The End of an Adventure

I know, I know, this final post was a long time coming. I actually had friends and relatives (and you know who you are) call me up and ask me where my last post was. I was busy readjusting to American life! :)

I've been home for about ten days now, and I can safely say I am back in the swing of old, well-known routines. There were a few days when I was disoriented by everything, including driving, local television programs, and seeing people I haven't seen in months. Providence even opened up a massive, new section of highway, and this made me feel as if I had been away forever, when in reality it was only a few months. After a few days I got used to being back in Rhode Island again, even though in my dreams I was still wandering around London and hanging out with my flatmates.

People keep asking my about London, and I am brimming with a thousand ridiculous stories (only the highlights were presented on this blog), but it is difficult to describe my experiences over there. No matter how articulate I am, no one can fully understand what it was like for me during those few exciting months living abroad. It was an amazing experience, and I think it had changed me for the better. I much more independent than I was before, and much more open to trying new things, even if they launch me outside my comfort zone. I also feel like I really got to know a different culture than my own, which is a very humbling experience. It makes you realize how big the world is.

On my last day in London I was leaving the Institute of Archaeology for the final time, and I breathed deeply, cold city air filling my lungs. I felt an enormous feeling of satisfaction wash over me, and I could only think of one thing: I had done it. I had traveled alone, across an ocean, with absolutely no idea what to expect, and I had survived. Not only had I survived, but I had a blast. It was quite an adventure. Sure, there were rocky moments, moments when I wanted to give up and go home back to comfort and familiarity, but I stuck it out. I am so grateful I had the opportunity to experience this, and I have to say I am proud of myself for taking the plunge.

I have been in touch with my roommates, and I know that we're going to visit each other and stay connected. We shared an experience that no one can fully understand except us. I am also grateful that they were such great kids; each of them came from different areas of the US and each of them taught me alot.

I can't believe my months in London are already over. Back here at home, where virtually nothing has changed, I alternately feel like I have been away forever, or never left in the first place. I know it will be even stranger when I get back to Fordham.

Speaking of good old FU, next semester is my final semester. The next year will be full of even more change and uncertainty; I will embark into the real world. I am both excited and frightened of this idea, but I know I am ready for whatever comes my way. I am determined to live it up at school for my final semester and wring every ounce of fun from the next few months. Who knows what will happen after that? I have been throwing around the idea of making a new blog about all my adventures at school and otherwise...let me know what you think.

So this concludes Annie's British blog. It has been quite a ride, and I hope you've enjoyed reading about my adventures. I want to give a shout out to my most loyal readers: Nana and Poppy (whose comments were always thoroughly enjoyable), Elizabeth (always ready to give me boy-advice), and my parents (who were with my every step of the way and supported this entire adventure). Thank you for visiting this blog and supporting my trips over in London, and I send you my love.

Signing off....
Annie xoxoxo

Saying Goodbye

Today is my final day in London, and I can hardly believe my time here is drawing to a close. My other roommates have already left for home, and I am alone in the flat, packing and finishing up some last minute work. The past couple of days I have said goodbye to all of my new friends here, those from my classes, from choir, and otherwise. Saying goodbye is difficult for me, but it is the product of this period in my life. I am constantly moving and doing new things, meeting people and leaving people. Soon I will graduate from Fordham, and that will be the biggest goodbye of all, but let's not think about that now.

Even though I am sad that this adventure is drawing to a close, I have by no means sat on my rear and moped about it. My roommates and I threw on last get-together on Thursday, the last night we were all together. We exchanged secret santa/Hanukkah fairy gifts (two of my flat mates are Jewish), and I got a framed picture of the six of us. Very sweet.

On Saturday my roommate Natalie and I went to Westminster Abbey to tour it in earnest. Although I had been there for evensong, I had never taken the time to see all of the memorials and the tombs that Westminster is famous for. Many famous figures are buried at the Abbey, from Queen Elizabeth I to Chaucer to Charles Darwin and Issac Newton. It was amazing to be surrounded by so much history. It was very appropriate to spend my last sight-seeing day at Westminster Abbey, an icon of English heritage.

My guy roommates left on Friday, and the last of my girl roommates left this morning. Being girls, there was much embracing and shedding of tears. I have to say that I thought my flatmates were fantastic; we all got along and had alot of fun together. Living with someone, especially when you're away from home in a foreign country, forges a very strong bond. I have no doubt that I will maintain contacts with those girls back in the states. I miss them already.

I am also very excited to come home; I have missed my family and friends (and my dog) very much. I've also missed living in the USA; while London is fantastic, there is no place like home!

So my flight leaves tomorrow evening, and I get into Logan at about 9:45 pm, eastern time. This is not my last post; I want to finish this blog with my return home and my musings about the experience as a whole. Stay tuned....

Some Last Minute Indulgences

So my last week in London has finally arrived...can you believe it? I've been juggling endless papers and trying to experience some last minute London venues. On Sunday, for instance, I went to Evensong at Westminster Abbey. It was at three o'clock (hardly what I'd call evening, but its gets completely dark here by about 3:45-4:00 pm) so it was a nice break from writing my papers. The evensong service was wonderful- their choir was made up of men and boys, very formal and traditional. They were dressed in red choir robes with white tunics and stiff lace collars. Their music selections were very English and very old; many of their songs had a haunting quality, which of course was wonderful to listen to in a place like Westminster Abbey. I thought it was very exciting to attend a service in a place so steeped in history (the abbey is over 1,000 years old).

My roommates and I also threw a holiday party on Monday, inviting all of our friends. We all got dressed up and drank cocktails and played loud music. It was really nice to see everybody and celebrate the end of our time here in London. I had a pretty good time, but I have to admit that I had the hangover from hell the next morning. That's what you get when you drink different types of alcohol in one night- rookie mistake. I won't go into detail lest I mortify my relatives.

It is with a heavy heart that I said good bye to one of my favorite things here in London- the British Museum. Today I went for the seventh (and final) time of the semester to check out my favorite things one more time. I also went to the exhibit that I had been meaning to go to all semester; this was the exhibit featuring the terracotta army of China's first emperor. The terracotta army is seriously interesting stuff- permit me to nerd out spectacularly and tell you about it.

So the First Emperor of China, a man named Ying Zheng, was born in 259 BC. At the age of 13 he became the king of a province called Qin, which was one of seven states in China at the time. All these states used to battle each other for power, but when the King grew up he conquered all of those other states, thus unifying China into an empire. The King of Qin declared himself the emperor of this new, unified China.

The Emperor wanted to rule over China forever; he was afraid of dying and tried alot of different remedies to prolong his life. He also spent over 30 years of his reign building a massive tomb complex, an underground empire which he could rule for all eternity. His tomb complex is gigantic and surrounds a huge artificial mound in which the emperor himself is buried (the emperor's tomb is yet to be excavated, although legend has it that it is filled with wonders). Anyway, in 3 of the rooms in these tomb complexes the emperor had over 7,000 life size terracotta warriors constructed; these were his warriors for the afterlife. The warriors are all unique and magnificently detailed. The British Museum's exhibition featured only about ten of these terracotta warriors, but was pretty cool to see them up close. The vast majority of them are still in China. Keep in mind that what I have described just now is a tiny fraction of the awesome story of the First Emperor and his tomb- you should look it up on Google!

Anway, when I finally tore myself away from the museum and started my walk back to my flat, I found myself to be quite depressed. The British Museum is such a fabulous museum, and after all my visits I feel like I know it inside and out like an old friend. Who knows when I will see it again? My only consolation is that when I return to New York I will have familiar places in which to nerd out: The Met and the American Museum of Natural History. I must admit that I have missed them.

