For the Queen! Part the Second.

From Newcastle I conducted myself to the city of Manchester, a place as thoroughly urban as it is inurbane. But the train station there was well-lit and free of fowl, and allowed me several unexpected comforts, in the form of KFC and Starbucks, before I had to search out my lodging. Walking any unknown street is a tense business, even less streets so surly and cheerless as the prospects I trod. However the hostel itself was clean and friendly enough, and I was even able to afford the comfort of a private room, furnished cheaply but fully, with a bed I must admit more comfortable than my own in Albany. I did not have much time to linger, or explore the city, my view of which brightened considerably upon receiving the intelligence of its possession of a Legoland, but made back for the station in order to catch a train to the town of Disley, about a two-mile walk away from the day's objective, Lyme Park.



In the planning of my journey, I felt I ought at least visit a site connected with that Authoress whose wit I much admired as a Young Woman. 'Tis been said of me that I possess a certain "Elinor Dashwood" air about my person. I cannot vouch for that, but I daresay it agrees with me to compared to that admirable woman's good sense and even her reserve and resignation. However, I freely bestow my own admiration all at the feet of Ms. Elizabeth Bennet, and thus it was Lyme Hall, the site of Pemberley in the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, for which I dared the drizzling, overcast skies and the biting wind on the side of a highway leading out of Disley. Fortified by the companionship of the almost ethereal soundtrack composed for the newest adaptation, however, the walk was pleasure itself, and I welcomed the smell of trees and fresh earth to settle on me, replacing the starch tang of the sea. I find walking in general a sure remedy for exchanging any disagreeable attitude with one of great contentment. Indeed, passing through gentle hills and ambling sheep once I gained entry to the park itself - as a pedestrian I paid no fare and thus was able to bypass the long line of cars waiting at the toll gate - I walked a further mile to the great house in a most serene frame of mind.



The house well deserves the term great. I found myself not a little awed approaching the high stone gate. We live, I believe, in an era of much reduced expectations for the beauty of our own spaces. Such a house as this makes mean all the many grand constructions I used to drive past on my way to school, and lays low such grandeur as I previously knew in New Orleans. It being near Easter, the house and grounds abounded with parents armed with napkins and the passing blurs their children, who were not to be in any way hindered in their quests for chocolate hidden in a course among the gardens. A University Student like myself has very little contact beyond my own Species of Person, and so to see such wild, joyful Little People and creatures of myth like the Happy Couple is both strange and wonderful. I meandered through the garden pathways, as well manicured as their old owners surely must have been, before returning to the house proper.



Unfortunately I was unable to take pictures in the house itself, the furnishings apparently being very sensitive on account of their antiquity. I do not believe I can properly describe the interior, for by my words it would appear a florid and garish place, ridiculous, a cake of such rich chocolate you can only suffer a single bite. I cannot convey how very small, yet oddly thrilled, I felt in this place. St. Andrews has its share of venerable stonework, and indeed I had the same reaction in Lyme Park I had upon studying the motifs carved into the giant doorway of School III - I was seeing something new. Upon leaving the house, the air began to hint at rain, and so I quickly returned to the platform at Disley, and thence back to Manchester, and thence to a comfortable, and relatively quiet, night's rest.

I swear, this is the last Lost post.

A more coherent collage of thoughts on the finale, now that I've had some sleep:


Making a series finale is a pretty thankless task. If people are talking about it, it’s usually because a good portion of the audience thinks it's shit. If you make a really terrific one, no one pays much attention. Lost tried to weave a balance between the fantastical island resolution and emotional character connections, and, indeed, the debate between those who like the finale and those who are ready to write off the series completely now hinges mainly on whether the characters are more or less important than the mythology and mystery elements. The sideways, however, has been a giant freaking clue that the writers were always more interested in the characters than the specifics of the island mythology. There's apparently a lot of mythology answers coming on the DVD. But honestly I don't think core fan queries will be among them.

One of the defining things about the show is that it dramatically shifted its focus every season. What it was "actually" about was, of course, the people and the weird island that threw them together, even though at times the show was "primarily" about one or more of the following: 1) people trying to get rescued from a plane crash, 2) people trying not to get eaten by polar bears, 3) the secretive, experimental Dharma Initiative, which also involved a weird feud between two leaders who wanted to kill each others' daughters, 4) the Oceanic Six desperately trying to get back to the island, 5) the '70s, 6) parallel universes, 7) Jacob, MIB and the Glowcave of Humanity, 8) Jack's daddy issues. And every time the show shifted, it flipped a whole 180 degrees, as if to say, "Now THIS is What's Important! IS YOUR MIND BLOWN?"

