Photogenetics

Well, I developed the film from my semester in England and my Easter Break travels at the beginning of the summer, and now I am finally getting around to uploading these to the internet. It's a pretty messy collection, for now, but I hope to eventually arrange and edit them up to be a little bit nicer looking. Until then, you can check out the hodgepodge here:

http://picasaweb.google.com/tatteredatlas/York2008

Goodbye Lava Fields, Hello Minster Bells

It feels strange that a few hours ago (I guess 14 is more like it), John and I were wandering the pre-dawn streets of Reykjavik, lost on our quest to find the bus terminal and somehow led astray into some sort of shipyard. As the time of our flight drew nearer and we only seemed to be getting loster and loster, I flagged down a car for directions. In a wonderful turn of events, the driver of this car, a bouncer at a local club who was just getting off work, offered to give us a ride to the airport. He was very friendly, spoke excellent English, and even has a friend from Michigan. Without him, who knows where we'd be right now...

Our last two days in Iceland were tip-top, and progressed a little bit as follows: we ended up borrowing Sean's neighbors car for a trip through... the countryside? Well, whatever you call the brown grass and dramatic mountains with intermittent lava fields and craters, that's what we drove through. Our first stop was *ingvellir (I'm not sure how to make my Latin type the write characters), the site of Iceland's first legal and government meetings around 900 AD. There we walked through a rift valley along the mid-Atlantic Ridge, where the American and Eurasian tectonic plates converge. It was interesting to stand in a no-man's-land, not technically on either, or any, continent. After that it was off for Geysir and its surrounding field of boiling hot springs and bubbling cave-pools. Geysir itself, the second highest geyser and the namesake of all geysers, only actually functions during or immediately after volcanic eruptions, and so we had to settle for its smaller sibling, Strokkur.

After that, Sean let me take over driving for a while, and I had the pleasure of cruising past mountains and lava fields and farm houses in a snazzy little European auto. Or maybe it was an American model? I wasn't really paying attention to that, I guess; I just got a rush from driving for the first time since January. Our next stop was Gullfoss ("Golden Falls") on the river Hvitá. The falls are actually at a right angle from the turn of the river and disappear behind the cliff walls (especially with banks of snow and ice jutting out over the edges of the rock), making it seem as if the river simply disappears into a crack. But when we got up close, it felt a bit dizzying to be literally face-to-face with such a huge torrent of water. Away from the coast in Reykjavik, winter was still just beginning to recede, and so the mist and spray from the falls were a bit freezing. We scrambled around on some rocks and grass to take pictures, and then headed back to the car for our ride home. However, we passed a crater on the way--a collapsed magma chamber, as the sign explained it--and we felt compelled to stop and toss some igneous rocks towards the pond at the bottom of the pit. On the ride home, we listened to various Icelandic music to match the scenery and I balanced on the edge between rapt appreciation of the landscape and napping.

For our last day with Sean and Reykjavik, we took things easy, strolling around town, visiting shops but not buying things, and chatting in coffeeshops and restaurants. At one especially hip coffee shop, the ladies from the musical group Amiina stopped by. But they didn't seem to recognize us. I guess that's okay. We spent the majority of the evening post-dinner at another public pool, relaxing in the seawater pool or spring water or the steam room or the graduated hot tubs or the plain ol'... pool--whatever we fancied. After a few days of such leisurely evenings, I can see why a lot of Iceland people seem healthy and fresh, and why the city feels so safe. Maybe hot tubs are the best deterrents of violence? At any rate, I wouldn't mind if these sorts of public pools caught on in York or Grand Rapids.

I'll admit, I've done a little bit of splurging on food since getting back into the UK. I never thought England would feel cheap, but it's nice to buy a sandwich or a coffee without guilt (with less guilt, at least...). After nearly a month of being away from York, it was familiar but strange to return. We navigated around town effortlessly for a change, with the church bells ringing in our arrival. It felt, of course, like we had just left the day before, but I could see the passage of time in the daffodils blooming along the city walls or the progress of construction sites around the college here. It's nice to feel a little permanence and security again, and although I'm exhausted I got motivated with the help of a little coffee, unpacked my luggage, rearranged my room, and nested myself in for the next 5 weeks or so. Life would be great if it were not for the surplus of academic work waiting for me here. I calculated the amount of words I need to write in the next month but stopped from fear and anxiety at about 10,000. For now though, sleep-sleep-sleep.

London in Summary: New Jerusalem or Whited Sepulchre?

Just as yesterday I described the Westminster Abbey as a collage of British culture into a possibly religious image or icon, so the city of London is a very cosmopolitan medley, a microcosm of world culture, admittedly disproportionate but well-represented nonetheless.

I've kept snapping a steady ration of pictures, but not for this blog. Who knows when I'll get them developed, maybe sometime next summer?

The Cabinet War Rooms, a themed museum which visited yesterday, were dramaticized and made British-family-friendly enough to gloss over any horrors or questions concerning warfare. For instance, the attached bookstore featured play tanks and trinkets, as could be expected, but I saw no representation of what I would consider the reality of the situation, the reality of our world being at war. You would never see Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse Five" in a gift shop like this.

Likewise, a good deal of monuments around the city, ornate and ancient, imply the story of British imperialism and what came (and continues to come) with it.

It's in no way a clear choice between William Blake's nationalistic utopian vision of Christ's England or Joseph Conrad's indictment of the darkness surrounding the Thames in Heart of Darkness, but perhaps some sort of reminder of the potential of both extremes in city and national life, in historic monuments and ecclesial stuctures, in all things of this world.

