Buzzkill ...

I was flying high. Dancing to the rythyms and grooves churned out by the DJs at Project (Norwich's newest and best nightclub), I was the quintessential emblem of the student abroad. The night was as young as it was alive, profound as it was exhilarating. As I spent the night in ecstatic trance, rolling with my trusty lads, in love with England, I felt no other emotion than happiness, and it had a strong buzz on me too.

Filing out of Project into the taxi, this complete night was drawing to a satisfying end. Hours spent getting fucked up and chasing women are hours well spent. It is nights like these that make the life of the stud abroad a rich one indeed. But it was all to come crashing down, when I receive a call at 11 am:

“Hello ...” groggily “ ... oh hey, you alright? In England yet? You’re where? In Norwich ... on campus?! ... ok, when? Fifteen minutes ... alright fine, whatever.” Shit.

My parents had come to visit. I roll out of my bed, throw on a t-shirt and a flannel, slide into a pair of hole-ridden jeans, slip on my trusty Birkenstocks and leave my room, ending prematurely my recovery sleep, an absolute necessity after a full-throttled lad's night.

Staggering out of my flat, I reach the uni square, and for the first time in 7 months, I saw my parents. It felt good to see them, my dad’s prolific moustache, my mom’s blonde hair. Perking up a bit, I gave hugs and warm wishes of hello.

The three of us went out for a pint of Wherry and began catching up. Unsurprisingly, we talked about England. I could tell that both of them were buzzing to be back in England, and were eagerly looking forward to their move to Norwich this summer for a second spell of two years.

On this latter subject, my mom drew a very clear line: “Luke, if you want to come back to Norwich and live with us after you graduate, you need to have a plan. You can’t just sit around on your ass.” I found this point to be very fair as well as wise, and from there I presented my ideas about getting my master’s degree in England. To this my parents were very supportive and they liked the idea a lot. There are some things that you just cannot get talking on the phone or on skype, which is probably the reason that I rarely call home.

***

After finishing our pints, I barely managed mine, we leave the pub. “Luke stand with dad in front of the pub, I want to take a picture.” With commendable restraint, I resisted raising questions such as, “What’s the bloody point?” and I obeyed diligently. And so, there I stood, forcing a smile, already.

Next. “Luke, take us to your flat, we want to see where you live.” Explaining that there was nothing of interest in my flat, besides my bed (which I would like nothing more than to be resting in) proved useless. Swallowing hard, I once again indulged the request.

We walk to my building, up the stairs and into my flat. I show them the kitchen, and then it is on to my room. I open the door, instantly revealing the (cluttered, but not messy) bachelor's pad that I call home. I scramble to put some clothes away, and I rearrange some books on my shelf to hide some alcohol bottles I have sitting there. I reason that the books are a preferable sight.

Surprisingly, there was no haranguing about my living conditions; but worse, mum wanted another picture. This I strenuously opposed, but, despite my protest, an absolutely pointless picture of me standing amidst my heap of filth was deemed necessary. I begrudgingly pose, clearly unhappy and my mom gets out her camera, again.

But wait, it gets worse. Having only acquired this camera recently, mum does not know how to work it properly, and stares and the camera, fiddling ineffectively with its buttons. An insufferable amount of time passes. She takes the picture. From the lofty highs of the life of a stud, my buzz has officially been killed, and the thousands of miles of freedom and independence I had so greatly enjoyed were turned in to three feet in a matter of seconds.

Of course I love my parents dearly, but perhaps it is best that they are not really here to see me. With their approaching move to Norwich this summer, both have business commitments and will spend most of their 10 days in Europe occupied elsewhere. So, every cloud ... LW

Capt. Fluellen's & Alec Baldwin's in Caerdydd ...

I do not know much about Wales. Furthermore, I submit that my entire notion of Welsh people is based on Shakespeare’s hilarious portrayal of the Welsh Captain Fluellen in Henry V. Despite being politically incorrect, perhaps bigoted by today’s standards, after my experience in Wales, I think Shakespeare may have a point.

Getting to Cardiff. After taking the train from Norwich to Liverpool St., I hop on the tube from Liverpool St. to Paddington, (always takes longer than you would think), and board my train headed west, to Caerdydd, the capital of Wales, also known as Cardiff. I had been to Swansea once when I was much younger, but I had never been to Cardiff before, so on my arrival at Cardiff Central, I resolved to take in this city in this forgotten nation in best way possible. Pub-sesh.

