unless, like, I named one of my teeth "Elise". Then you could take it out of Elise. Or maybe a liver. Those are those things you have two of, right Bub? Mine is below my stomach and to the left of my body [inside joke. Teehee.] No, of course I know where my liver is-- it's where all the Talisker goes! Giddyup.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Once bitten, twice shy. Thrice addicted?
It seems likely. Round about February I got a terrible urge to travel to new lands, and thankfully the grant gods complied. For here I am on World Tour Numero Three-o. I'm in Aberdeen at the moment, but since two of the three destinations this summer happen to be within the erstwhile empire of Attila the Hun, I've dedicated the blog to him. Well, not really-- what with his lacking any moral compass whatsoever--but he IS in the title. Cheers for infamy?
Since the videos were a hit last year, I officially commence 2010's blog in like fashion:
Since the videos were a hit last year, I officially commence 2010's blog in like fashion:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