Caroling in the Quad

Last night UCL kicked off the Christmas season with a Christmas festival in the quad. It was rather cool- they decorated a big Christmas tree, and the huge marble pillars of the library were lit up with festive colors. There were a capella groups, fire jugglers, orchestral music, caroling, and authentic British food, like mince pies. The UCL choir took care of the caroling festivities, and it ended up being a rather strange experience. Let me explain...

So at around 7:45 pm, 15 minutes before we had to perform, we were required to meet in one of the academic buildings. One kid handed me a sheet of paper on which there were typed lyrics to some well known Christmas carols.

"Wait, aren't we going to get some sheet music so we can harmonize?" I asked.

The kid shrugged. "If you know some harmonies, sing 'em," he replied before moving away.

I stood there rather awkwardly and tried to mingle with my fellow choirsters; my default American alto buddy wasn't there. I started to talk to a friendly English girl with whom I had had a few conversations with; I am ashamed to say that I still haven't figured out her name, and she doesn't know mine. So I shall dub her Alto girl. Alto girl and I started talking about Christmas traditions.

"So do you have Christmas pudding?" she asked me.

"Umm, no," I replied. "At least I don't think so. What is Christmas pudding exactly?"

"Well, it's got this fruit in it, and its delicious."

"So is it in a bowl or something? You eat it with a spoon?"

"Well, no, it's like a cake, sort of, and you set it on fire and everything."

I frowned; Alto Girl was being extremely vague.

I started again. "Okay, so Christmas pudding is like a cake, a cake with fruit in it, and you set it on fire? Why?"

She laughed. "You pour brandy on it and then set it alight, and the brandy burns up, and it tastes really yummy."

"Oh okay. So what kind of fruit is in it again?"

"I don't know. I think Saltanos?"

I racked my brain for a translation. "Oh, you mean raisins?"

"I think so, yes. Anyway, Christmas pudding is my favorite. Its so sad they don't have it for you in America!" Alto girl also tried to explain to me what mince pie was; all I can tell you is that mince pie is made up of some unknown fruit (not meat, like I had originally assumed), and that it is 'really yummy'. I'll have to take her word on that.

So eight o'clock rolled around and we were all herded out to stand in front of the stage that was set up on the quad. The UCL band took the stage, and we launched into our set of carols. Keep in mind that we hadn't practiced, and neither had the band. We also had no conductor. The band would just launch into a song and the choir would jump in instinctively; we were flying by the seat of our pants.

The band was not very good, and some of them were even missing sheet music. They were also miked and we were not; this had the combined effect of highlighting their errors, as well as drowning out the choir. My roommate Natalie was there (god bless her) and she said she could barely hear us. Maybe that was a good thing.

Basically, it was not an amazing performance. I had expected the crowd (which was sizable) to leave in disgust, but to my amazement they stuck around, singing along with us. I realized afterwards that the vast majority of them were quite drunk; how else would they be able to stand the cold in the quad as well as our lackluster performance?

The worst part was, when we had finished our 15 minute set, someone yelled out: 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen!' It was the equivalent of someone shouting: 'Free Bird! Free Bird!' The band did not have music for this, and we did not have lyrics. Someone in the band started it anyway, and the rest of them trundled along. Us choir kids joined in reluctantly, not wanting to leave our band high and dry. When we got to the second verse (which NO ONE knows), we literally just started singing in nonsense words: "And when the da da da da da the blessed angel blah...and Jesus meh la la la la the blah de dah de mwah...." I exchanged mortified glances with my fellow altos. Fortunately the crowd of drunken English students didn't seem to notice. When the song was over the choir got the hell out of there, in case some other person demanded a random carol.

So with a few bumps in the road, I started the Christmas season, London style. Too bad I can't sit back and watch some Christmas movies, because I still have a ton of papers to write. In the meantime I will keep my eyes peeled for some mince pies.

A Visit to a Royal Palace

I spent the entire weekend trying to recover from my illness, and I am pleased to report that yesterday I was almost back to normal. Today I woke up feeling pretty good and more than ready to get out of my room and back out into the world. I spent the whole morning in the library, catching up on work, and this afternoon I went to Kensington Palace to do some sight-seeing.

In case you don't know, Kensington Palace is one of the residences of the royal family. It is most famous for being the birthplace and childhood home of Queen Victoria, and later as the home of Princess Diana. Remember when Diana passed away and the news showed those shots of the millions of flowers left at palace gates? Those were left at Kensington Palace.

At the palace you are free to walk around the rooms at your leisure. We saw Queen Victoria's bedroom, Queen Mary's dining room, and King George the I's sitting room. There were also displays of clothing that would be worn to court; the clothing for men and women looked equally uncomfortable. One dress worn during the 19th century featured a ludicrously huge hoop skirt made of whalebone. I guess practicality was not a factor in the construction of these clothes.

There was also an exhibit featuring Princess Diana. It consisted of several rooms; a few contained large pictures of her, another showcased her most iconic dresses, and a few rooms showed footage of her in different stages of her life. My roommate Natalie and I stood in front of a huge screen that showed Diana's wedding ceremony to Prince Charles on loop; we were mesmerized for over twenty minutes. Keep in mind that I had never seen that wedding footage before; it was all before my time.
"Look at that dress," Natalie said.
"Look at that tiara," I replied.
"I want to be a princess," Natalie sighed.
The whole exhibit was interesting, but rather sad. There were a few old English ladies in tears as they wandered through the rooms. I felt rather detached from the whole thing- I mean, I remember when Princess Diana died, but I was only ten years old. I hadn't really known who she was at the time. Over here in Britain she has become somewhat of an icon; this sentiment was apparent as one looked through the Kensington Palace galleries.

Afterwards Natalie and I walked to the large pond that is out in the Palace gardens; it was full of geese, loons, and the biggest swans I have ever seen (their heads could have come up to my shoulders). As I mentioned in an earlier post, I don't get to see animals very much, so I walked straight up to a huge congregation of these birds; they were being fed breadcrumbs by some man. Close up they were truly gargantuan beasts; they were fighting over bread and squawking and making all sorts of strange noises. Their sheer size and their bizarre vocalizations frightened me. Clearly these were not cute, approachable animals, and I quickly left the scene, dragging Natalie with me. I realize this is a strange thing to mention in my blog, but I couldn't get over the size of these things; they could have belonged in Jurassic Park.

So Natalie and I headed home and promptly got stuck in the tube for over an hour (it's only supposed to be a ten-minute ride back to our flat). The tube is the most unreliable form of mass transit during rush hour. It breaks down constantly. We finally made it home and now I'm supposed to be working on my paper about battle scenes depicted in Assyrian wall reliefs. Can you tell I'm procrastinating? Until next time...

One Sick Chick

So I'm sick. Again.
I got up Wednesday morning and was so dizzy I almost fell over. The dizziness lasted throughout the day, combined with a high fever. I could barely walk down the street to go grocery shopping. People must have thought I was the local drunk college student, but no, I was completely sober. I thought I should go to the doctor, but I waited until Thursday to see if maybe it was some weird 24 hour thing. It wasn't.