What I got out of the finale, though, was a final readjustment of, "None of those paradigm shifts individually were important; it was about these people and their connections to each other, which just so happened to be forged on a kickass magical island." And it's hard to hear that the things they made us think were important either weren't important all along, or were simply written off by the showrunners. It's hard to deal with that breach of trust. They did achieve a balance in the past. The Constant, which I hold to be the show's best episode, succeeded in creating a fusion of the primary focus, time travel, and the actual focus, Desmond's quest to return to the woman he loves. The scene between Penny and Des on the phone is perfect.

There were some fantastic directorial touches from Jack Bender, and all the main castaways had their share of the tender and the epic. The ending did veer into the sappy, and I have problems with Jack's kid being maybe imaginary, but whatever. The easy complaint is that the island wasn't explained properly and the answer to the sideways turned out to be the very thing that the producers insisted wasn’t the solution from the beginning. The sideways universe wasn’t exactly purgatory, but a metaphysical time-space convergence of old friends. Still, no Lost fan could watch the resolution without thinking of those early purgatory guesses, and I’m sure that “so it turned out it was basically purgatory, ugh” will be the reaction of mythology buffs and many who gave up on the show years ago and tuned in just for the finale last night. And that is a valid reaction.

But there was a thematic unity - the show ended the way it began. I can respect that, no matter what I thought of the various balls they dropped along the way (WAAALT!!). This is a show that swung for the fences and whiffed a number of times. You may think it succeeded or you may think it failed, but even if it failed, it had a damn good time doing it, and I had a damn good time watching it, and even at its most frustrating, people still loved it and were engaged by it. I don't think there's ever going to be another series quite like it - a sprawling genre epic, appointment-television, rubiks cube of an ensemble drama, shot in glorious 35mm. Aloha and Amen.

LOST - I Think I Liked It.

I said in an earlier post that BSG was another sci-fi show I hold near and dear to my heart. The ending? Not so much. Harry Potter is also series I invested much of my young life in and derived great enjoyment from. The epilogue is shit. Lost, Lost, Lost. You were doing so well. I got on board right from the Star Wars cold open, "but I believe in Duct Tape" has got to be one of the best lines ever written in the English language, and Sawyer and Juliet's reunion was everything that I could have asked for. That the plane would actually fly again I forgive. That a stab wound wouldn't have KO'd Jack before hour 2 was up I'm willing to buy. The sideways world was an interesting web of connections and love and happiness and mystery and then...

And then they explained it. In the most heavy-handed and yet completely ambiguous way possible. I'll give them props for that. But NO. NO NOT REALLY.

The internets have been set aflame already, the fallout's going to be massive ya'll, and maybe because it's five in the morning here, but I don't feel angry or betrayed or that my time has been wasted. I still love Lost. But they fell for Deathly Hallows Epilogue Syndrome (DHES). I lost it when Vincent laid down beside Jack at the end, but they didn't pull it off completely. What's so heartbreaking is that they got close. How badass was that fight between Jack and Not!Locke? It was the last ten minutes, the Church Reunion Pearly Gates Whatever, that kinda sorta blew it.

I mean, yes, I get it, Jack died. Was it just Jack? Was it everyone? What about his kid? Was Sideways World really just a metaphysical family reunion? Was it all in his head? Did they just St. Elsewhere that shit, or did they go the C.S. Lewis route? Was everyone happy and reunited in his head or was everyone happy and reunited in Sideways World or was everyone happy and reunited in heaven? I assume the Ajira plane get back to wherever and Hurley helped Desmond get back home and they all had happy, happy long lives. But does none of this matter because it was or was not real? That last shot after the title card--did everyone die in the original crash? I guess the takeaway is that these people's lives, in one of a series of universes, mattered to each other and their connections are what redeemed them, enabled them to be found. Or something.

I actually really liked it. This show has always ultimately been about the characters, and it was fitting and proper to watch them take their leave with one last slow-mo montage set to The Giacchino. I'm just not sure Christian Shepherd (seriously?) walking through big double-doors flanked by angles and LEADING THEM ALL INTO THE LIGHT is in keeping with that. Or how to explain the island. Or what happened. At all.

ETA: Oh! The internet has reached a consensus! Sideways World was Titanic Heaven! Now you're speaking a language I can understand.

Also, This.

I dunno what's sadder - that the Scots have all gotten pretty nasty burns since the sun came out and the temperature rose above 40, or that I've been walking around thinking it's pleasantly warm.

For the Queen! Part the First.

At long last, I have enough time (and enough ribbing from certain UK residents about the lack of Scottish/English content on this blog) to do a proper post about England. I totally had begun, in my notebook, an Austenesque letter about Lyme Park, the site of Pemberley in the BBC Pride and Prejudice, and so I'm just gonna keep it up, I think. If I start getting tired, some places might be reduced to Haiku, but we'll see how it goes.