London: Day Two

Today was another busy day, mostly playing the tourist game but hopefully escaping that into something more worthwhile. John and I started the day off a little bit earlier than the rest of the group (a miracle for me, I can assure you) in order to take a literary walk around the Bloomsbury neighbor in which we are staying. It was really just a nice stroll through the surrounding streets, squares, and gardens, with the added benefit of seeing such sites as T.S. Eliot's office, Virginia Woolf's childhood home, or one of Dickens' houses, often marked undramatically with a small plaque on the wall.

After this, we met up with the rest of the group to go to St. Paul's Cathedral. One of the tallest buildings in London, it was exhilarating but a bit exhausting to climb the more than 400 spiral-staircase steps up to the "whispering gallery" in the central dome (designed to transmit whispers along its curved, circular surface from one end of the walkway to the other) and the even higher outside galleries that overlook the city. Winding through the passageways and countless spiral staircases, I felt a bit like a tourist being led to slaughter, but it was worth it for the beautiful view. All this description fails to mention the incredibly lavish nature of the entire building, from the classical two-tiered pillars in the entryway to the murals, paintings, stonework, collage, and engravings on the interior. It's almost too rich and dense of a scene for me to be able to describe it, so suffice it to say it was an interesting contrast to some of the more austere abbeys and such that we've visited. I can see something in all this decoration that could turn people away. Anyways, we finished our visit here with a walk through the crypt to see memorials and tombs to Lord Horatio Nelson, Florence Nightingale, and William Blake.

After a tasty but expensive lunch at Pizza Express (mint-avocado salad and veggie pizza being a nice change from constant Indian cuisine), we were off to the London Tower. This site proved to be a bit of a disappointing headache. Perhaps the most touristy of our destinations thus far, the experience felt a bit empty and even annoying, which is a shame considering the structure is supposed to be the oldest standing fortification in Europe (from William the Conquerer in 1066) and that it has such a rich and dramatic history. After waiting through a long queue reminiscent of a US amusement park, we got to see the crown jewels of England, which may be the most extravagant and valuable collection of items I've ever witnessed. Surrounded by boisterous French elementary students and royal guards with machine guns, it all seemed a bit ridiculous in the bigger scheme of things. Perhaps that reveals my American, un-monarchical background, but the ethical status of such wealth (and the history, tradition, prestige, power, etc. that come with it) seems at least questionable to me. In the famed White Tower, London's historical armoury, was stockpiles of ancient guns and weapons. All this type of thing interested me little, and I got a bit claustrophobic amongst all the gawking bystanders, so I eventually found our group and persuaded John to flee with me across the river Thames to the Tate Modern art gallery.

We got some great pictures crossing the London Bridge and enjoyed a short walk through some of the quieter corners of downtown London. The Tate Modern is a fascinating structure in and of itself, standing along the river as some sort of ex-industrial warehouse structure. The visiting exhibit of Duchamp, Man Ray, and Picabia unfortunately cost 11 pounds (as with most museums and galleries in London, admission to the Tate Modern is free, which I think says a lot about the priorities of British culture, a lot of good, that is). However, we got to see the unique Turbine Hall space as well as the general collection of expressionist, surrealist, minimalist, vorticist, etc. etc. work. I think I most enjoyed seeing some more of Joan Miro's work, which has been a growing fascination for me since visiting the MOMA in New York an autumn or two ago. John and I left the Tate in time to catch the rush-hour underground train to the Westminster Abbey in order to attend the Archbishop of Canterbury's third and final Holy week lecture. I'm not sure I enjoyed or valued this one, on faith and history, as much as last night's, but the following question and answer time was very good indeed. John got his question answered first of all, so props to him.

I'm not used to doing so much during the day that I can't be bothered to have a good time after 9, but it feels good in a productive sort of way. Tonight, another well-needed sleep, and tomorrow, Oxford!

London: Day One

Our first full day in London proved to be very eventful. We started things off at the Westminster Abbey, site of the coronations and burials of English monarchs for hundreds of years, as well as being a bit of a national graveyard. There I was able to rub shoulders with Chaucer, Darwin, Handel, and Queen Elizabeth, among others. Or at least, I got to see their graves/tombs. In the south wing of the nave, “poet’s corner” as they call it, we walked above Tennyson (we saw his school yesterday, today his final resting place), Coleridge, Dickens, Eliot, and dozens of others, as well as a variety of memorials to the likes of Shakespeare, Blake, and Gerard Manley Hopkins. On a whole, the church seems a pastiche of British culture: science, the arts, politics, aristocracy, and the cultural mind in general are all assembled beneath the stained glass and gothic detailing. I guess the question is whether this presence is a sort of corrupting infiltration of the church or a wrapping up of a whole society’s life into the sacramental tradition of a physical Church. That is, do the national monuments within the church indicate a less-than-sacred foundation for the building, or do these plaques and engravings catch the stained-glass light and somehow become washed in a rich, illuminating presence?

After the Abbey, we walked past Big Ben and the gorgeous buildings of Parlaiment to see the Cabinet War Rooms and Winston Churchill Museum, which provided an intimate, and therefore more interesting, look at the usually uninteresting (to me, at least) subject of humans killing one another. We headed down Whitehall, grabbing a relatively cheap but tasty sandwich for lunch, to the super-sizedTrafalgar Square--the British seem to have a thing for statues of dignified-looking males atop large pillars. After a whirlwind tour of the last 800 years of painting in the labryinthine wings of the British National Museum, John and I headed for the Blackwell publishing book outlet, being overwhelmed by the possible ways of blowing our food stipend. On the way back through Trafalgar Square, we tried to talk to a local, but somehow he talked at us instead of to us, asking if we had seen a play and mentioning something about getting a few “appropriatements” with which to engage some oppressive water, at which point we left this strange character alone and questioned our own sanity.