I made it to the UCL health center on Thursday (they inexplicably didn't charge me the 60 pounds), and managed to see a doctor. He diagnosed me with: labyrinthitis.
Wait, labyrinth-what-sis?
Labyrinthitis. I'm having difficulty typing it out right now. "It's a virus in your inner ear," my doctor explained. "Causes alot of dizziness, queasiness, and fever." he paused. "So who do you think is going to win the presidency next fall? That's when you all vote, in the fall of 2008, right?"
I had to sit for a moment, digesting this bit of information. What the hell kind of illness was labyrinthitis anyway? Some made up British sickness? And why were we talking about the 2008 elections right now?
Since he was my doctor, I engaged him in some political discussion, offering my views on who might win. I really had no idea (who does?) but I offered him some of my views on Obama vs. Hillary and who might get the nomination. In return he gave me a prescription for anti-dizzy pills and sent me on my way. You have to work for your meal around here.

So as a result of my dizziness and fever I missed my classes on Thursday and my Brahms Requiem concert on Friday. I was quite disappointed about the Brahms- I worked really hard on learning that piece (it takes over 80 minutes to perform), and I went to rehearsals all week. So now I have this gigantic piece in my head and no way to perform it. Perhaps when I get back to Fordham I can ask my choir director if we can do that piece for our annual spring concert (which usually features a requiem).

Speaking of going back- I have only two weeks left here in London. I fly home into Logan on the 17th. The countdown is on. I still have a ridiculous amount of work to do, places to visit, and I have to recover my health before I can do any serious work.

Which makes me wonder....
I've only been ill once in my Fordham career. That's six semesters, and I've only been really sick once. I come to England, and I've been really sick twice in about three months! What is that about? Is it the British food/weather, or are there different germs here I'm just not used to? Whatever the case, I just hope I can get better soon. Until next time...

Thanksgiving and B-day: Double Whammy

I know I haven't posted in awhile; I've been swamped in work. Today is my birthday (21! Yay!) and so I have given myself the day off and am therefore free to blog. Here are a few of the things I have been up to this week:
-I went to mass at St. Paul's Cathedral...it is a beautiful cathedral, and they had a choir made up of men and boys; they wore choir robes with stiff lace collars-very cool
-I got carded for buying a liter of generic red bull- apparently you have to be at least 18 to buy so much red bull at a time. "It's cool, I'm 20," I said importantly, flashing my id. "I can handle my energy drinks."
-I wrote a five page paper about the symbolism behind some of the architecture of ancient Babylon, and a ten page paper about whether or not culture in humans and culture in chimpanzees is different in kind or degree (glad THAT paper is over)...
-My choir is working on Brahm's requiem, and we have our performance next week. It's pretty difficult to sight sing in German...
-On Monday, one of my boy roommates announced that he was going to shave his head, so he went into the bathroom and did it. Then he got two of my girl roommates to pierce his ears (with a needle and an ice cube!), and he put in a pair of diamond studs. The whole ear piercing affair, which took place in the kitchen, was rather grisly, and I eventually had to excuse myself from watching. Not to mention that my roommate now looks like some kind of thug (boys really are silly)...

Thanksgiving was Thursday (I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving, by the way) and it was a little strange to wake up and go to class. All I really wanted to do was sit in my PJ's and watch the Macy's Thanksgiving parade, but instead I went to my Ancient Egypt class and my Roman Britain class. In my Roman Britain class we went on another field trip, investigating the remains of the Roman wharves and the Roman forum and basilica. The sole remaining piece of the Roman basilica in London was the brick base of a column, and it was down in the basement of a posh hair salon. My class of ten traipsed down there, irritating the hair stylists and the customers, but it was worth it. All of the ancient Roman remains that we have looked at have been in basements, either the basements of art galleries, car parks, or in this case, hair salons. People just build right over them.

At one point in the class one of my classmates pulled out a brownie and was munching on it while our professor was lecturing. He looked at the brownie and said: "Oooh! I want some of that! Look at me, I'm American! It's Thanksgiving and I want some pumpkin pie!"
"Hey!" I said, smiling a little but also somewhat irritated. Was he making fun of Thanksgiving? Maybe he was just jealous because he doesn't have a holiday that promotes unashamed, extreme food consumption. In either case, I felt a pang of homesickness. I wanted to be home watching football with my brothers, and I also wanted some pumpkin pie. For real.

My study abroad program sponsored a Thanksgiving buffet downtown at a nice hotel, so my roommates and I made the trip down. The dinner was quite good, and I had turkey and potatoes and some other nice, hot food. It was kind of interesting, all these displaced American kids coming together and making our own little Thanksgiving. While it wasn't the same as being home, it was nice to be with my friends and with other Americans on the holiday.

So now it's my 21st, which doesn't quite have the same significance over here as it does back in the states (after all, the drinking age is 18), but I'm prepared to go out and celebrate it anyway. My girl roommates and I are going to go out dancing, so I'm pretty excited. In the meantime I'm going to hit up a museum or two. I hope you all have an excellent Thanksgiving break, and until next time...

A Visit From Dad

I apologize for the scarcity of posts in the past week; not only has my Internet been down, but I've been up to my eyeballs in work. Seems I had to eventually buckle down and become a student after all (sigh).

My dad came to visit me this weekend, and boy, did we have some adventures. I met him at Heathrow on Friday, and took him into central London. I showed him my flat, and then took him on a tour of UCL, making sure to stop by the main library, the body of Jeremy Bentham, the main quad, and the Institute of Archaeology. From there we went to the British Museum and wandered around there for hours (I was a very good tour guide and took him to the coolest artifacts). When night rolled around, we went out to a crowded little pub and had some Guinness (in typical Wray family fashion). We then went to Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, because those are pretty cool to wander around at night. After that we went to another pub and had more beer. I'm not kidding. Dad eventually had to pass out around 10:00 pm from a combination of jet lag, beer, and endless hours or girl talk on the behalf of yours truly.

Saturday we woke up early, ready to hit the sites of London and also to meet up with Jeannie, dad's British nanny from when he was a kid. We went to the Tower of London first, and then met up with Jeannie, her daughter Jo, and Jo's husband Pete at Victoria Station. From there the five of us went to Covent Garden (an outdoor market), crossed the Thames, re-crossed the Thames, and went to Westminster Abbey, Parliament, and Buckingham Palace. We then went to another pub (surprise!) and had drinks and pub food for the next couple of hours (we all had beer; Jeannie sipped SoCo on the rocks). It was really nice to see Jeannie again (I hadn't seen her in years), and her and Dad reminisced on all their crazy adventures they had back in the sixties and seventies. Jo and Pete were very charming too; it was great to have finally met them.

One of the main sights my Dad wanted to see while he was over here was Stonehenge. Going out to Stonehenge was proving to be a difficult excursion to plan; the trains and buses to Salisbury, the nearest town to Stonehenge, all seemed to take too long (over three hours, while the site was only 80 miles outside London).
"Let's just rent a car," my dad said on Sunday. "I'll drive, and you can navigate."
"But they drive on the wrong side of the street," I pointed out.
"I can handle it," my dad replied (Mr. Navy Admiral), but I remained wary. My concern grew when I saw the car, which was a stick shift. The stick was on my dad's left hand side (he was sitting on the right side of the car). I just didn't like the looks of this. Not to mention driving out of London was going to be difficult.
Dad stalled a few times in busy traffic in London, but I kept my mouth wrenched shut, determined not to seem like a wuss.
Miracle of miracles, we made it to Stonehenge later that day, on behalf of Dad's superb driving (he got the hang of it) and my navigational skills. Stonehenge is truly a wonderful site; I had been there before, but I still found it amazing. The weather was raw when we got there, but at one point the sun broke through the clouds and shone on the wet stones, and I was taken aback by the sense of timelessness of the place. If you ever get an opportunity to look at it, you must go.