Arrived in Newcastle on the fourth of April, on a morning as ponderous and cold as most of the Georgian Blocks which dominate the city itself. Indeed, I think Newcastle much diminished by the general pallor of its unfortunate Celestial Aspect, for in Edinburgh there is the same sort of venerable, prodigious stone marvels, yet one does not have the sensation one might be chundered on at any moment. However, for all that, Newcastle is not without its curiosities and charms. The Keep located within the town center, which can only properly be described as wee, affords the traveler a view of the city and the many quixotic juxtapositions of its buildings. Hoary stone constructions consume the majority of the space; but a great silver mollusk cheerfully squats beside the Tyne, and several bright bridges arched like cats rubbing on a newly pressed suit engender various degrees of affection.



There is also an Oriental Quarter, pungent and cluttered and identical to any of that ilk, and the remains of the great Roman Wall, which has been so far reduced that it must more properly be termed the Roman Walkway. The most delightful site to which I was conducted by my Guide was the Great North Museum, which contains enough fine animal specimens for an taxidermical ark, enough stonework from the Roman period to explain the fate of the fallen wall, and in general enough of other peoples' rubbish to quite satisfy my own noisiness. We continued to Tyneside, an quaint, pretty, much neglected place by the water, stopped to take note of the monastery there, and proceeded to walk along the Tyne, as ill-kept and stinking a riverside as to rival the better parts of the Mississippi.



The house in which I stayed was the home of my Guide, a Young Man, and His Parents. As such, the clean, modest, comfortable residence was the focus of very many deprecations and abuses on the part of the Younger, and much anxiousness on the part of the Elders. These, I believe, were so taken aback by my Southern form of address that, not having encountered politeness in their own Young People, were greatly diverted by its sudden appearance. A fine, home-cooked meal and a trip to a sleepy public house afterwords made very agreeable the evening I spent attempting to explain the disagreeable aspects of my own Country to my curious Hosts. Fortunately, most of the remarks solicited from me concerned the State of Florida, and thus could be written off as aberrations inapplicable to the whole.

Good food, good company, and a great deal of walking did much to foster a favorable opinion of Newcastle, although I must own I do not feel the urge to return there.

More LOST than In Scotland...

Remember when I promised that I was totally gonna blog about my time in England, specifically Newcastle, Manchester, Lyme Hall, Stratford, Nuneaton, and London? And then that time I was totally gonna blog about St. Andrews while I was here, about how there are baby rabbits and fields of wild daisies and other signs of spring in Albany now that, previously, I thought only existed in Beatrix Potter stories? Yeah...about that...


BAAABIES!!!

I swear I'll find a suitably gimmicky way to acquit myself of my English adventures, but today is not that day. Today, it is LOSTursday, and this weekend will be LOSTunday, and I'm really not quite sure how well I'm dealing with it. Six years is a long time, and I'm acutely aware how formative this show has been for me. My own Capitoline triad of sci-fi, since I've moved past the Hellenistic period and onto Rome in my exam prep, would probably consist of Lost, Buffy, and BSG. But, on to the penultimate episode of one the last shows in what unhappily seems to me to be the end of a golden age.

Pacing. This is how you do pacing. Many scenes stood out on their own and the intricate evocation of scenes of yore (Kate stitching up Jack in the pilot vs. Jack stitching up Kate in the now) was ramped up exponentially, even for this season, which has more mirror twinning than a fun house. But what I loved was that, I think, this was the episode where the sideways world fully became as vital as the on-island storyline. Not to say that it wasn't compelling for me before. I've drooled over the all Jack/John scenes in the last batch of ALTs, the one in this episode was especially nostalgic, and for all the ballyhoo surrounding Ab Aeterno, I think Dr. Linus stands up as one of the most complete episodes of the show, period. But how great was Giacchinno's music pushing the scene where Desmond and Hurley free Kate and Sayid? Most Zen prison break ever. Ocean's 11 is the wrong analogy to use, but there's a similar sense of danger and glee and of things coming together finally. And how great was Ben's trigger being getting punched in the face? LOL is seldom appropriate, but here I think even ROFL :) applies.

Admittedly, most of what's great about the sideways banks on our affection for familiar characters and situations, but I am fine with that. I got a tingle when Hurley and Desmond interacted with such familiarity, because it means, as many of us had suspected, that they now have full awareness of their island-lives. This is great news, guys, because what it suggests is that most of the resolution may take place in the much happier sideways world, still with our same characters, just in a different setting. Thus, Sawyer and Juliet (who is totally Jack's babymama, by the way.) can have their cup of coffee together, fully themselves as we've known them. We don't lose anything by their being in the ALT. Indeed, the LA X reality perhaps is the other side we keep hearing so much about. There's not really any antagonists in the ALT, just enlightenment.