On our way to Buckingham Palace, we passed through a crowd of people centered around a rather out of place car parked before a movie theater. A spectator informed us that Prince Charles was about to make an appearance, so we waited around for a bit to catch our first physical glimpse of the British royal family. I snapped a few pictures (along with several hundred other camera flashes) in the silent 20 seconds it took for him to exit the building, wave to the crowd, and be off. Lucky us, stumbling into the path of royalty. Having the taste of monarchy fresh in our mouths, we decided to finish our walk down the mall to Buckingham Palace. St. James Park along the mall was quite inviting, with its fine-trimmed gardens and weeping willows, but the palace itself was a rather bland disappointment, literally grey and gated off from passers-by, except of course through small entryways guarded by heavily-armed police and the postcard-worthy royal guard.

I was pleased to learn last night that the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Most Reverend and Right Honourable Dr Rowan Williams, is delivering lectures at the Westminster Abbey for the first three days we are in town, it now being Holy week. Tonight’s lecture was on faith and politics. I don’t feel like summarizing or analyzing what he had to say, but suffice it to say that I was somewhat surprised, pleased, and ultimately encouraged to see someone of such religious and political prominence say the things that tonight he said. His lecture was nothing new or groundbreaking, but a solid overview of things that are near and dear to my own growing understanding of these issues. To hear such views represented in a semi-public, official church setting was, as Jamie later noted, a nice model of public intellectual engagement. Afterwards, we managed to shake the Archbishop’s hand, offer some obviously unnoteworthy expression of gratitude, and be on our way back to Pickwick Place.

Now I’m back in our room, sore again and more tired than yesterday. I guess we’ll see if I’m even still alive after three more weeks of this. Not so bad for our first 24 hours in London, though: Prince Charles, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Chaucer. Tomorrow morning is the Bloomsbury literary walk and another full day of playing at tourism. Who knows what could happen?

Come on Cambridge, Pick it up Picadilly

We had a grey, rainy day in Cambridge followed by a headache and a half of train transfers and transport cancellations. My knees and shoulders are a bit sore from being out of shape and carrying an overstuffed pack all day. Also, I pinched my finger in something and have one of those horrible little blood-blister things going on. Nonetheless, I'd say it was a worthwhile journey.

We ate lunch at an Indian place and then took a walking tour through King's, Queen's, and Trinity College. It was a bit touristy (admission gates at every college courtyard), but we got to see portraits and statues of King Henry, Isaac Newton, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Francis Bacon, etc. etc.--all alumni of the Cambridge institution. The buildings, courtyards, and stained glass were all exceptional. Many of the buildings were built before the Europeans even knew about the Americas: meeting halls from 500 years ago, fountains from the 1600s, a church from the 1100s (in use until a few years ago). We ended our tour in the downtown market, surrounded by a mix of international tourists armed with cameras and umbrellas alongside suave and cocky academic types. After purchasing avocados, we headed over to the University library to see their John Milton exhibit. It was nice to see first editions of his work, original manuscripts of poetry, and other artifacts, for example... William Wordworth's copy of Paradise Lost? Yeah, that will work for me just fine. We took a bit of a walk, finding the Orchard Tea Gardens to walk in the footsteps of Virginia Woolf and Wittgenstein. It was muddy, though, and hardly beautiful, other than the schizophrenic swans.

I hardly want to detail the following confusion and train mess-ups. A disreputable bum reported that someone somewhere jumped in front of a train and threw off the entire London train system--I suppose the factuality of that account will be verified or otherwise by the BBC tomorrow morning. Anyways, we're now checked in to the Pickwick Hall hostel, I believe near Bloomsbury. John, Brian, and I are sharing a room on the top floor (Brad counts 101 steps) equipped with sink, mini-fridge and microwave, plenty of space, and a decent garden view. The hostel has some nice recreational space, a full kitchen, and a decent mini-library. Not a bad location to spend our first week of Easter Break.

I'd say it's about time for bed.

A Departure, An Arrival

It's Sunday afternoon. The sun is shining through my window, and the bells from the Minster are cascading off in the city center. I just finished a big load of laundry (my room is now a jungle of dripping clothes) and am trying to tie up some last-minute loose ends for our Easter break trip. Tomorrow morning we take the train to Cambridge for the day, then on London to settle in for the week. Our itinerary looks roughly like this:

Monday, March 17 - Friday, March 21: London area (Thursday in Oxford)
Saturday, March 22 - Wednesday, March 26: Paris
Wednesday, March 26: Torpe, Sandefjord (outside of Oslo)
Thursday, March 27 - Monday, April 1: Bergen
Monday, April 1 - Wednesday, April 3: back in London
Wednesday, April 3 - Tuesday, April 8: Reykjavik area

This being the first multi-country trip we've planned, I'm a bit worried about all of the practical things (like getting from Paris to London to Norway in one morning), but we'll be able to recover from such stressful moments during the train from Oslo to Bergen "over the roof of Norway." Or maybe Easter morning in Notre Dame? In the least, I'm excited that I managed to fix the good ol' Canonet today (all it took was a Q-tip, some turpentine, and a little patience), so I'll be able to actually document some of these things.

The last week or two in York have been an interesting blend of stress and relaxation. Working on trip plans, catching up on schoolwork, and maintaining my steady stream of extra-curricular reading. I came up with a to-do list of things to accomplish and places to visit and trips to take before leaving York, but John thinks that's just over-planning. I guess we'll see how much of the list is even possible to complete in the five weeks we'll have in York after Easter break, what with classes picking up and final papers being due then. I'm sure a handful of blog-worthy things have happened in my life since the last post, but now all my mind is on is the upcoming adventures, the Tate Modern in London, Indian food, Versailles, the Lutheran cathedral in Reykjavik, Norwegian sweaters, etc. etc. I hope to make a few brief posts while traveling, but I guess we'll see how that works out.