When we made it back into London, we stopped by the Natural History Museum for a little bit before going back to my flat and to the pub across the street. We went out with my girl roommates and Dad bought a round of drinks and pudding; they fell in love with him instantly.
"Your Dad is so cool!" they squealed to me. Hey, free drinks and dessert means alot to a college kid.

Overall, I had a busy, exhausting, but awesome weekend with my dad. We managed to see alot of stuff over here, and we managed to drink alot of alcohol. It was also nice to have someone from home actually see what I've been up to over here. I was sad to see him leave Monday morning, but I'll be home in a month (can you believe it?).

Now I have to get back to my paper- it's about the layout of the ancient city of Babylon (mmm...yummy).

Oxford, Day Two

I spent the entire day Saturday exploring the city of Oxford with Anna as my guide. First we went to the Ashmolean museum, which is the oldest museum in all of Britain, having been founded in the 1600s. The Ashmolean has a collection of art as well as antiquities, including some very impressive Egyptian artifacts. Besides the Egyptian collections, here are some of the other things I thought were cool at the Ashmolean:
-an original Stradivarius violin
-Chief Powhatan's Mantle (Pocahontas's Dad...and mantle=cloak)
-original Da Vinci sketches (Anna and I got to view in a special room, under supervision)
-The Parian Marble, which is the oldest Greek chronological table known (kind of like the oldest Greek calendar ever found; it is inscribed on marble)

After the Ashmolean we had coffee at the posh five-star Randolph hotel. I don't really drink coffee, but Anna loves it and insisted that we try it at the hotel. I'll admit it was pretty cool; we were served coffee and biscuits on silver place settings by white-jacketed waiters. Probably as elegant as two broke college kids can get. I heaped a ton of cream and sugar unto my coffee and it ended up tasting just fine.


After coffee and lunch, we explored the city in earnest, walking for miles on end. Whenever we walked past a college, we would go inside and gaze at the central courtyard, as well as the architecture. They are all lovely, and at a few of them we even went inside to look at their libraries or chapels. Some of the colleges were charging admission, but since I look like a student I could slip in unnoticed (bwahahahaha).

The city was bustling on a Saturday, crowded with tourists as well as locals. I was taken aback at the sheer size of it; it was a thriving, small city. I had expected Oxford to be a sleepy college town, but I was quickly proved otherwise.

At the end of the day, Anna and I returned to her flat, utterly exhausted. We had been walking for miles. There was talk of going out to a pub, but we had done that Friday night and it was full of round-faced 18 years olds barely past puberty. The pub scene in Oxford was not the place to meet sophisticated guys.

Saturday night Anna and I talked for hours, drank more coffee, and spent a good 45 minutes analyzing a giant Dali print tacked up to her wall (The Hallucinogenic Toreador- worth a look). Nothing like late night intellectual discussion. I went gratefully to bed that night, quite tired and overstimulated from my full day in Oxford.

Oxford, Day One

This weekend I went to visit my friend Anna in Oxford. Anna is a first year PhD student in classical archaeology at Oxford University; I had met her this summer during the epic excavation in New Jersey. I have always wanted to see Oxford, and now I had the perfect reason to go.

Anna and I had talked online about my arrival on Friday; we had it set for about two o'clock. I caught a bus from Marble Arch in central London and headed out of the city at around one on Friday. Once on the bus, I tried calling her, but something was going on with her phone; she wouldn't pick up. Oh well, I told myself as the bus trundled into Oxford, I can just find her in her dorm or something.

As the bus rolled further into town, to my right I saw some beautiful architecture: ornately carved sandstone complete with turrets, gargoyles, and cathedral spires. This must be it, I thought, and I got off the bus. The plan was to go into the University, find an administrative building, and look up Anna's dorm number. In retrospect, I was severely underestimating the sheer size of Oxford University.

It turns out the building complex I had been dropped off at was a college of Oxford University; one of the 39 colleges at Oxford. Each college is set up like an American college; each one has its own set of dorms, its own quads, its own library, chapel, and dining hall. Oxford had 39 of these colleges. The town is not a town at all; it is more of a small city, completely focused around academia. I realized my odds for finding a central administrative building, let alone Anna, were not promising. I told myself I would look for the next few hours, until the sun went down, and then if I couldn't find her, I would go back to London. Keep in mind that we were having cellphone problems.

After about an hour (and many asking of directions) I made it to Anna's college, Lincoln. Thank god I at least remembered what college she was in. Once there, they informed me that she lived in an apartment complex away from the college, and they gave me a complicated set of directions on how to get there. My situation was looking bleaker by the second.

I kept my chin up and tried to follow their directions as best as I could, and I set off, my suitcase rattling noisily behind me on the cobblestones. I wanted to stop and look at the incredible architecture, but I had to concentrate on where I was going. After walking for several minutes, I looked up and spotted someone down the road from me that looked suspiciously like Anna from behind (Anna has flaming red, curly hair). I couldn't be sure, but I decided to screech out her name anyway. If it wasn't her, I would look like a lunatic, but at this point I didn't really care; I had been wandering around for quite a while.

It was her. Once I realized this, I felt I had experienced a moment of divine intervention. What are the odds of seeing one person you're looking for in a small city (and Oxford alone has 18,000 students)? It was remarkable, and I sent up a silent thank-you to the cosmos.

Anna took me to her apartment, I dumped off my stuff, and she said she was going to take me to formal dinner at her college. At formal dinner you sit at long tables in the dining hall and are served a 3-course meal. Free food- sounded excellent to me.
"Did you bring anything nice to wear?" Anna asked. "You have to dress well for formal dinner. No jeans."
Umm, I hadn't brought anything but jeans. Oops.
"You can wear my roommate's robes, then," Anna said. "I'm sure she'll let you borrow them."
Wait a second...robes?
"We all wear black robes to formal dinner," Anna explained. "You can wear one over your clothes, and you'll fit right in."
So we pulled on black robes over our clothes (bizarre but cool), and headed off to Lincoln college for formal dinner. The dining hall was built in the 1400's, and consisted of long wooden tables with long wooden benches. Portraits of famous Lincoln scholars hung on the walls. The vaulted ceiling arched high above our heads; Anna said it was still the original ceiling built centuries ago. Everything was illuminated by candlelight. All of the students trickled in, wearing long black robes. The entire experience felt like a scene right out of Harry Potter.

The coolest part was when one black-tied server banged a wooden plate on the table, and everyone got to their feet. Three professors walked silently down the aisle and took their places at the high table at the end of the hall. A prayer (grace) was said in Latin, and after it was over everyone sat down and conversation resumed. It was a moment laden with tradition, and I thought it was fabulous.

The food served was very British: soup, pork, and for dessert, cake with hot custard poured all over it. I made sure to try some of everything (even though I don't really eat pork). When in Rome....

Overall, it was a very cool dining experience. Stay tuned, for next post I will detail my further adventures in Oxford...