Of course, if LAX does turn out to be the rosy reward at the end of the rainbow, the writers are also free to spare no one on-island. Richard's abrupt send off (Ricardusnonne moritur - He dead, ya'll) is indicative of the way the smoke's blowing, as it were. I think we were all happy to see Tina Fake go, and I forgive that Charles Widmore's revealed to be a complete chump, how come so many LOST power-houses turn out that way?, by the magnificent line reading (and lighting!) of Ben the moment after he kills his old rival. I also loved the rather quaint image of Ben settin' on his porch, waiting for Smokey to appear. For the record, I think Ben is playing MIB, and that he gave the walkie-talkie to Miles, whose continued survival is undoubtedly due to just how hilarious the man is, for a reason. Desmond AS the failsafe key I kinda get. How he'll destroy the island I don't. I think perhaps he'll be able to swim down into the light at the heart of the island and do...something. I guess. I don't know. He should totally go into the light and turn into a giant pillar of flames and then great, roaring cry of, "BRUUUTTTHHA!" he and MIB can battle it out in their elemental forms while Jack cries, Kate and Sawyer make out, and Hurley and Miles talk about time travel some more*.


The scene with Jacob was exactly what I wanted it to be, and my crush on Mark Pellegrino has only deepened after Across the Sea. I laughed and nearly choked on some wheat-a-bix when Jacob said that the lines on the cave didn't mean anything. There are some pissed off fans on the internets today, let me tell you, and I kinda love it when the writers deliberately provoke them. But it was always going to be Jack, and we all knew it, and I'm glad the mystical baptism happened now and not at the very, very end. The on-island stuff did the standard, pre-finale piece-moving ramp-up, but like times a million, and I think this is perhaps the best set-up episode. And the last. It's hard to believe that in a few short days, we're going to know how Lost ends, and no one else who comes to the show later - and they will - will have it stretching out before them, completely unknown, barely visible through the haze of V ad-text at the bottom of the screen. I have two exams and 300 pages of Our Mutual Friend to deal with before Sunday. I'll see you on the other side.

*If this is what happens, it will both send me into inconsolable weepings and puff my head up with so much pride that it explodes.

Revision...or Alison Janney on LOST?

Maybe it's just because my expectations for what must be the last myth-centric episode of the show couldn't have been higher, but I was a little disappointed with Across the Sea, although it illuminated, in a roundabout way, Lost's policy on answers. You’ll get them, but not necessarily explanations for them. As C.J. Cregg briefed on behalf of Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, "Every question I answer will only lead to another question.” "No shit, Lost," replied ten million people all at once.

We did learn what the deal was with Jacob and MIB, where the donkey wheel came from, and who Adam and Eve were, but the show didn't really explain any of it. We still don't know the exact nature of The Source, or the powers of its guardian, or where they come from, or how they're transferred - all points which seem really fucking salient for our castaways in the present. I’m mostly fine with this nebulous approach to storytelling, and more than fine with the idea that the Lost finale will be about what’s going to happen to our characters, rather than wrapping up mythology. I’m assuming that at this point, we’re pretty much done with “answers” except to the question: “So now what happens?” Given that, this episode worked as an MIB/Jacob flashback, but, especially given the last two episodes, there wasn't enough urgency or umph behind the narrative to make it emotionally satisfying in the same way that Richard's flashback, even laden with the worst kind of telenovella melodrama, was.

I’m pleased that while Fake!Locke has pretty much been established as evil, we’re allowed to see his is not a predisposed, Voldemort kind of evil, but arose from his own choices; I also loved turning Jacob, the benevolent, if passive, Jedi master of the island, into a total pokey rube of a mama’s-boy wuss; and the dichotomy show's been working so hard to sell us — the destructive, ignorant anarchy of Smokey/Free Will or the soul-crushing machinations of Jacob/Fate — looks increasingly false. I hope that in the end the remaining castaways are able to find a third, unexpected solution. The prevalence of the color red this season seems to hint that it's not just white and black in the game anymore.

My wishes for the remaining three (and a half) hours:

Jules and Jim. We all know that Juliet and Sawyer are going out for coffee, right? Deliver on that scene in the sweetest, fangirliest way possible, please. I need some Elizabeth Mitchell not tainted by V, and I absolutely love Giachinno's theme for the two of them.

See John Locke. See John Locke Walk. It seems to be what the sideways is building towards, after The Candidate, and think about the kind of pathos involved in this moment. John Locke the badass island mystic was very cruelly taken away from us, and it would be good to reconnect with that character.