Goodbye for now!



| above: a view from my window at dusk

A Lonely Roll

I recently had developed the one roll of film I managed to take with my lovely Canonet before it rebroke itself. It was definitely an experiment in taking pictures, but seeing some of the results makes me only more depressed that the thing is no longer working. Here goes nothing:

Around Town


- Monk Bar, gateway to the city center


- blurred night scene


- Yorkies at work in their cubicles


- view from Gillygate road, I believe


- the York City Art Gallery (free admission!)


- crane skyline, just like in GR


- the River Ouse at dusk


Wall Walk


- houses and the Minster, complete with restoration scaffolding


- what used to be the residence of the Archbishop of York


- John reads on a corner tower


- York Saint John University


- overlooking Bootham Square and the city art gallery


- from the south walls of the city

Earthquake!

For whatever reasons, my blogging activity has slackened as of late. For one, I guess I've been a bit more busy as of late, my to-do lists, projects, and ideas growing and overflowing to their typical status of open-ended incompletion, piled on my desk and around my room. Besides that, I also became a little burnt out with keeping such rigorous track of my life via the internet, and I guess you could say that it wasn't helping me avoid homesickness, either.

But, after a little over a week, I'm back in blogging business. In the meantime, we've experienced a minor earthquake in York, I got a snazzy new pair of shoes, my miniature garden has partially revived, and I've filled out digital stacks of applications and essays for the Calvin homebase. Now I'll be waiting anxiously to see if I get any scholarship money or summer job offers as a result. My procrastination crisis has only been worsening, but as Easter break is only a little over a week away, it's time for me to get to work on some of my projects and assignments! Easier said than done...

Yesterday, we took a trip to the Castle Museum here in York. The museum takes its title from its location on the site of the York Castle, and does not actually feature much history of castles. Instead, it tracks the history of life in modern York and England, from 1600s through the Victorian period and up to the 1950s. Much of the content of the museum consists of reconstructed rooms and workshops featuring original furniture, fabrics, tools, appliances, etc. There is even a reconstructed Victorian street made of (I believe) original storefronts and the like. What most interested me were the domestic elements of the displays, seeing how people went about their day-to-day life washing clothes, cooking, or getting around town. Likewise, it was fascinating to see the models of workshops and what they represent of a drastically different system of the division of labor. Instead of huge factories that use dozens of men to mass-produce furniture, clothing, or even sewing pins, this alternative places the highly-skilled worker in a cozy workshop, surrounded by the familiar tools needed to make by hand tires, candles, or shoes. As William Morris would emphasize, "he [the worker] had full control over his own material, tools, and time; in other words he was an artist." I suppose comments such as these reveal my own growing idealization of these past times, but I can't help speculating at what it would be like if there were more of a balance between the assembly line and these older ways of doing things by hand, with dedicated time, careful skill, and an elevated aesthetic.

Also, last Friday a group of us attended the York Youth Theatre production of Nick Lane's version of 1984. It was no Waiting for Godot, but it made for an enjoyable evening activity. I guess I love Orwell's novel to excuse whatever problems arise from a local youth production.

 

| photo: proof of my attendance last Friday night

Fountains Abbey, the Temples of Piety and Fame, the Castle Museum

Fountains Abbey and Enlightenment Temples

We had reasonably nice weather for our second visit (I believe second... I may have things confused) to abbey ruins. Unlike the abbey at Whitby, these ruins were substantial, and you could actually get a feel for how things must have functioned. The stories behind all these monasteries, although similar with each other, tend to seem so surprising and dramatic compared to the sorts of religious movements I see nowadays. To imagine a group of 12 guys setting off from civilization into a wilderness area, trying to set up house there and live simple and devote lives, working and establishing a surrounding community (often of poverty-stricken farmers and peasants)--such meaningful and drastic changes seem incredible, almost unbelievable, when viewed from with my own culture, in which not eating at McDonald's seems like a drastic life choice. Our tour guide, a religion or history professor from York St. John, made a wonderful storyteller, and his excitement and knowledge base made our time there much more enjoyable. After getting a feel for the place, we walked back through the surrounding sheep pastures and ate some snacks at the remarkably over-priced cafe/restaurant for tourists like us. We had a little time left before departure, and so a few of us made it over to see the Victorian gardens (not exactly blooming this time of year) and "temples" (i.e.--completely pointless but grand-looking monuments to abstract concepts, such as "The Temple of Piety" and "The Temple of Fame," located on dramatic points of the landscape like bluffs or hillsides). These definitely were a marked contrast, almost an ironic contradiction, to the sort of lifestyle and ideas represented by the ruins of Fountains Abbey. So I made sure to get a picture of myself with both.

 

| left: trapped Sampson-style in the Temple of Fame
| right: stumbling upon a monastery in the woods?

The Castle Museum

In brief summary, we also visited The Castle Museum. Located on the site of the old York Castle (and incorporating some very old castle leftovers, especially dungeon rooms), it houses a collection of artifacts that document the progression of English life and culture over the past few hundred years. Especially interesting to me where the reconstructed rooms from different styles and periods, featuring authentic furniture and decorations. For some reason, getting the inside scoop on how people have lived their daily lives over the years is fascinating to me. Seeing a Victorian bedroom setup or learning all about the domestic practices of the early 20th century intrigue me much more than some of the strictly historical accounts (especially the ones in which history = (equals) nothing more than military and political events). In the museum, we got to take a stroll down Kirkgate, a Victorian street reconstructed out of mostly original storefronts and materials and what-not. The various workshops of the candle maker and the cobbler and printer were all inspiring, especially to imagine them in action, although I feel that these displays hearkened back to Feudal times as much as 19th century. I never thought I'd feel nostalgic for such things, but... if I can get my hands on John's photos of the candle shop, maybe you'll feel the same.

