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.