Accompanied by four fellow Dickinson program classmates, our small group of young American humanities majors stopped in at a pub called The Cottage for a pint. There we discussed cliche but important college matters like the Oscars, Arrested Development and who was the best SNL host of all time. Steve Martin easily received my vote, but Alec Baldwin was also brought up for contention. Upon mentioning this last subject, a woman who can be described as nothing other than a Really Drunk Welsh Lady interjected with the following discerning, insightful observation: “Alec Baldwin?!”

Really Drunk Welsh Lady's following remarks offered no more information on Alec Baldwin nor SNL hosts and were barely intelligible (alcohol and Welsh accents do not mix well), but we deciphered a couple things: She thinks that we are all English. She thinks Mikey is speaking in a fake accent. She has daughters a couple years younger than us. And lastly, she thinks that she is at a pub called, The Winchester.

Being upstanding, scholarly citizens of the future, we kindly corrected her on this last detail, and after straightening out the tiny misunderstanding, Really Drunk Welsh Lady's insightful Alec Baldwin forum drew to a sharp end as she realized she was in the wrong pub. Really Drunk Welsh Lady graciously excused herself from our company, and gracefully exited the pub.

Upon her departure, the topic of “Welsh people are weird” dominated the latter part of discussion.

Saturday morning brought on the Welsh National Museum and the Cardiff Castle. The Welsh National Museum was above expectations, containing an interesting collection of geological information as well as a studious collection of modern, surreal and impressionist art. The Cardiff Castle was also enjoyable, as its well preserved keep and towers made for an intriguing look into Cardiff's past. Meaning, the castle was dull, but a bit better than all the other shit we saw.

Nightfall brought on drinks at the hostel and the best perri perri chicken I have tasted. Maybe it was just because I was drunk, maybe it was just because it was dirt cheap, but damn! As a group, we failed to finish all of the chicken and, before heading out to the bars, we gave the leftovers to a homeless couple ... It seems as if we had a private objective of being collegiate stereotypes.

Running directly through central Cardiff, Saint Mary St. became a very convenient hotspot for the night’s subsequent mischief. The street was blocked off from traffic and was filled with local Caerdyddians shuffling from bar to bar up and down the street. Our Dickinsonian group hit up about 7 or 8 different pubs, bars and clubs, thus becoming adequately inebriated and jovial. Did I mention we were a group of college students? The trip to Cardiff, but this night in particular seemed to encapsulate what it means to study abroad: get fucked up in new places, pretend you're learning.

Sunday morning I was buzzing with excitement as well as a hangover. Liverpool v. Man United. I will not go into detail, as I have already written about this legendary result, but Liverpool were the victors. After the game, I walked down to the bay, sporting my bright red Liverpool hat and feeling like a fucking stud. At the bay, I got out my journal and jotted down a couple pages. I wrote down some form of brilliance or another about Wales and England, but I don’t know exactly what, I haven’t read it.

As I took the train out of Cardiff Central back to Paddington that afternoon, I was still missing my penetrating cultural conclusion on Wales and what its people were like. While in Cardiff, I saw all the popular sights, tried the nation’s famous Welsh-cakes and Cardiff’s famous Brain’s Brewery beer (I had the Stout, the Bitter, Cold & Smooth you name it), but, aside from the street signs (in unpronounceable Welsh) Cardiff did not seem too different from England. I suppose really the only out of order thing that occurred on the trip was the Really Drunk Welsh Lady in The Cottage, but aside from that, not much else was of notice. Wales did not seem to be a nation made up of Captain Fluellen's, but perhaps it is just the odd bunch of Welsh ruffians Welshmen that set an example and national stereotype. Perhaps I would have noticed the actual Welsh people instead of the Captain Fluellen's if I wasn't too busy being a stereotypical American college student. But, perhaps like the English, I formed an opinion of the Welsh based on the street signs, that there is just a surface difference between Wales and England, and I was to lazy to figure it out, too busy talking about the Alec Baldiwn's of American pop-culture and behaviour, and thus I am left with an opinion of "basic difference" of "non-Englishness." Maybe all of this is just a trivial game played in the UK, but I just hope that Wales knows that not all American college students studying abroad are Alec Baldwin's ... LW

As if I wouldn't write about this ...