A Good Life?

Last Friday, John and I suffered our first major defeat in becoming cross- and high-cultured. I had been looking forward to seeing Beckett's "Waiting For Godot" since as soon as I saw it advertised at the York Theatre Royal. We were bragging about it all day to our fellows in dorm, class, and program, and set out a reasonable half hour early for the box office. However, when we walked through the doors, we were met by a large yellow SOLD OUT sign across the day's listings, and a rather stern older woman informed us that there was absolutely no way we would be able to see any of the remaining showings. But, I think I'll manage to pull myself together, and our budding plans to see the play version of "1984" are helping. This time, we'll know to pre-order our tickets.

Other than that, in my day-to-day activities, I'm trying to cultivate a good life for myself. This has mostly involved the more intellectual aspects of my life. For one, reading has never been such an important and rewarding part of my everyday life. Nearly everything I've spent time with so far, whether assigned readings for classes or impulsive library check-outs or impromptu internet discoveries, has all been working to give me a bigger picture of culture, literature, history, religion... the list could continue. And what has been even more exciting than this for me is the way my understanding of contemporary life is being affected. It's strange that learning about Vikings or the Arts and Crafts Movement could seem relevant to whether or not I want to go to grad school, but that's not far from the truth. I'm trying to make the most of this sort-of monastic sabbatical, as it's likely a one-of-a-kind opportunity. My hope is that all these abstract, theoretical mind games will be able to translate into real action and change in my post-England life. For now, though, it seems like all I can do is keep my nose in the books and my head in the clouds.

In other news, lots of cards have been happening as of late. Nearly every night there have been massive games of speed/spit, spoons, poker, rummy, and who knows what else. Tonight, there was a line of three games of spit happening on my bedroom floor while I sat and read. I take pride in thinking that I was somewhat involved in the beginning of this card craze, when John, Trine, Anne-Marte, and myself played a fierce game of Canasta last week. Of course, Trine and I cleaned up, as you can see in the below scores:

John, Anne-Marte: 3055
Trine, Ryan: 4220

John and Anne-Marte were forced to forfeit to avoid further embarrassment, which John tried to excuse by calling Canasta "just a game for old people. Besides, it's getting late..." I guess some people just aren't cut out for Canasta.



| photo: Canasta in action!

A Full Day in Manchester

This past Saturday was our program excursion to Manchester. We left at about 8:00AM for a one-and-a-half-hour train ride. I tend to love train rides, but I was a bit sleep-deprived and napped for most of the way. Napping may not have been the best idea, as I felt disoriented and upside-down, like on a space station in another dimension, when I woke up. Coffee cured that quick enough, though, and we were off to the Manchester Art Gallery. Of course, only a few minutes into our walk, some of our group ran in front of a street tram and, narrowly avoiding death (maybe not quite that), managed to cause a huge traffic jam as the tram was stuck in the middle of an intersection while its brakes cooled. Another tram or two had to stop behind it, and there were cars backed up for a few blocks in every which way. God bless American tourists...

Our main task at the city gallery was to view their prime collection of Pre-Raphaelite work. We've been studying the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (PRB) for our class with Jamie, "Victorian Britain and Postmodern Culture," and they've made frequent appearances in my 19th Century Literature class, as well. My enjoyment of the PRB's work was dramatically increased in person, as their signature vibrant colors and almost neurotic attention to detail were more distinct than in mere facsimile. It was good to see the more well-known/essential works, such as Ford Madox Brown's "Work" or William Holman Hunt's "The Hireling Shepherd," but I think I most enjoyed the haunting "Ophelia," by Arthur Hughes. Their Modern(ist) collection wasn't anything too incredible, but I did enjoy seeing some pieces by Wyndham Lewis (whose literary work I've encountered), as well as LS Lowry, Francis Bacon, Modigliani, and some others I can't remember.

After that, we were off to the nearby Manchester City Hall, one of the most elaborate (and expensive) Gothic-revival structures around. The interior is incredibly elaborate on the first few floors, but as you climb higher through the building, the details get less intricate--clever, eh? The building's Great Hall features a dozen or so murals of varying quality by Pre-Raphaelite painter Ford Madox Brown. These reminded me of the Diego Rivera murals in the Detroit Institute of Art (back when art mattered enough to be displayied in public?), although dramatically different in theme and content. The ceiling of the Great Hall is decorated by coats of arms from each of the cities and/or countries with which Manchester has/had connections, and some of these proved mildly entertaining (Canada=beaver?). Something that seemed especially quirky from our contemporary tourist context was the "Manchester bees" mosaic-ed into the tile floors outside the Great Hall. Not only did it seem odd to permanently embed a swarm of bees in the midst of the dramatic gothic architecture, but the things (which are supposed to represent the buzzing, busy spirit of the city) looked a bit like something from a newspaper comic strip.

We wrapped up at City Hall just in time for lunch, so John and I headed to one of the cheap buffets outside of town. The food wasn't that great, but we still managed to eat almost our body weight in greasy Asian-esque treats. We then headed into the small but densely-concentrated Chinatown to do some shopping at the Wing Fat Supermarket. We got some much-need goodies there, including:
- tea (Chinese longjing?) in a nice tin
- Sri Racha hot sauce (quite hard to find amongst the bland, creamy, meaty foods they stock in British supermarkets)
- incense
- kim chee
- cool little printed paper things
All in all, a very productive shopping venture.

We rushed off from Wing Fat to meet our group before leaving for the Museum of Science and Industry. Manchester has its claim to fame as the first industrialized city in the world, and we got to see the artifacts (some working) of their textile-industry heritage as well as the steam-engine power systems that fueled the industry. The steam engines were inspiring in their intricacy and brute mechanics (quite a contrast to our current digitized, microscopic machines), but I especially enjoyed learning about the processes and systems involved in producing cloth. Now I want to build a loom! Even learning about the fabric itself put me more in touch with something so commonplace as to usually avoid attention or scrutiny. I was surprised to learn how many common types of synthetic fabric (I believe polyster, acrylic, and nylon among others) are actually petroleum-based, aka oil. That's something I don't often hear discussed.