What About Walt? Remember when Walt was mysterious and special and seemed to be key? What's the deal with all these children in general? I don't expect to get any answers on this subject, and I certainly don't Walt and Aaron to go the way of Hera Agathon, and I know the actor's like two hundred years too old for the part now; but still, through the magic of CGI or whatever, the show owes us something of him.

YOU BETTER NOT HURT PENNY OR DESMOND, YOU ASSHOLES. I mean it, show. For serious. I was sad when Sun and Jin died, but please, by all means, if one star-crossed couple has to go, let it be them. Leave Desmond and Penny alone.

Oh The Places (in Scotland) I've Been

Congratulations! Today is the day!
I'm writing of places
I've been while away.

I had brains in my head,
And a hole in my shoes,
And a magical railpass,
And a wish to buy booze.
I was all on my own. And you know what? I know
That traveling alone ain't the best way to go.

But it worked out alright. I made sure to take care.
And whenever I saw castles? I blew all my quid there.
At the fortress at Stirling I admired the view,
posed with Will Wallace, and tried Iron Bru.

And I saw lots of tracksuits,
and sketchy street bands.
There were Team Cullen t-shirts,
some crass wrestling ads.

But there were mountains there,
with that sweet mountain air.

Oh!
The Places I've Been!

I worked on my way up
to Aberdeen for a night
to see a folk concert,
and man, it was tight.

Aberdeen's, like, a square of depressing grey blocks.
American-born, I feared there'd be knocks
wherever I saw a big bloke in a hood,
but everyone's sweet, and the music was good.

Oh, yes, there were sheep.
Aberdeen's known for sheep.

Glasgow has shops
in every spot that you look,
and fresh sushi to boot,
even bought me some books!

Not as much archetecture of the Georgian style,
But we can't all be Edinburgh and have a Royal Mile.
I went into Ladbroks while waiting for my train,
won six pounds at blackjack, yet felt oddly shamed.

Now, I'm happy to say,
and really it's true,
that seeing the Highlands
can kind of change you.

You can't picture this stuff.
A photo won't do.
For in that wide expanse
you affix part of you.

You will come to a place where the signed are not marked
in English, but Gaelic, and nothing seems dark
in the world anymore,
where mountains hug Morrisons
(a grocery store).
If you backpack the trails,
I didn't have time,
you'll certainly find
the great peaks worth the climb.

I hung 'round Fort William,
and walked by the river.
It was beautiful, cold, but I didn't shiver.
The West Coast of Scotland is hype that delivers,
although the whiskey I tried there played hell with my liver.

But I found myself campsick,
at the end of the day.
Do these hills beat the Blue Ridge?
I can't really say.

Now I'm gone to Carolina
and Glen Nevis' stones,
and Albany Park,
And they all feel like home.

So...
since I've got Catullus, and Sardis, and pray,
I work the crusades some point on the way,
These are the places
I'll write of today.
I'm bound for the Union.
So be on your way.

LOST, YOU ARE STRESSING ME OUT!

Well, that happened. I guess this whole post might be a spoiler. We really can't have nice things anymore, can we?

Not to say that I didn't call it, or that film-student-me didn't enjoy the execution of the scene, so to speak. You can even look back at this blog for evidence thereof. But still, LOST, ye are a cruel, cruel mistress. I mean, I can predict the bloodbath on the end of these kinds of shows with great joy and abandon (and accuracy), and usually, you know, I tend to favor the Shakespearean resolution. But when you get down to it and you trot out Michael Giachinno's Deathly Dying Death Scene music, it does get to me. The end of the Pacific was bad enough to start the week off, ya'll, and HIMYM ended on a low note, too. God, I hope Glee is just a fabulous rainbow parade of puppies and ponies in pink polka-dot bows to make up for the epic sad that was the last ten minutes of this episode.

I have my Scottish roundup mostly-finished, and I'll post it sometime tomorrow (today, I guess) after tea. And maybe a rewatch of Jim and Pam's wedding, just to remind myself that some television relationships don't involve explosives. Yet.

Wispa vs. Hershey's

Evening, gentle readers. No travels today, I'm afraid, just a little rambling about food. Before that, though, let me advertise this.

Besides the thesis films, I've been getting some agonizing emails from the Film department about the amazing speakers and events happening this semester. Clearly, the excitement is scheduled my term abroad in order to punish me for something terrible I've done, like enjoying Glee. As the calendar steadily marches towards May, Wes and the States are more and more in my mind, and sometimes not in a good way. Writing this sentence, I hear, I swear, a cow mooing from out my window mixed with the rhythmic echo of surf breaking on the sand. Albany is vastly superior to the Nics. But, then again, just last night and suddenly, a slow-kindled patriotism within me awoke - to defend our American chocolate.