Encounters with Some British Characters

As I'm sure you all know, the Red Sox won the World Series on Sunday with a sweep of the Rockies. I made sure to stay up and watch game four (wild horses couldn't drag me away), so I took over the common room of my apartment and set up camp, complete with nacho chips. My other roommates were in there when the game started, but one by one they trickled out, no doubt due to my frenzied yelling and cursing whenever the Sox screwed up/made an awesome play.
As I mentioned in a previous post, instead of commercials between innings, the British channel over here features commentary. The commentary consists of these two guys sitting in a low-budget studio set, an American and an Englishman, ready to discuss the recent events in the game. Only this time, they had a guest sitting at the desk with them, the self-proclaimed 'Biggest Red Sox Fan in Britain'. Yeah right; I could give him a run for his money.
"What makes you the biggest sox fan in Britain?" The Englishman asked the guest.
"Well," the guest replied in his impeccable accent, "I name my cats after the players. I have a cat named Nomar, even though the real Nomar was traded, and I also had a cat named Manny, although he was run over by a car, and I have a new cat named Varitek."
I sat there in my pajamas, utterly bewildered. Since when did cat-naming get you unto a TV show as the 'Biggest Red Sox Fan in Britain?' The guy wasn't even wearing a Red Sox jersey.
The rest of the commentary was uneventful, except at one point the American host and the English host got into a fight of sorts.
"Yeah, when I was in the league, we always saw the World Series as the ultimate dream," said the American, who was a former triple-A catcher.
"Well, we actually made it to the World Series," replied the Englishman.
"But you were twelve," the American said incredulously. "That wasn't the real World Series- that was a little league thing."
"Don't poo all over my world series!" the Englishman replied, clearly offended. "Don't poo all over my world series!"
At this point I was strongly reminded that I was in another country; never on ESPN would the ex-player commentators use the word 'poo' or talk about cats.

So I stayed up until 4:45 in the morning, fully fulfilling my duty as a member of Red Sox Nation. When we won, I leaped off of the couch and was jumping up and down and shrieking for about 5 minutes, completely by myself, in the dark living room. I hope I didn't wake anyone up, but you never know.

On a different note, I saw Macbeth yesterday. This was the one I mentioned about a month ago; the one with Patrick Stewart as Macbeth. It was quite amazing, I have to say. It was set in communist Russia, which lent the entire play a bleak, gritty feel. Patrick Stewart was amazing; you actually felt sorry for him, even though his character was a greedy murderer. I could literally talk about this play for paragraphs, but I'll just mention my favorite part. The coolest scene for me was when Macbeth was having a dinner party, and his friend Banquo (who Macbeth had murdered) appears at the dinner. Banquo, who was drenched in blood, just got up and walked down the length of the table towards Macbeth, who freaked out and fell out of his chair. The entire time the lights flashed and the music crescendoed- a truly terrifying scene.
Overall, it was just cool to have watched Shakespeare in London.

Back in the Swing of Things

With my illness over and my DC trip behind me, I am now up to my old tricks back here in London. The week has revolved around my upcoming choir concert (it's in a few hours, actually). We've had a few extra rehearsals for our Bach Magnificat, and we've even started working with the orchestra, which is also made up of UCL kids. It's very exciting when you hear a piece of music finally come together and swell and take over a room. A few of my roommates are even making it out to the concert, and I'm grateful for that; an hour of classical music is not every one's bag.

My classes have been going well, too. I've started raising my hand and participating, and am no longer (slightly) intimidated by all the intelligent British accents. On Thursday in my Roman Britain class, we hiked through the rain into the Moorgate section of the city to look at the remains of the old Roman amphitheater. It was very cool, but again, you had to use your imagination; it only consisted of a few low stone walls (no more than knee height).

My favorite class is probably Cognitive Evolution and Early Technology. This class explores the development of human consciousness and cognition and tries to link this to examples in the archaeological record, such as stone tools. This is my smallest class and is gathered around a table, seminar style. I like this class because it often turns into a philosophy discussion instead of a straight lecture; we debate questions like: What is consciousness? What makes humans different from other animals? What is the mind, exactly? At no time does the discussion veer into anything theological, which I find interesting and consider more likely to occur at Fordham (not that there's anything wrong with it one way or another).

I've gone out dancing again, too. Thursday night I was dancing with an Irish guy who thought I was Irish also (I don't know why, my American accent is pretty unmistakable), and when I told him I was from New York City he promptly stopped dancing with me and left the dance floor without a word. Did I intimidate him or something? Whatever the reason, it was rude! Oh well, I recovered after about 10 seconds and continued dancing with my roommates.

Delight of delights- when I got back from the club on Thursday, I turned on the TV and saw the Red Sox/Rockies game was on! Granted, it was 1:30 am, and it had just started, but I couldn't believe my luck. One of my other roommates, a Rockies fan (and the only one I have ever met) sat down and watched the game with me. Watching baseball was great. Over here, instead of commercials, they have two commentators discuss what just happened in the inning: a British guy and an American guy. The commentary was pretty lame, I have to admit (I didn't even think the British watched baseball) but I didn't care- the Sox were on! I held out valiantly until the 7th, when by then it was about 4:00 in the morning, and I dragged myself to bed, makeup smeared all over my face.

So tonight I have my concert, then hopefully more Red Sox. I let you all know how the concert went in my next post- stay tuned!

An American Girl Comes Home (For a Weekend, Anyway)

I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while, faithful readers. I've had a few adventures (as well as some misadventures) in the past couple of days.

First of all, I was pretty sick last week with a sinus infection. I knew I needed some antibiotics, so I went in search of a doctor. I went to the UCL student health center. The receptionist there informed me that as an American staying in the UK for less than 6 months, I was not allowed to see a doctor. She also told me that I couldn't even be seen by a doctor at a hospital.
"So what if I were dying or something?" I asked incredulously. "They would just turn me away?"
The receptionist sighed, exasperated. "I don't know what to tell you. You're not a citizen of the UK."
"I'm pretty sick," I said, embellishing my sinus infection for maximum pity. "I just need some antibiotics. Please, I really need your help."
She pursed her lips. "Alright. I'll let you see the doctor as a private patient. It'll cost 60 pounds."
That's $120, for you American readers. I cringed, but agreed to her offer.
I saw a doctor, but she didn't think I had a sinus infection, and so no antibiotics. Waste of time and money. Silly doctor, what does she know, anyway?

The next day (Thursday) I flew to DC for my Dad's Admiral promotion ceremony. In case you don't know, my Dad is in the Navy and recently got promoted to Admiral (a very high honor). He was set to have a big promotion ceremony at the Pentagon, and the entire extended family was going to come. I couldn't miss it, so I flew into Dulles, and arrived a very jet-lagged and cranky girl. Once there, I saw an American doctor, who gave me some antibiotics and I was
feeling much better by Friday morning.

The promotion ceremony went great. The Pentagon itself was very cool, and there were many cute Marine boys walking around (an added bonus). That night was the annual Navy birthday Ball, and my whole family got dressed up for that. We clean up very well, I have to say.

Saturday we walked around DC, first taking a tour of the Whitehouse, and then looking at all of the war memorials, as well as the Lincoln memorial. The weather was beautiful, sunny and about 75 degrees. Back here in London it's about 45 degrees and cloudy everyday, so being out in bright, warm daylight made me feel like some kind of disoriented vampire.

It was nice to see everyone in my family, and it was also comforting to see some familiar faces. In typical family fashion, we went out for beers every night (the older family members anyway), and at one point I had a Guinness with my grandfather, who was very impressed at my new drinking ability (I downed a whole pint!). I had a really good time hanging out with everybody.

I also made sure to sample some of my favorite foods that I had dearly missed across the pond, including:
Mozzarella sticks
Nerds (candy)
Soft pretzels with cheese
McDonalds Breakfast (with hashbrown!)
and of course, Red Bull
If there are any health conscious readers out there gasping in horror at my food selections, I apologize. If you had been deprived of good old greasy/perfect American food, you would have eaten all of that too.

So on Sunday night I took an overnight flight back to London. I sat next to a cute boy on the plane and talked with him for awhile, but he fell asleep with his mouth open (quite unsavory) so I didn't attempt to engage him in any further conversation.

Once back on the ground, I made my way through the maze that is Heathrow airport and managed to get on the tube; all of this was accomplished with about three hours of sleep under my belt. Once on the tube, I saw a man sipping an open can of beer at about 10:00 in the morning. Yep- I was definitely back in the UK.