The Museum of Science and Industry marked the end of our official group program, so we were free to do our own thing. I had hoped to stay in the city later into the night, to see the sights and enjoy the new scenery, but for some reason the whole group was exhausted and wanted to get home by the time we were done with museums at 5:00PM. I had read online, though, that there was a great view from Cloud 23, the 23rd-story bar at the Manchester Hilton. This strange, modern, somewhat precarious-looking hotel structure was right near the Museum of Science and Industry, so I convinced Brian and John to take a detour there with me. We had to wait in line in the lobby until a couple slick-looking doormen let us up the elevator. The place was quite posh, with quiet electronic music playing and rich European socialites milling about with double-digit mixed drinks. We flipped through the menu (the first page featured a bottle of champagne for 2000 pounds), managing to select something that wouldn't break the bank. All the seats were taken up by the aforementioned city slickers, so we milled about trying to look natural with our backpacks and scruffy clothes while taking in the views of the city, which were fantastic! The sun was nearing the horizon, so the whole city was swamped in a blueish-orange haze. We could see the clock tower of the city hall, the authentic Chinese arch (commissioned by Chairman Mao back in the day), and the various waterways cutting through the city. Part of the bar extends out from the rest of the building, seemingly hovering over thin air, and part of the floor took advantage of this fact with glass plates that make it seem like you're standing on thin air above the miniature pedestrians and cars below. We were glad to have overcome our exhaustion and complete this expedition, but as nice as it was to seem posh for a short spell, I'm glad not to be one of the suave, refined people we saw there. It all seems quite dull and empty from an outside perspective, even after just a half hour.

Cloud 23 consumed the last of our reserve energy, so we walked back to Picadilly Station just in time for the next train to York. I again fell asleep, dreaming of steam engines on golden landscapes somehow mixed up in our class with Jamie. And again, my nap left me disoriented and dreamy for the walk back from station to campus. Oddly enough, we all agreed that coming back from Manchester felt like a return home. We knew the streets, the skyline, the campus, and our own individuals rooms and beds. I guess that's a good sign as we approach the halfway mark between our arrival in York and the coming insanity of Easter break. For a while, at least, I have a home across the Atlantic Ocean.



| photo: Ryan on Cloud 23, although the spectacular view of the city wasn't quite captured on film

Birthday Party!

Last night, we went to Lisa's birthday party with Trine, Mari, Suzanne, and Anne-Marte. It was a bit of a cold walk out to the off-campus YSJ apartments where Lisa lives, but like the last time we were there, they had prepared enough food to feed a castle. Cakes and cupcakes and cookies! And coffee, too!

I got the chance to try out my new suspenders, which were well received, and I also learned that they are called "bukseseler" in Norwegian. Trine taught me some other words and phrases by writing things down on napkins. For example, for our trip to Norway, I learned the phrase "vakre kvinne hva heter du," which I thought meant "what is your name, beautiful woman?," but apparently this translation they gave me doesn't have quite the poetic or romantic connotations I had hoped. Better luck next time? My fate improved then as we preceded to discuss the phonetic spellings of such strange English words as "kernel" and "colonel." I guess I've always been better at spelling than romance.

Thanks to Trine and her handy digital camera for the pictures below!



| left: Lisa blows out her birthday candles
| right: me with my bukseseler, eh?

Minster and a Movie

Wednesday night, I went together with our group went to Evensong at the Minster. After the service was a book reception hosted in the main room/sanctuary/hall(?). This book was the result of last year's Ebor Lectures, hosted annually (I believe) at the Minster. Free juice and wine! After some brief (or not so brief) words by various people involved with the book or the lectures or what-have-you, we sat down for the introductory session of this year's Ebor Lectures, featuring a lecture by sociologist Grace Davie, entitled "Patterns of Religion in Modern Europe: A Global Perspective."

Much of the talk, both during the book reception and in Davie's lecture, was related to the recent controversy here about some remarks made by the Archbishop of Canterbury regarding the relationship between British government and religious traditions, specifically one example he cited of Islamic sharia law. Of course, the press here had just as much of a heyday with the Archbishop's remarks as the US would have with any controversial remark made by, say, a Presidential candidate. Beyond just this recent British hubbub, though, are the growing tensions in Europe over immigration from Southwest Asia. Compared to all the commotion in the US over illegal immigration from Mexico, things here in uber-enlightened Europe can get just as nasty--an interesting contrast of perspectives, especially in the context of Davie's lecture.

To begin with, she offered two general observations: 1) Europe is relatively "secular," but the rest of the world is decidedly not, and 2) the rest of the world is arriving in Europe. She then considered the status of religion in contemporary Europe along five subjects: 1) the almost overwhelming presence of religion, specifically, Christianity, in Europe's cultural heritage, 2) the "vicarious" practice of religion by minority groups on behalf of whole communities, countries or cultures, 3) the shift from obligation to consumption (personal choice) as the motivating factors for holding religious commitments, 4) the presence of new arrivals (and their religious and cultural heritage) in Europe as a primarily economic phenomenon, although with great implications for religion, and finally 5) the question of what's going to religion in Europe.