Vending machines are kind of problematic in Scotland. You don't know any of the brands, and you can only sometimes and only vaguely surmise from the wrapper what kind of sweet it is. And so, if you're cheap like me, you certainly don't want to sink 60p into some unknown confection called Bubbles. Inevitably you end up with Twix or Starbursts or some other Atlantic crossover. I've learned to trust anything put out by McVitie's, and I fully intend on smuggling at least 10 rolls of Digestives through customs. McCoy's are the best of the chrisps (chips) I've sampled, but I haven't really been adventurous in terms of my chocolate, except for that one time I tried the really nice Lindt bar with chili filling of Rebecca's. So last night at the Union, admittedly beginning to feel about seven quid's worth of beverages, when I was told that "Americans don't know how to make chocolate," I responded - not belligerently, or anything - and I held a surprising amount of ground for a soul that quails at confrontation and usually equivocates in the face of it, to the point where Stuart actually bought me a Wispa bar so that I might acknowledge that eating a Kiss is really like chewing Shame and swallowing the Tears of Pennsylvania orphans.

For the record, the Wispa was good. It had a nice texture, a nice, smooth milk chocolate, but it didn't distinguish itself profoundly from the competition in my mind. St. Andrews is a demonstratively better place than Middletown because it has a castle, and a beach, and more than two bars. But Wispa is about on par with Hershey's, so when you go to the UK, internet, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. That said, the food in the UK is abused abominably, and it's not at all bad. In fact, I think I've eaten better here and for less than at Wes, although being self-catered and splitting meals with decent and even quite good cooks (I definitely fall on the decent end of the spectrum) probably has something to do with it.

In other news, I've been finishing the reading I started over spring break (another thing delaying my backlog of travel reports) and I'm almost sad to put down Ben Franklin's autobiography, although I'm well rid of Mansfield Park. I definitely need to pick up more Solzhenitsyn after One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, which was draining but one of the best things I've read in a while. Certainly one of the best things I've read recently that was written after 1920.

In terms of Television, I thought that LOST last week was middling, The Office more on its game (I'm glad we've all decided to acknowledge that Erin's weird, but I hope we're approaching the limits of it), 30 Rock as sharp as ever - I need to memorize Liz's dodge ball speech in case I'm ever asked what I want - and Treme an exhausting keeper. It makes me wonder after David Simon's health if this outing is lighter than the Wire. Besides an hilarious unfortunate incident involving Darren's mattress, which I cannot comment too fully on because he hasn't discovered it yet, not much else to write home about. I've got two wispa bars, a bag of M&Ms, and 80 pages of Ibn Jubayr to get through tonight. Wish me luck.

House 19

I must again beg your patience, gentle readers, as a couple assessments, a numanistics seminar, and a trip to see Clash of the Titans* have all kept me away from my aforepromised blogging. Of course, the hours I spend watching tv, reading comics, and browsing other blogs online haven't helped matters either, except in a roundabout way now they have. My esteemed colleague The Mouse recently put up a cast list for her grand tour of the London stage, and I figured I haven't really talked much about life in St. Andrews since I arrived.

So first, a tour.



Wasn't that fun?



*Review Haiku of Clash of the Titans:
Monster a minute,
can't savor the absurdity.
300 still wins.

Standby to Standby

Hello, internet. You thought I'd pissed off, didn't you? Thought I'd fallen down, down into the crazy and dangerous whirlwind of Fife area nightlife. Here's how it is. Upon my return to St. Andrews, after traveling for about eight days straight, I came down with a fantastic cold, and by fantastic, I refer the heated conversations I hallucinated with my stapler. Now, having gotten over that, I have two essays due Friday and a trip to Fort William planned for next week I need to get sorted; and then I double-pinky-swear I'll recount my adventures in England and the beginnings of my vocation as a little girl traveling alone.

But, because I am not ungenerous, to tie you over I offer a photograph taken in the historic and august city of London.

Stop Lurking, You Creepers.

It's come to my attention, here on the 15:51 Virgin train to London Euston, that a number, not a great number, but a number of people who are not my mother do read this blog. There's some very interesting things I'm going to be writing about when I get back to St. Andrews on Sunday, but honestly I'm too damned curious now about what kind of site traffic I'm getting. Since I actually have stuff to write about, I also have leverage to find my answers. So, let's make it interesting.

If ten righteous people leave the comment "I read this blog, you needy child," I'll post all of my Scottish travels on Friday. If only five, you just get Stirling. If it's less then five, I'll go out drinking and won't bother on this bloody thing til May, and that's only if I feel like it. There's your incentive, people of the internet. Go.