Night Life

The past couple of nights have been fairly crazy. Thank god today is Sunday, a de-tox day to relax and catch up on homework/sleep. Even as a college student, I am not used to consuming so much alcohol. Before I get any condescending letters from relatives, please allow me to explain.

At about six o'clock, the city of London essentially shuts down. You can't go shopping, the museums are all closed, movie theaters aren't open, and even my favorite restaurants aren't open. This is quite jarring for any American, especially a spoiled New York girl as myself, who is used to going to the Gap at 11:00 pm, just for the hell of it. No, here in London, things wind down early. There is nothing to do once the sun sets. Except....
There are a few places that remain open come nightfall, and these are the pubs. So unless you want to stay in your flat and do homework (no thank you), you go out to a pub. In my case, I am particularly lucky; there is a pub right across the street called Crown and Anchor. I could literally fall out of the front doors of my apartment building and into the open doors of Crown and Anchor. This happens more often than I would care to admit.

If you are sick of pubs, you can go out to the clubs. This, too, happens frequently; my roommates and I often make an exodus to the local tube station and head out to a club. Personally, I find clubs more enjoyable; I love to dance. When my roommates and I tear up the dance floor, we are always the best dancers there. I'm not kidding. Back home, I am an average clubber, but here across the pond I feel like a dangerous dancing machine. The locals will often stop their sleepy gyrations and stop and watch our energetic dance moves. Plus, all the songs that clubs play over here are American, so we all belt out the tunes. We look like we were hired to dance in these clubs.

Of course, this will often bring out the English guys, drawn to our dancing like moths to a flame. They all seem to have the same pick up lines:
"Are you from the States?"
"Do you come here often?"
"I LOVE this song."
Either that, or they'll try to silently dance with us, but they usually give up and drift away, intimidated or embarrassed. Oh well- at least they still have their good looks and cute accents.

The British culture pushes one towards the consumption of alcohol. Everything shuts down at nightfall, and there is absolutely nothing to do besides go to a venue that revolves around alcohol. Even the TV stations over here are lousy, so you can't even stay in and watch the tube. Unless you want to go to bed early, you HAVE to go out- that's what all the English do (even after my choir rehearsals, the singers travel en masse to a local pub). That's all anybody does around here.

So that explains my ridiculous spike in alcohol consumption, particularly beer. If my relatives are offended, I apologize. When in Rome...

Learning about London's History

Yesterday was a memorable day. First of all, and delight of delights, the SUN came out. The sun only comes out and stays out about once a week, so the rare sunny day is special indeed. This was perfect timing, because my first archaeology field trip was also yesterday. This was for my Roman and Medieval archaeology class, and we went into the Barbican neighborhood to examine ancient Roman walls.

In case you don't know (and I didn't really up until about a week ago), the Roman establishment of Londonium was founded on the banks of the Thames about 2000 years ago. It was destroyed by the local Britons in about AD 60, but those tough Romans built the city back, complete with an imposing city wall that stretched around the settlement. By around 450-600 AD the city of Londonium was abandoned, and other people lived, fought over, and built structures on the site, including Saxons, Vikings, and the Normans. Basically London has a long and violent history; it was destroyed and rebuilt many times.

As we walked around the thoroughly modern downtown, our professor showed us the remains of some of the Roman walls of the northwest section of the old city, including the remnants of a guard tower. You kind of had to use your imagination on this field trip- for instance, all that remained of the guard tower were a few low walls about a foot high, and it was hard to believe it had once been a massive tower. The Roman wall remains were also in strange places; they were in the courtyards between apartment buildings, and one section even had been built over by a car garage. Most of these Roman walls had been revealed in the aftermath of the blitz- after a modern building would be gutted by bombs, the ancient walls could be seen underneath the rubble. Some of those gutted out buildings were still left standing as a testament to the blitz.

This is going to sound ignorant of me, but I had almost forgotten about the German blitz during World War Two. It wasn't until our professor pointed out the amount of buildings that had been rebuilt that the idea of the blitz became tangible to me. It is hard for me to imagine living in a city that would be under attack from another country- America's geographic position makes that scenario pretty difficult. But London 70 years ago was seriously affected; the remains of those attacks are seared into the framework of the city. You don't hear much about the blitz, but it left visible scars, some of which we saw first hand. Honestly, it was quite disturbing to look at some of the destroyed shells of building and imagine what it must have been like to have your city under attack.
Unfortunately we know what that is like now, after 9/11, but I digress...

So the field trip was very informative and memorable. This class has one every other week, so I am sure to gain an intimate knowledge of the history of this amazing city. I am sure to keep you all updated on whatever I find out. Until next time...

Squirrel Sighting

In an effort to counteract all the Guinness I have been consuming, I've been trying to jog regularly in Regent's park. Regent's park is a ten minute walk from the flat, and it is a gorgeous park, founded originally by Henry the Eighth as a hunting ground. It was in Regent's park on Sunday that I had my first sighting of British wildlife: a squirrel.

I don't know if I mentioned this earlier, but London is limited when it comes to the animals. You see the occasional pigeon, and even rarer still, the person walking their dog, but that's about it. I had been in London for about three weeks when I realized: hey! where are all the squirrels? I hadn't seen one yet, and as an animal lover, it was starting to bum me out that there were no animals to be seen. I asked my roommates about the lack of squirrels; they didn't care that much. I even looked it up online- yes, there are squirrels in Britain, but I just hadn't seen any yet.

So when my roommate and I jogged into Regent's park for the first time, I stopped dead in my tracks. My roommate looked back at me. "Stopping already? Man, you are out of shape."

"No Beth," I said. "Look- a squirrel."

And there it was, a squirrel, chewing on something or doing what squirrels do. My roommate rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed, but I watched it, delighted. Finally! There are animals in this city! I had missed them so much. That squirrel sighting made my day. If you are an animal lover, I'm sure you would understand. And if you don't like animals, I apologize if you found this post ridiculous.

Population of Red Sox Nation in London: 1

Good old USA. I miss the sunny skies, the warm weather, the good food and most of all....post season baseball. While I love my American flatmates, not one of them is a RedSox fan. Today, a bunch of kids from my building were all in my apartment, and I asked the group if anyone was a fan, because I needed someone to come to a bar with me and see if we could watch the game.
"I hate the Red Sox," one guy spat (A New Yorker, he had also thrown in a few words about the Sox that were blasphemous and not to be repeated here).
I looked to a girl who was wearing a Red Sox sweatshirt. "Kelly? What about you?"
"Oh, I'm not a fan," she said. "I just like this sweatshirt."
I raised my eyebrows. "Well, does anyone want to just go to a bar and watch the game anyway?"
"Why would we want to pay to watch a team we don't like?" one guy asked.

Agonized and disgusted, I left the room and searched online for British bars that might play the Sox game. I found one that sometimes played American sports and called their number.
"Hello?" a British woman picked up on other end.
"Hi, are you playing the Sox game tonight?"
"The what?"
"The Sox game. The Red Sox?"
"A baseball game?"
"Yes." I paused, feeling like I was speaking a dead language. "The Boston Red Sox and the Anaheim Angels are playing tonight at about 3:00 US Western time; are you showing that game?"
"Oh." I could hear the rustling of paper. "Yes. The match will start at 9:30 pm tonight."
"Ok thanks!" I said, and hung up. Success. However clumsy it was, I had made contact. I realized belatedly that I still had no companion to the bar; I couldn't be out by myself until one in the morning (which was when the game was likely to end). It was time for desperate action.