6^th place Liverpool FC versus top of the table Manchester United, at home. Two days after King Kenny’s birthday and 8 league matches into his second reign at Anfield, this match would prove to be the best measure of Dalglish’s faculties as Liverpool manager. Full squad, sell-out crowd, no excuses.

From kick-off, Liverpool looked the livelier team. With the meagre midfield duo of the dreary Michael Carrick and the aged Paul Scholes to compete with, Liverpool’s partnership of Steven Gerrard and Lucas proved too much for United to wrestle with in the midfield, affording Liverpool ample possession and space going forward. Though I take no greater pleasure in haranguing this player every time I write about Liverpool; astonishingly, much accreditation goes to Lucas. Throughout the full 90 minutes, Lucas was poised and composed, taking command of all goings on in the middle of the park. His growing tendency to play smart, simple football seems to mesh well with Dalglish’s new brand of passing football, while the previously injured Gerrard looked fitter than he did at West Ham and proved effective in his new holding midfield role, allowing Raul Miereles to make runs forward.

It was not long after a handful of decent chances and possession in United’s final third where Liverpool broke the deadlock. Coming from a deceitful bit of dribbling by Liverpool’s gifted Uruguayan, Suarez split Rafael and Chris Smalling with a cunning turn on the ball, effortlessly dummied the wretched Carrick and then again on a sluggish Wes Brown before sliding the ball through the legs of Van der sar, across the face of goal to give Dirk Kuyt the easy tap in.

For the entire match, United did not have an answer for Suarez. The forward, in just his second start in the Premier League, looked a league veteran as he continually caused problems for United’s back four, much weakened without the presence of Vidic and Ferdinand. Furthermore, the lively Miereles added another thorn in United’s side. Liverpool's Portuguese all-purpose midfielder repeatedly made intelligent runs forward to find himself in space, a role he is settling into studiously. Though Miereles’ crossing and shooting ability may be slightly inferior (but not by much) to that of Steven Gerrard, his clever runs forward into space add another dimension to Liverpool’s attacking force.

The second goal of the match came from one such run, but this time from (you guessed it) Suarez. Deviously alluding United’s back four, Suarez took possession on the bottom right corner of the box after chasing down a deflected ball from Maxi. Suarez crossed the ball into the box in the direction of Miereles. Tracking back diligently on defence. United’s Nani won the header, but dubiously sent it backward in the direction of the United goal where the hungry Kuyt gobbled up his chance, heading it passed the outstretched Van der sar into the ol’ onion bag.

A late Carragher challenge on Rafael, a late Rafael challenge on Lucas, four yellow cards and some pushing and shoving brought an end to the first half. Liverpool 2-0 Man United. Kuyt was the goal scorer of the afternoon with the easiest double one would ever see.

The second half brought more Liverpool control and domination. The performances that underscored Liverpool’s two goal lead (on both sides) were duplicated in the second half. Liverpool possessed, United looked like Wigan reserves. There was no change in methodology or workrate from United in the second half. No fire, no gusto. In my mind, they did not look like a team that should be sitting in 1^st place. United were dangerously close to becoming outclassed.

Liverpool’s third goal came, once again, at the feet of Kuyt, and, once again, was an easy tap in and, once again, spawned from the quality play of Suarez. Taking a free kick five yards outside the United box, Suarez blasted the ball through the wall, aimed insistently on the bottom right hand corner. Van der sar dove to his bottom left, made the save, but only to see the ball squirm away from him out in front of goal, where the ever prowling Dutchman swiftly smashed it home, thus completing the most simple hat-trick the game of football will ever know.

Since his singing five years ago, Kuyt has become a mainstay in the Liverpool lineup since his purchase in 2006, and his treble against United caps his first ever for the club and a much cherished sight by Liverpool supporters. Capable of playing as a forward or as a winger, Kuyt has become known at Anfield for his incredible work rate and effort, rather than world class skill and finesse, but (as demonstrated against United) is always willing to chase after balls and run to get himself in the right place. For this, Kuyt has started most games that he has been fit to play and has even captained the club a couple times. It seems oddly symbolic that on this match against Man-U Kuyt was gifted with a hat-trick, for this match may well have signalled the end of the Dutchman’s seemingly permanent place in Liverpool’s first XI.