Mounting to the Welkin's Cheek

So, a lot of the canoe club was actually in town this week - we're all leaving for Easter, apparently. And the other day I had my first go at sea kayaking. Very different from whitewater, mostly because I didn't have as much experience reading waves and the current sort of alternates, instead of flowing in one direction. And no real eddies that day, either. What a workout. It was great because the shore is like two minutes from Albany, and the weather was expressive. I actually brought my camera and took some footage of the sea before we got out there. Tons of fun, and an epic introduction. I can't wait to do something more hardcore than this!

No Tickets, No Map, No Problem - Part 2

What's great about the Edinburgh Castle is that in addition to the castle itself, there's like five different museums inside of it: The National War Memorial and the War Museum, the regimental museum of the Royal Scots Greys, the Scottish Crown Jewels and the (supposed) stone of Scone, St. Margret's chapel, the oldest building in Edinburgh, prison dungeons, and a great many halls and rooms dedicated to James VII and Mary Queen of Scots. Most of the castle is from the 16th century, after all, the medieval fortifications having been destroyed in a series of sieges. To say that I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off, rainbows of joy instead of blood gushing from my jugular, would be an exaggeration, but not by much.

The only downers were that it was crazy crowded, and a pretty Disneyfied site overall - with grass you cannot stand on, seriously, because a uniformed official with a radio suddenly will apperate and yell at you in three different languages. The crown jewels exhibit was the worst in the respect. Its lead you through a history of the symbols of state using very, very creepy manikins with wigs worse than Jack's beard and has a strong It's A Small, Small World vibe. However, when I got to the room which had representations of all the kings and queens of Scotland and saw these two pictured above, I nearly lost my fool mind. My fool, Shakespeare-loving mind. The only other time I squealed audibly was in the Scots Greys museum, their claim to fame being that they captured a French Eagle at Waterloo; They still have the eagle, and the still-blooded flag of the French regiment they took it from. So cool.




After two hours at the castle, I walked down the Royal Mile with no definite aim besides to find a cash point. There was an ATM on the Mile, but the line was almost to the curb, and so I turned onto George IV Bridge (it's not really a bridge), on which the great swarm of tourists thankfully seemed less present. So I was taken completely by surprise to walk past The Elephant House, the coffee shop where J.K. Rowling apparently did a lot of work on the first Harry Potter. Naturally, I went inside and sat down to a cute elephant cookie and a fat glass of hot chocolate. It was funny, because the decor of the place was very The Village Indie Coffeehouse. It was really the most American place I've been in yet. It was also very crowded. I finished up quickly so a Scottish woman and her two kids could have my table. Not exactly a Potter pilgrimage, but it was a neat, delicious detour.

Down the street was the National Museum of Scotland, which was free. If you are ever in Edinburgh, people of the internet, take advantage of this. Yes, there are many families with very small children screaming for being unfairly subjected to "culture," but there are also racecars, and stone lions carved by the Romans, and a Claymore that's taller than a NBA center. The exhibits on the Kingdom of Scotland and Ancient Peoples of Scotland were both fantastic. Plus, there was a cash point there with no line at all. The only way it would have been better, as a museum, is if there had been dinosaurs/a giant statue of Teddy Roosevelt. By the time I got through it, I was pretty walked out, so I have less pictures.

I definitely am going to go back to Edinburgh sometime over break. It's so easy to get there and there's so much to do. By the time I walked back from the museum to Waverly station, it was getting close to six and colder as evening came on. I couldn't have timed it more perfectly, because as soon as I had validated my railpass, they were letting people onto the platform for my train back to Leuchars. I waited with one of those really adorable, affectionate old couples - the man was sporting a military beret, I'm pretty sure the lady had a hermes scarf, and they were basically hugging every time I looked over - and I found a window seat with relative ease. The ride back was uneventful and the bus pulled in with just enough time for me to run to meet it. On my way back from the station, I picked up Chinese from the Ruby - the Chinese food here is the only real culinary disappointment, but it's still edible - and later Darren and Stuart came by and we played some pool at the Union. A great, full day.

No Tickets, No Map, No Problem - Part 1

Saturday morning I woke up suddenly at 8, and suddenly decided I wanted to go to Edinburgh. So I did some quick laps around wikipedia to see what was notable and what was free, charged my camera, and I was off. From the bus depot I made it to Leuchars, the nearby train station that's as close as Scotland comes to the Old West. I'm not making this up. There are fields of wheat, and the wind whistles through them, ya'll. It's like a weird cross between Oklahoma! and Deliverance. Plenty of other students leaving for break were on the platform, though, so it was cool. I got the 11:30 train to Edinburgh, and I was in the city an hour later. So...that happened.