"Please come with me," I asked my close girl flatmates. "I can't miss this game. The Sox are up 2-0 and they might sweep the Angels tonight! Puh-leeeze come with me."
I turned to one of my roommates, who was an avid Duke basketball fan. "What if Duke had their postseason now and you needed to see it?"
"That," she said, "Is why I came abroad for the fall. I would never be abroad in the spring, so I would never have that problem."
"We would love to come with you," another roommate said sympathetically, "But I'm sorry Annie, baseball is just too long and too boring."
Aaaargggh. A knife to the heart. I could tolerate uneducated cretins badmouthing the Sox, but to denounce baseball as a whole? Painful. Just painful.
I wouldn't be surprised if I were the only Sox fan in London. The thought makes me very homesick/lonely indeed. I will still be on the lookout for a fellow fan, but the prospects seem grim. In the meantime, I am attempting to watch the games on my computer. No matter what the odds, I have to cheer on my boys. Particularly V-Tek (he is the man!!!).

Blunders with the Brits

So after recovering from my Dublin trip on Monday, I finally started classes at UCL. On Tuesday I had my first two classes: Archaeology of the Ancient Near East and Cognitive Evolution and Early Technology. Both classes promise to be alot of work, but their subject material appears pretty cool.

Since my involvement in these classes forces me outside the American bubble in my flat, I am determined to make some British friends. Unfortunately, this is not proving to be so easy. For instance, in my Cog. Evolution and Early Tech. class, we sat around a large seminar table and I was sandwiched in between two British boys. I turned to the boy on my right and attempted to engage him in conversation.
"Have you had this professor before?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he said, barely meeting my gaze.
I paused. "So was he good?"
"Yeah."
Hmmm. "Are you an archaeology major?"
"Yeah."
Third strike, you're out. I gave up.
This example pretty much sums up my interactions with British students so far. I'm not really sure where I go wrong. I exude my best American girl charm and a winning smile, but I feel like it bounces off the Brits; they are immune to my powers.

Another example of my impotence occurred during my first choir practice on Tuesday night (I joined the UCL choir- I wanted to keep my voice in shape for my return to Fordham in the spring). The director of the UCL choir seemed amiable enough; this was how he introduced himself:
"Hello, I am Charles, the director of this choir. My name is Charles, not Charlie, not Chuck- Charles."
So at the end of rehearsal I went up to the director to introduce myself, being a study abroad student and all.
"Hi Charlie, I'm Annie," I said, smiling and shaking his hand. His mouth opened slightly and he looked almost disgusted. I'm not kidding. My smile faltered confusedly for a moment, but then I went on. "I'm a study abroad student from Fordham University in New York City."
"Oh," he said; he had clearly never heard of it.
"It's a Jesuit school?" I said.
"Oh, you're the serious Catholics, aren't you?" he asked, frowning.
I wasn't sure how to respond to this. "Actually, we're the academics," I replied finally.
We talked for about thirty seconds about the Bach piece we were singing (Bach's Magnificat in D), and then he abruptly walked away without even saying goodbye. It was then that I realized that I had called him Charlie when he specifically asked us to call him Charles. Nice work on my part.

I don't understand it. I try to be as outgoing and charming as possible, and it seems to repel the Brits. Maybe it's true- maybe I am a loud American and it offends them. Is my 'Americaness' really that glaring?

During one of my first orientations, I remember meeting a girl from Denmark. I shook her hand and introduced myself :"Hi! I'm Annie."
"Fiona," she answered, smiling thinly.
"Where are you from, Fiona?" I asked.
"Denmark."
"Cool! I'm from the States."
Her smile grew brittle as she looked me up and down. "I know."
Is it that obvious? Do I have a neon sign hanging over my head saying: 'I'm AMERICAN!' ? If that's true, then is it repelling the Brits or is it all in my head? They never really teach you about this stuff in study abroad orientations. And this problem is not unique to me; my roommates are all dealing with this.

Now keep in mind, reader, that I don't think the Brits are mean or anything of the sort. I just find them to be mysterious, and their friendship elusive. Hopefully I'll figure out a way to win them over. How hard could it be?

Dublin Part Three: The City

Saturday morning my roommate and I woke up early to head into the city of Dublin. We were ready to hit all the tourist sites- St. Patrick's, Trinity, the National Gallery. As soon as we got into the city (around nine in the morning) it began to rain. I didn't have an umbrella with me, so I bought one from the nearest shop. It had the Guinness logo all over it. Now I looked like a true Irish girl.

The rain was pretty cold and miserable, but it didn't last the whole day. It was only uncomfortable as we hiked to Trinity college; we almost slipped on the wet cobblestones. Trinity college was beautiful, but you couldn't really appreciate it in the pouring rain, so we didn't stay for long.

Next we went to the National Post office, which my grandmother had suggested we check out. Apparently it had been destroyed in the Easter uprising of 1916 and was then rebuilt. With the rain subsiding, we tried to look for any signs of damage (i.e. bullet holes) but could find none. We continued onward.

St. Patrick's cathedral was beautiful. We were lucky; we showed up when the choir was rehearsing, and it was wonderful to sit in the pew and listen to the music. We probably spent in hour in there, checking out all of the statues and monuments inside the cathedral. When we went outside into the park (where supposedly St. Patrick himself baptized converts in the 5th century), I saw an older woman throwing a rubber ball to a fat Jack Russell. I hadn't seen or pet a dog in two weeks, and I was feeling quite deprived, so I walked over to the lady and she let me play fetch with Ziggy (that was the dog). It was quite therapeutic, I have to say.

We spent the rest of the day at the National Gallery, which was pretty cool, and then we wandered around some Irish shops before going to dinner.

That night we went to an Irish pub and sat watching the rugby game over half-pints of beer. My roommate was wearing an Ireland sweatshirt, and an old man at the bar looked at us.

"Whichteam arye rootinfer?" he asked.

My roommate and I looked at each other, bewildered. Neither of us understood what the man had just asked. Perhaps these half-pints were stronger then we thought.

"Sorry?" my roommate asked politely.

"You're not Irish then?" the man asked. "But you're wearing an Irish shirt." I then realized what he had asked: What team are you rooting for?

"I'm from Texas," my roommate replied.

The man smiled broadly; he was missing a few teeth. "I don't believe you. Texas?" This seemed to amuse him to no end.

"Mind if I sit next to you?" he asked, and before we could say anything he slid into our booth, right next to me. "I'm Jimmy, by the way," he said. For the next ten minutes he asked my roommate all about Texas, and even threw in a few George Bush jokes. It was very difficult to understand him; not only did he have a thick Irish accent, but he had been drinking a bit, too. I could only understand about every fourth word, and it was usually a curse word.

"So did either of you girls have Irish in your blood?" he asked.

"My great grandfather was born here," I said. "He actually participated in the Easter Uprising."

Jimmy stared at me. "You don't say."

"Yeah, he actually had to flee Ireland because of his participation- he thought he was going to get arrested."

Jimmy continued to stare at me. "Did your grandfather know Michael Connolly?"

"I don't know," I admitted.

"If he was in the uprising, he might have, because Michael Connolly was the leader of the uprising," Jimmy said. "He used to meet with his people at a pub a few doors down- Cleary's. I'll take you girls there right now and buy you a pint."

My roommate and I looked at each other. What the hell.

"C'mon, let's go then," Jimmy said, and we got up and followed him out unto the street. A few doors down there was another pub- painted bright red, it was called Cleary's. This pub, like the last one we had left, was filled with old men. They all seemed to know Jimmy; they called to him as we passed.