With Liverpool’s £22.8 million signing Suarez putting on an elite display of class, and with Liverpool’s £35 million signing Andy Carroll making his Liverpool debut as a substitute, it looks certain that the club has its mind made up on its top choice strike partnership. And more, with the NESV’s spending tendencies; it would be likely to see a big-money move this summer for a winger (Ashley Young, Juan Mata among the names linked). Kuyt’s scrappy, hardworking way of play looks likely to be surplus requirements for Liverpool in the near future. Perhaps Kuyt’s hat-trick was a going away present before he is rendered an antiquated fixture at Liverpool.

As chants of “Happy Birthday” were heard throughout the stadium by the King, beaming on the sidelines like a 5 year-old, Liverpool’s victory was locked up, despite a 92^nd minute consolatory goal by Javier Hernandez. Liverpool were magnanimous and thoroughly outclassed the league leaders.

As Manchester United currently sit top and take steps toward a record 19^th Premier League title, much fuss is made over the potential slip from the top that Liverpool may take, becoming, (for the first time in decades) the second most successful club in England. As I am accustomed to doing so when I write about football on this blog, here is, yet again, another boisterous, outlandish, yet discerning prediction: this season, Manchester United will not win the Premier League and will not being taking they’re Premier League title count to 19. And furthermore, I am backing Liverpool FC to win a 19^th title before Manchester United. Whether that means a title next season or not is up for interpretation, but I’m sticking with it. As always, you heard it here first ... LW

Fabric, dubstep, drum & bass ...

I wish there were pictures. I did remember to bring my camera, but each time I remembered to snap it, (6 times), an invariably shit photo resulted.

The night started in Maidenhead, 35 miles west of central London. There, Alex, I and 29 other mates boarded 2 mini-buses and shot down the M5 into the city. Along this ride, I felt a strong feeling of inseparable camaraderie with this British group of lads. Though previously unknown and introduced to moments earlier, this ride into London yielded no cultural or national barriers, just lads ready for a wild fucking night!

The buses pull off the street and parks in front of Fabric, London’s (meaning, probably England’s) biggest and best Dubstep/Drum & Bass club. This is not surprising, for both genres of music originated in London. Dubstep, a mix of Jamaican “Dub” music and 2-Step Garage that came to rise with London’s heavy Afro-Caribbean populace. Both Dubstep and Drum & Bass were genres previously unknown to my musical palate in the states, but ones that have grown strongly on me over this year.

We stood in queue for a bit, but not too long, considering it was nearing midnight, and that tonight was the last Friday of the month, meaning it was Fabric Live. The night’s line-up consisted of DJ Hype, Pascal, Hazard and many more. Alex in particular was buzzing about the last DJ of the night, Andy C, the “king/originator/best/whateverthefuck” of Drum & Bass music.

Filing passed security, we rolled into the Fabric, psyched with anticipation for this sick club and ready for some amazing music. First up: Plastician, one of the early originators and best of the dubstep djs, Plastician kicked off the night with an incredible set. Plastician shredded the club for 45 minutes straight, bouncing the club off its feet with each anarchic drop after the next. The loud, deafening wobble bass roared from the speakers and smashed through the throng of dancers throughout the club. My body wouldn’t stop moving. I was compelled to dance, and never stop. My body rose and twisted to the kick of the drums, to the rush of the drop. My body insisted on it. It is the nights like that remind of the accepted truth; that, at any given time, music can be as good or better than sex.

One after one, with each DJ that came on, amazing music was played, and I danced and danced, for hours and hours. I may not be much of a dancer, but my body would have no other way. I was forced to dance. The music insisted on it. (Sorry for the 2004 douchebag reference, but think Dane Cook: “No, no, fuck chicks tonight dude, I just need to Dance!”) After hours upon hours of dancing and nonstop motion, it was 3am, a cigerrette, a smoke break and a refuel was in order.

Outside in Fabric’s smoking area, which is actually a grassy area below the London street level, I mixed in with both the lads as well as other Fabric goers. If I am just being honest, everyone was really nice, really chilled out and genuinely glad that people were having a good time. If you have been clubbing in Norwich on Prince of Wales Rd., then you will know what an anomaly this is. In fact, talking to another person at all is a phenomenon. It may sound weird, but you can really tell the difference between clubs that exist with the purpose of playing great music and the ones that merely act as a intermediary between English people and drunk sex. Having experienced an abundance of the latter in Norwich, I was thrilled to be at a legitimate, incredible club like Fabric.