Let me say that ScotsRail is lovely. There was cheerful purple carpet and space in the cabin and a snack trolley, without any chocolate frogs but still. The trains in Britain happily lack that washed-out 70s vibe and tinge of despair that you get from using American public transport. Getting off the train, I was taken aback by the sheer volume of people rushing off the platform. This was a city, and St. Andrews is a town. Waverly station looks sort of like Grand Central's red-headed step-cousin. Well, really, it's probably more closely related architecturally to Ellis Island. Lots of rusting iron beams, rivets, Beaux Arts columns and cartouches. But everything was clearly marked, and I found my way out onto Market Street. I was again hit by waves of people, and the sound of a bagpiper playing for tourists.

Edinburgh is really nice. New York is the only thing I can compare it to in my mind, because I don't really remember San Fransisco and Houston is too sprawling to impose any real sense of grandeur or immensity. And they're both too young, come to that. Whenever the Scots want to tease me, they ask how I like taking in classes in buildings that are older than my country. I like it very much, in point of fact. Edinburgh isn't New York, but it is a metropolis, and it was exciting to be in a proper crowd, listening to the aforesaid bagpipes. I got a little lost looking for the castle, ended up on Princess street, and saw an arrow advertising the Walter Scot Memorial; so I decided to head that way and I could figure out how to get to the castle later. The huge crowds and lines of tour buses suggested I wasn't anyplace sketchy.

I paid three quid to tramp the 287 steps up the medieval-style spiral staircase, very narrow with no rails or landings, get my bearings and figure out what direction the castle was in. It was crazy windy, but very beautiful, and I really was able to get a lay of the city. There's a central atrium type thing with beautiful stained glass and facts about Walter Scot inside where I could get out of the wind. I got a little distracted on account of a bunch of little blond American girls in North Face jackets screaming up and down the stairwell. One of them shouted, "Think of it as a bounding experience!" which made me burst out laughing and I almost dropped my camera. I tried getting a shot of the monument itself, it's a very pointy and gothic and looks like it was carved from charcoal, but a tree got in the way.



From the Monument I was able to head up a street called The Mound, with good reason because it involves walking up a hill. From there I turned onto the Royal Mile, the most touristy street I've been on maybe ever - it was sort of like the French Quarter, actually. I saw an Invisible Man and two Bravehearts, there was a whiskey tour, a house of mirrors, an armory (?!) and so many, many shops selling Scotish flags, rugby balls, and kilt boxers. The majority of the tourists along the drag seemed to be French, although I heard some German and there were a few, mostly old, Japanese couples. And at the end of the Mile was the castle itself.

This? This is the Castle.

Fog on the Barrow Downs

For the past three days I have been knee-deep in deponent verbs, the preaching of the First Crusade, a massive carb-eating bonanza in order to rid my cupboard of chametz, and a sore throat that is horrible in the mornings, when I need to walk the mile into town and be alert in lectures, and eases off at night, when I am doing nothing that bears on my GPA. So, this morning, when I looked out the window to visibility levels of maybe three feet, classes were canceled; and by canceled, I mean that I blew them off. Sleeping in until twelve, the BBC Pride and Prejudice, and half a pint of Caramel Chew Chew all restored me to a better humor, though, and at seven I went outside to take some pictures of what fog in Scotland that hasn't lifted in twelve hours looks like.





House 19 is quickly emptying for break, which means that my own Traveldammerung, 10+ days of consecutive journeying across the United Kingdom, draws nigh. Will be sure to keep ya'll posted on my destinations and the adventures had therein. Passover, too, approaches, and last night at Jew Soc's Prince of Egypt showing I met a lovely post-doc fellow named Leslie, who has a car (!) and was happily willing to include me in whatever she ends doing for Pesach - whether it's in Edinburgh, or here in St. Andrews. I need to find a Judaica shop, like stat, because Tesco sells neither matzah nor Manischewitz, which recently I have had the most unexplainable and irresistible urge to buy.

As an aside, how crazy awesome was la historia de Ricardo Alpero en la programa Perdido la noche pasada? I loved it, not the least because my Spanish finally payed off on this show. I'm glad they didn't even pretend to have a B story and just revealed some mythology instead. Loved The Stand shout out to Lloyd as well. Nestor Carbonel was amazing. He does like three different accents in a 42 minute period. Just, you know, FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION, Emmy Voters. There are more obvious Biblical parallels in the story, but the cork conversation Richard and Jacob have on the beach pretty much validates my own Book of Job/Dark Tower leanings as to the end-game of the show. The writers have renewed my complete confidence in them by delivering above and beyond all expectations. I cannot wait for The End.