"Hey Jimmy."

"Hiya Jim."

"Hey Jimmy, who're those girls you got with you there?"

"These girls are from the states!" Jimmy declared. "This one's from Texas, and this one's got a grandfather who was in the uprising!"

"Jaysus Jimmy, buy them a pint."

We pulled up stools at the bar, and the barman poured us each a pint. Jimmy, to my amazement, bought a red bull.

"This," Jimmy said, speading his arms wide, "Is where Michael Connolly sat. This is where he planned."

I looked around. The bar had red leather seats and pictures of Michael Connolly all over the place.

"Can you feel the ghosts in here? I swear, I get shivers in here, thinking about all this." Jimmy looked at me, and I saw that his eyes were filling with tears. "My father fought with them, and I continue his fight," he said. "My sons will continue my fight. We will always fight; we will fight until we are free."

He took my hand and kissed the back of it. "Your grandfather was a part of this too. We continue the fight for him, too." He clasped my hand between both of his and shook it once. "We fight for him, swear to God."

The next half hour involved stories of Michael Connolly, the uprising, and jokes about the British and George Bush. From time to time an old man would come up to us and shake our hands, and then shake Jimmy's. They all were clearly impressed Jimmy had brought two young American girls into the bar.

All in all, it was an interesting and memorable way to end the trip to Ireland. I was glad to have met Jimmy; he was a genuinely friendly person. It was also cool to go into the very bar that had so much history, a bar that my might great-grandfather himself might have gone to. I will undoubtedly always remember that conversation with Jimmy; his passion for Ireland was palpable. Plus, he bought us pints.

Dublin Part Two: Newgrange and Knowth

So after rejuvenating night of sleep at the Marina Hostel, my roommate and I went to go see the Neolithic monuments of Newgrange and Knowth. This wasn't originally in our plans, but it was suggested to us by the friendly, gap toothed Serbian hostel manager.

"You study archaeology then?" he asked in his thick accent as he blew cigarette smoke out the kitchen window. "You must go see Newgrange. It will*$#&#$@ blow your mind."

Ahhh. That ringing endorsement was enough to convince me. So at 8:30 Friday morning, my roommate and I headed into Dublin to catch a bus to Donone, the tiny town that was next to the monuments.

It was about an hour and a half bus ride north, and we passed the time by either sleeping or gazing out at the Irish countryside. My roommate in particular was enthralled by all the sheep; she took a thousand pictures of them.

We finally got to the Newgrange tourist center, and we embarked on tours of Newgrange and Knowth. Knowth was the site we looked at first; it was a Neolithic gathering of seventeen grave mounds. There was a gigantic grave mound in the middle, surrounded by over 100 large stones at the bottom, most of them decorated with Neolithic artwork.

Basically, these Neolithic grave mounds were constructed about 5,000 years ago by an unknown group of people. These constructions predate Stonehenge (by about 500 years) and even the pyramids at Giza. The grave mounds were used to house the dead. The grave mounds had openings at the base, and there would be a tunnel that would lead into the center of the mound. At the center there would be a small chamber, where the ashes of the deceased were placed. The grave mounds at Knowth were all closed up, but we got to walk unto the top of the highest mound. From there we could see for miles; we could even see the hill of Tara in the distance.

Newgrange is where we went next. Newgrange is a giant grave mound situated up on a hill. It is special because it has a window box above the entrance for the sun to shine through and illuminate the inner chamber. The interesting part is that the sun only shines through during sunrise on the winter solstice. It's amazing to think that these ancient people had the astronomical and engineering know-how to construct such an opening.

We actually got to go inside Newgrange and into the inner sacred chamber. Inside, there were Neolithic engravings on the stone, including spirals, diamonds, and zigzags. The ceiling of the inner chamber was dome-shaped and absolutely watertight. It was also strong enough to support over 250,000 tons of earth situated on top. All of this was still standing and perfect after 5,000 years!

Standing in that sacred chamber (we were not allowed to take pictures) it was amazing to think that ancient peoples stood in that very same space and conducted rituals and paid respect for their dead. The amount of care that went into the construction of Newgrange demonstrates that this was a very important, probably religious site for those people. Personally, I thought it was very humbling to be inside such an ancient, important place.

Although the exact purpose of Newgrange (and the meaning of artwork) is unknown, it is theorized that these people were sun worshippers. Perhaps they thought that the rays of light illuminating the sacred chamber once a year was a promise of renewal for their dead. Maybe the spiral engravings symbolized eternity. Unfortunately, one can only make theories.

The visits to Newgrange and Knowth certainly were mind-blowing. For a student of archaeology, it was an experience that I'll never forget. My roommate and I headed back to good old Dun Laogohaire that night and had a pint of Guinness at the local pub (although I had to help her finish hers-she's a lightweight). All in all, an excellent way to end an excellent day.

p.s. if you want to know more about Newgrange and Knowth that I didn't cover here, feel free to email me.

Dublin: Part One

So I'm finally back in London, ready to update you all on my trip to Dublin! On Wednesday night my roommate and I left our apartment by 11:00 pm and spent the night in Stansted airport, outside London. Our flight was leaving at 6:30 Thursday morning, and since the tube shuts down around midnight, we had to get out to Stansted and stay there for the night.

We didn't sleep the whole night, so that was pretty miserable. At one point I actually laid down on the floor of the airport, but the tiles were freezing cold, so there was no sleep to be had. We boarded our plane at around six, and we finally got into Dublin around 8:00 a.m. Shuffling through the airport, we desperately wanted to sleep, but first we had to find our way to our hostel. The hostel was a ways outside Dublin; the map read it was in a place called Dun Laogohaire. We went to the train station to ask for directions.
"We're trying to get to Dun Lay-go-hair?" I asked the ticket seller.
He raised his eyebrows. "Dunleeree?"
I blinked. "What?"
He sighed, and it was if I could read his mind: Silly Americans. "Dun Leary. It's called Dun Leary."
Oh. I still have no idea how a place spelled Dun Laogohaire could be pronounced Dun Leary. Also keep in mind at this point that I had not slept in 24 hours.
Our hostel was called the Marina Hostel, and it was out on the coast. Dun Laogohaire was beautiful, but it was frigid. The wind hit us like a physical shock to the system as we stepped out of the train and began the half mile trek to our hostel.
"This is freeezing!" my roommate squealed, and since she was from Texas I felt pretty bad for her. I can handle cold weather, but c'mon, in September? I could only imagine what this place was like in January.

The hostel was sort of grungy, and there was a bunch of older Europeans milling about. College kids were at the hostel too, but I was surprised at the amount of gray haired Europeans that were willing to stay in a hostel. We took a quick nap and then began to explore the picturesque, freezing cold seaside town of Dun Lagohaire. It was cute town; apparently James Joyce used to stay in this town and write about it and its inhabitants.

We were walking with no real destination in particular when we stumbled upon the ruins of a small castle from the sixteenth century. It was surreal- first there were houses in a sleepy suburb, and then bam! a ragged stone castle ruin. Of course we walked all around it, taking pictures like mad, our crushing sleepiness temporarily forgotten. A small plaque next to the castle read: Monkstown castle; Monkstown= Town of Monks. Ahhh, so that's what's monkstown means. Always wanted to know that. All in all, the castle was the coolest part of that long, long day.

After dinner, we went to bed at nine o'clock, surrounded by other sleeping strangers. I was too tired to care; I don't think I've ever slept so soundly in my life. 36 hours of sleep deprivation will do that to you.

In my next post, I'll tell you more about what we did in Dublin. Stay tuned..