It seemed as if a lot of people were using this cushy 3am slot as a smoke/chill-out break, because the sesh was well-extended passed the cheeky cigarette. It was great talking to other people at the club. I met and talked to a couple of Australians (all these Australians I’m meeting, I need to go there). After sharing a spliff and talking awhile, he said, “You’ve really changed my opinion on Americans,” a quote that I cherish. Being American must have been a popular theme tonight, for, in addition the lads and the Australians, a group of English girls I chatted to were also impressed by my American-ness, but in a different way: “Oh my god! Is that really your accent?!”

Refueled, replenished and adequately revived, I rolled back into the club for another rushing of music. I seriously do not know where the time went, nor can I remember another two hours of my life that went quicker. I get my grime face on, chew a piece of gum and next thing I know it is 5:30 am and the last set of the night, Andy C.

It was important for me to see Andy C, but more so to see him with Alex. Not only was Andy C Alex’s favourite DJ, idol and inspiration as a Drum & Bass DJ, but it was Alex’s birthday, hence why all these 32 lads were here, well ... that and it was a completely awesome time, but for Alex as well. Andy C killed his set, and capped the night with a dazzling set of DJing. I saw Alex watching the stage in ecstasy as his idol would build-up two songs simultaneously, then switch quickly to a third deck and song, play it for a bit, and then drop all three at once. “Damn! What?! Holy fucking Hell!” I have still not exactly come to grips with the sad truth that, whatever it is, I will not be able to celebrate Alex’s birthday with him next year.

Andy C leaves the stage and the club begins to close down, at the wee time of 6:45 am. It is light outside. We pile into the mini-bus, simultaneously feeling musically satiated, physically exhausted, but somehow, if the club was not closing, completely fucking ready to keep dancing. The buses pull away from the club, leaving Farringdon. Headed west across London, we cross the Thames, where it is indisputably another London morning. Workers are bustling on the ships, the London Eye is turning.

The buses drive the 35 miles out of town and drop us off at Maidenhead, conveniently in front of a cafe. The lads pile in, the ever important cups of tea are served and worshipped with English sancticity. Then the full English.

Though less than an hour ago, I was inside Fabric and the night was still very much young, now I sip my tea and my sore jaw chews my toast gingerly. It has been an hour, but it is now a new day. It is a surreal feeling that I cannot quite put into words, nor thoughts. Of the many tolls my body has taken, the night has now robbed me temporarily of my critical mind and I am just left to feel, without further analysis.

My ever decreasing stamina manages to carry me the distance to Alex’s house and I crash on his sofa-bed. Its fabric feels awesome ... LW

The crosswalk ...

Thursday 16, February, 2011. Norwich, England.

No class and all afternoon at my leisure, having taken to jogging abroad, I thought, “Right, how about a run? Yes ... a cheeky jog.” I change into some shorts, slip on my Nike’s, grab my iPod and head out the door, looking for a brisk jog to satiate my exercise palate. I got outside and jogged along the sidewalks, winding my way out of my apartment complex, crossed Wilberforce road, turned the corner and arrived just yards from the crosswalk on Earlham Road when I came across a pack of three first school boys.

I trot passed the three children, when I hear a muffled shout mixed in with “Oh Yoko” coming through my headphones: “Enjoy your run!” (or some smartass shit like that). I stopped instantly. Not because I was upset, or was going to confront whichever one of the young punks shouted at me as I passed them, but rather I stopped abruptly because I had reached the crosswalk at Earlham Road and needed to wait for the light change before I could cross it. I turned my head to the right and took off my earbuds to see if indeed it was true that one of these boys were talking to me.

At this reaction, the guilty boy’s face (I could easily tell which one it was) filled quickly with a look of fear and he instantly scurried along the sidewalk of Earlham Road away from my direction (did I mention that I'm a stud?). Figuring that this was the end to a humorous misunderstanding, I smiled and turned my head back towards the other side of Earlham Road and put the buds back in my ears. I laughed, thinking to myself, “Funny little story. I bet he thought I was coming after him.”

But this story does not stop there. After my abrupt stop at the crosswalk which caused the boy’s cowardly flee, the shouting boy has lost a tremendous amount of hardness within his posse. Once hailed for his toughness when he shouted at me earlier, the boy’s coolness factor plummeted greatly when he ran away. In an effort to save face in the presence of his mates, the boy then resorted to more shouting and taunting in my direction, getting angrier and more aggressive, and threatening to fight me.