One thing that interested me was her observation that religion has shifted from a compulsory status to one in which there is a growing space for personal, meaningful choices and commitments regarding religion. Although I would definitely object to her language of "consumerism" and even "free choice" to describe one's faith, I think the growing possibility of meaningful decisions is valuable. Other than this, I especially noticed her predictions for the future, which included, 1) the presence of Islam in Europe not being something that can be ignored, and furthermore not just another option on the spiritual market, but a catalyst for a sea change in the whole religious landscape, the relationship between church and state, and the definitions of liberal democracy, 2) the "increased salience of religion in public life," and 3) the fact that in the future, Europe will for once be drastically influenced by the rest of the world, and not vice versa.

Then on Friday, we had another movie night at the Smiths', this time to see Miss Potter, the new(er) movie based on the life and career of children's author/illustrator Beatrix Potter. On one hand, it was really just one of those typical historical biographies for families, a handful of which are released every year--sentimental, cheesy symphonic score, etc. But more than that, I actually really enjoyed it! It was honest, although with a dramatic and happy-ending twist, to the tragedy and solitude that were a backdrop to such characters and stories as Peter Rabbit or the Tale of Jemima Puddle-duck. The movie should also be applauded for dealing (somewhat seriously) with the variety of social issues surrounding her life and career as well as her conservation efforts in later life. These sorts of things were what made her ultimate personal and commercial success (and this movie's resolution) more than just another typical happy ending.



| left: John and I in front of the North doors of the Minster (compliments of Brad)
| right: Brad's first attempt with the camera didn't work out so well, but the result was still pretty nice looking, I think

Procrastination in the Radiant Garden

Most of today, as well as a portion of yesterday evening, have been marked by a bout of procrastination in the midst of completing our first real "assignment" here in York. The task is simple, a "reflection" on what we've learned about the history of this place, Romans and Vikings and all. And in fact, I've been quite interested in this material (our readings in books such as A Traveller's History of England by Christopher Daniell or group excursions to the Yorkshire Museum or Clifford's Tower). More than just purely academic interest, even, our brief survey of England's long and varied history has opened up new perspectives on our present-day culture, its bipolar strengths and weaknesses, and where we might all be headed. But, the burn-out I experienced at the end of last semester was not dealt with during the off-season of Christmas break, interim, and getting here to York, so now I'm stuck with trying to re-motivate myself for academics. Oh boy... I think I'd rather just keep reading poetry.

On a lighter note, on my way to lunch today, I stopped to check my post at the Student Union, and in the "W" box was a nice little Valentine addressed to me from "the ladies of GFC," via representative Kay Berry. I guess you could say this wasn't exactly the sort of mail I was expecting (I thought perhaps a late textbook had arrived by now), but it was wonderful surprise. I was with my dorm-neighbor, Emma, at the time, and she was so overwhelmed by the "cuteness" of the situation that she spread the event to I think the entire female population of apartment block E. Now all the girls are complaining about not getting Valentine's from the adults in their life.

After lunch, John barged into my room to drag me off to Morrison's "to buy a blanket." However, once we got there, he became discouraged at the high price tag of fleece throws (and they only other bedding options they seem to have here are fitted sheet, duvet, and pillow case), and I decided to fulfill my goal of buying a planter for my window. Miraculously, we wandered into the produce section of the store and there discovered an abundance of potted herbs. I chose coriander (cilantro) and flat-leafed parsley, while John opted for the more aromatic choices of mint and basil. To complete our project, we also picked up a couple narrow plastic bins and some potting soil, then headed home to take care of the transplanting. Below is a clip from after our little adventure, although it's a little too bright to see anything.



| video: The Radiant Garden (complete with audio tour)

Choral Evensong

Brian, John, and I just returned from the evening service at the Minster. As the contraband program with which I absconded after the service describes, "Evensong is the form of Evening Prayer that is distinctive to the Church of England and other Churches of the Anglican Communion. It includes elements from the medieval Latin evening services of Vespers and Compline, and has been largely unchanged since the first English-language Book of Common Prayer in 1549." For the two Sundays that I've been here, I'd heard the church bells ringing as a summons to this service, and so today we finally made it a priority to get ourselves there.

For me, it was a fabulous experience. The immense presence that the Minster has exerted on me while walking the streets in the city center or looking out my bedroom window is only all the more concentrated inside its immense walls and expanses of stained glass. The space beneath its high arched ceilings seems almost otherworldly, all that history and tradition floating upwards amongst the chatter of tourists passing through. The majority of tonight's hour-long service consisted of the choir singing (as my program again explains, "The cathedrals and other great churches of the Anglican Communion maintain a strong choral tradition..."), and although the abundance of Latin was somewhat inhibiting, I was able to sit tight and be truly edified by the music. Now, I'm no expert in choral music, but the music to me was incredibly powerful. Listening to the final echo of voices reverberate in the distant corners of the ceiling or watching the carved stone wrap around the sky-colored stained-glass windows allowed me to back out of my imminent, mobile, autonomous culture and receive something special. The history of the words being recited and the engraving on the wood beside my seat all became important to what was happening at that moment, what has happened in the past, and what could happen in the future. The happenings of the year 1549 became important in my mind, the young choir girl not quite keeping up with the music mattered immensely--even the flickering candles between the aisles seemed to signal something important. To have such potentially or typically trivial circumstances and objects be crucially involved in a church experience is exactly what I needed, at least for this evening.

Please forgive my baroque and over-dramatic language above, but the music tonight was quite nice indeed. And the echoes!

More Eavesdropping

A few days after arriving in York, I went with John and Brad to the local public library. I checked out a selection of collections of poetry, only to discover, right in the middle of Billy Collins, yet another piece of correspondence not addressed to me. This is not quite the find as the last "found correspondence" I posted (this one is not nearly as old, extensive, or quirky), but I was perversely excited nonetheless. On one hand, there is not nearly as much to decode in this postcard as in the letter from Jay, but otherwise it's all the more mysterious and intriguing because of its brevity. So much context is taken for granted by both author and recipient, it feels like overhearing a conversation between strangers. At any rate, it's as British as the day is long, and I think I want to meet some of these characters: "Stuart Humby?" "Rosemary Stubbs?" You can't make this stuff up...