All of this information I pieced together from looking across the other side of the road. As I had been standing, waiting for the light to change for about thirty seconds (really an uncomfortable amount of time when you are oblivious to a ten year old boy shouting insults at you from ten yards away), there were now four other people standing at the other side. One girl in particular, I noticed, glanced at me and then to my right, and back and forth, her face containing a mixed look of bemusement and nervousness.

For the second time, I turn my head to my right and take the buds out of my ears. There I see the boy, once again shouting at me, but this time he was filled with rage rather than mischief. Screaming at me, all I could hear after I removed my buds was “I’ll fucking do it! Do you want me to?!” I was grateful I did not hear anything else. The boy had gotten so angry at my thirty seconds of ignoring/not being aware of his taunting that he was, according to him, ready to kick my ass.

What had I done to this poor boy? Why had I gotten him so angry? In a mixed feeling of confusion and guilt, the light changed, I crossed Earlham Road and carried on with my run, leaving this angry boy behind. Should I not have ignored him? Was I not giving him any respect?

But hold on ...

I’m going to call this kid out on his bullshit. There is no way this kid actually wanted to fight me, my size and age notwithstanding. I had done nothing to him, but inadvertently make him look cowardly in front of his friends. The boy knew I could not hear whatever it was that he was saying, and used it as an aide for saving face. The boy is an opportunistic little git that capitalized on a situation where I had no knowledge of his audacious mockery, with the goal of looking hard in front of his friends ... talking shit to someone wearing headphones, real fucking cool.

Looking back at the event, I am not angry at the youth, for it was not too traumatizing an event. Rather, what I have really taken from the ordeal is the extremely awkward feeling to be standing at a crosswalk and finding out that there is a 10 year-old shouting obscenities and threatening to fight you. If I could go back and say something to the youth, it would most definitely be a childish comeback, hopefully more immature than the original shout itself. Maybe I turn to the child and say, “Santa isn’t real” and then cross the street and carry on with my jog.

But, alas, I did no such thing ... damned maturity ... LW

Days of York ...

The city of York is located approximately 150 miles north east of Norwich. An alarm set for 5:00, a four hour train ride, and I’m there. Sleepy, I slog along the river and check in at my hostel. My room is not yet available, so the inevitable nap that will be taken is delayed. Instead, I grab a quick tea and a scone and stroll into the city centre for a walking tour of York.

The two hour walk throughout York soon perked my interests and woke me up a bit as I traversed the city streets, steeped in history. York’s ties to both the Romans as well as Vikings colour the city in an odd shade of historical controllers. Being a northern city, all street names were in “gate” form (Bishopsgate, Bakergate, Candlestickmakergate), but also exhibited a healthy number of the Scandinavian Viking influenced road names. As a stroll on the diligently preserved city wall brought the tour to a close, the next stop was York Minster.

York Minster, or “the single largest gothic building (of any kind) west of the Alps,” offered a stunning view of the city from the top of the tower.

As the day drew to a close, and hostel beds were made available, a cheeky nap was in order. A short walk back to the hostel and 40 minutes of sleep, a superb Indian and I feel like a new man. It is time to hit the pubs.

The first: The Red Lion. A typical northern pub. Pool room, ales on tap. I was accompanied by my fellow Dickinson program mate, Mikey. (Who I mention and picture at his repeated insistence as well as narrative functionality). I get the first round, “Two pints of Wainwright, please” I ask the bar staff. This particular ale, a dark, lively ale, is named after Alfred Wainwright, the creator of the 200 mile coast-to-coast hike of England. Only sold in northern cities, Wainwright (the ale) was a beer that I remembered drinking quite frequently two summers ago while hiking in Yorkshire on Wainwright's trail. Its unique blend of hops and barley take me back to 20 mile days of hiking, followed by a quick shower and a lengthy pub session. Two refreshing ales drowned in nostalgia, Mikey and I push on the next pub.