Below are images of the postcard and a transcription of its message:

Dear Val,

I hope all is well with you and
yours. You may know that Stuart Humby
has finished his stint as an overseer, and I
have been appointed your overseer in his place
(still shared with Rosemary Stubbs). As always,
do give me a ring if you need help. I hope to
pop in and see you & Makel--and Elizabeth--before long.
I'll email you to fix a time.

Best wishes,
Sylvia

Approx. Week 2

After another "routine" week of life here, I feel myself settling in to just that: a routine. Or, at least I feel mostly familiar with my immediate surroundings, with my schedules and daily requirements, and so on. But, along with this settled feeling, I am also beginning to notice the typical cloud of requirements, obligations, and due dates that tend to only compile as any semester (even during a vacation to Europe) progresses. Over the past few days, I've already felt conflicts between what I would like to be doing (both leisurely-laziness and personal goals and projects) and what I really "need" to be doing academically for this next week, this next semester, even for this upcoming summer and afterwards.

In spite of this growing shadow, I'm still trying to keep my time here as a sort of retreat or hermitage. Granted, I've been living the 21st century version of a hermitage, complete with blog, Skype, and iPod, but at least I've had some time for reflection and personal cultivation--the essential things, right?

We've spent a few nights this past week at Jamie and his family's house. They've been very gracious in opening up their house to a dozen marooned college students. Last Sunday, we were there to observe the American Football match known as the Super Bowl. Granted, I read an essay on early modernist poetry during much of the game and left after seeing Tom Petty's half-time performance, but it was still interesting to get a more British perspective (it on a local British channel, hosted by 1 British and 2 American commentators) on American sports, or culture in general. Then, on Friday, we were there again to watch the movie "Atonement," based on the popular English author Ian Mcewan's book of the same name. It was an interesting film, to say the least. It had the feel of a film adapted from a book, but was at the same time very visually arresting, reminding me even of the Pre-Raphaelite painting we've been looking at in class. I'm not usually one to keep up with popular culture, but between football and seeing a handful of the award-nominated films this year, I feel like I'm becoming a proper American over here in York.



| photo: Brad reacts to a crucial moment in Super Bowl XLII

Washing By Hand

Laundry

On my knees,
I can wring out the dirt
into a small white basin.

These garments of mine
have soaked a long time,
soaped now fruited,

rinsed, hung out
on a thin, white cord
between the walls

that hem me in, before
and behind, stretching out
from one end of all space

and time to the other.

I took a bit of Sunday afternoon to do my laundry. The machines here are ludicrously expensive, and besides the laundry room seems open infrequently, at best, so I decided to invest in a plastic bin in order to wash my clothes. For drying, I strung up a bit of rope or I utilize the extensive radiators and heated piping that runs along the border of my room. It was such a good experience, I think I might try to do away with the use of laundry machines even when I get home. I can simply purchase a washboard from Lehman's or make a more serious investment, such as the Wonder Wash. Great!



| video: a demonstration of my groundbreaking, state-of-the-art laundry techniques

Blooming Hyacinth

My room these past few days has been filled with the sweet, fruity scent of my blooming hyacinth. Even Emma next door can smell it, and the hall is taking on a new, fresh aura. At night, I like to light my two candles, set the flowers on the floor beside me, and read some of the books of poetry I got from the public library here--it's a great way to pass an evening alone.

Or, for evenings not spent alone, there is a fair amount to do in town (for instance, 365 establishments of drinking--one for every day of the year?). This past Friday, John and I went to the apartment of some international students, where some girls from Norway filled us up with pizza after pizza. Apparently, the Norwegian method of eating pizza involves copious amounts of ketchup squirted onto the finished product. I tried this tactic once, and I'll admit, it wasn't as strange as I expected, but I still decided that it wasn't quite for me. There were some students from France and Spain there, as well, and it was nice to be able to meet such a variety of people. One of the Norwegian girls' banker-boyfriend was coming up from London, so we all walked down to the city center and spent some time at a posh nightclub full of young professionals sipping martinis with their legs crossed. We all felt a bit under-dressed, but the Norwegians turned out to be make quite good partners in conversation and crime (on the dance floor, I mean). Enough so that John is now set on adding Bergen, Norway to our already concentrated Easter Break itinerary... it would be nice to see those fjords...

Saturday our group from Calvin went on our rescheduled tour of Roman York. Our tour guide turned out to be an eccentric but brilliant middle-aged man, somewhat of a cross between Johnny Depp and a fan of death metal. His outfit was all black, except for purple shoestrings on his leather boots. He wore a long trench-coat over a snazzy vest, with chrome pendants and a pocket watch chain draping from one vest pocket to the other. Over the course of two freezing cold hours, he led us along the Roman portions of the city walls and into a couple fortresses and ruins, ending near some Roman coffins and a statue of Constantine. The entire time, walking or standing still, he spouted off information about dates and locations, archaeological finds, and bizarre trivia and anecdotes (for example, Romans mixed bull's blood into the concrete of their walls and Roman soldiers sometimes wore wind chimes dangling from their crotches to fend off evil). His progression seemed to be just as much haphazard recall and stream-of-consciousness babbling as well-rehearsed speech material. A few times he nearly struck passers-by with a sudden over-excited flailing gesture intended to emphasize a point he was making about the strangeness of Roman military uniform. Between these types of antics and his constant fidgeting with his water bottle, the tour was the combination of a highly-informative educational experience and a bizarre circus spectacle. John and I considered following this character home, or trying to get him to come hang out with us for the evening, but at the last minute we kind of chickened out. Maybe next time.