The next one was Evil Eye, a blatant, unapologetic hipster bar. Norwich readers: imagine ‘Knowhere’ but more posh, with even more expensive drinks and a longer wait to get in. With this in mind, Mikey and I take advantage of England’s lenient open container laws and polish off bottles of Budweiser Budvar, a delicious dark Czech lager. Inside the Evil Eye, the drinks, two White Russians, were served for the bargain price of £5.00 a piece. Chatting to locals at the bar, Mikey experienced for the first time a noticeably thick northern accent. He later remarked, “What was she even saying? I couldn't understand her, I was just nodding the whole time." "Yeah, a Northern accent that thick can be a bit confusing at times" I laugh.

At the third pub, the night shifts in momentum a little bit. The Gull and the Swan, another standard pub, mutually agreed by Mikey and I after enduring the stiff prices at Evil Eye. Match of the day comes on the tele. A foreboding look comes on Mikey’s face, as he knows full well what lies ahead. It starts. I talk his head off about football, the Premier League, and each of the matches of that day. Liverpool’s highlights come on. More football conversation, Mikey’s head sinks lower. Then, from across the bar, a local football fan and I exchange banter, and instantly are locked in conversation. Mikey’s fate is sealed. For the remainder of our time in the Gull and the Swan (until it closed), nothing besides football was discussed. It was a two-way conversation between me and the local lad (I don’t hold being a Tottenham supporter against him), even his girlfriend was becoming upset with all the nonstop football talk. I apologize to Mikey on the walk back to the hostel.

Next morning, a long schlep to the Jorvik Center and a forty-five minute tour of York during Viking times and I am officially wiped, hungover and looking at train times with Mikey in a Pret A Manger. Mikey and I skip the York’s castle museum (a museum describing the York Castle, which has not been in existence for centuries). Two trains and I am back at Norwich, tired and hungry. I shower, shave and eat. A good trip to York, but I feel damn good to be home ... LW

We built this city ...

This past weekend, yours truly got a visit from a friend. Ellen had been studying abroad in Ireland since early January. With her recent travels bringing her to England, London specifically, Ellen then made the additional train ride to Norwich. It had been six months and 3500 miles since I had last seen her.

It was an odd, unusual, but eagerly welcomed feeling. In the many times that I had been introduced to new people in England, given tours, been explained various customs in Norwich, it was a first to be on the other end as I gave Ellen a city tour of my second home.

I am my own harshest critic, but I felt my tour of Norwich was pretty damn good. Consisting of a mix of pertinent historical details about famous sites like the Norwich Castle, Cathedral and riverwalk, as well as including “Shit, we all went to that club last Thursday night and got hammered ...” the tour had many points of interest with corresponding stories to tell.

Afterwards, Ellen and I met up with some friends at the Adam and Eve, Norwich’s oldest existing pub and, as it bills itself, “probably the oldest pub in England” (Love the use of “probably” here). With the Adam and Eve being an historical pub, with great food and not one to get shitfaced at, there was only historical information to tell.

The Adam and Eve was built during the construction of the Norwich Cathedral, one of the first cathedrals built in England, completed in the early 12^th century. Located very close to the Norwich Cathedral, the pub was perhaps one of the leading facilitators of the Cathedral’s construction. This is so, because the workers of the cathedral were not paid in cash; rather, they were paid in beer, distributed after the day’s work, every night at the Adam and Eve.

Sitting in a comfy booth with a group of friends, sipping a black pint of Old Peculiar, I drew from the pub an enhanced sense of Norwich’s history. It is located in the city's pubs. If I were to study, really look closely into to Norwich’s history, the Cathedral for example, where would I start? By visiting the cathedral? Reading a book? Maybe I am simply an experiential learner, but sitting in the Adam and Eve, drinking beer, looking around and thinking back; I can envision the sweaty labourers of 900 years ago, trudging into the pub for a beer after a long day's work.

This was how the Cathedral was built after all. Not by generous donations from noblemen, nor government sanction; but, truly, the cathedral was built on strong men who were willing to work hard all day in order to go on the lash at night. Norwich’s tourist tagline: “A church for every week of the year, and a pub for every day,” seems to be very fitting now that we have solved this puzzle piece of Norwich’s history. There are so many pubs, because they were needed by workers building the churches. Thus, the history/mystery of Norwich is solved, and now it is undoubtedly clear how the city came to be as it is. A city built on beer. “History lesson over kids,” drop the mic, leave the classroom.

Perhaps Norwich should change its tagline and take a page out of Starship’s playbook, or maybe it is good as it is. Either way, Norwich proved to be lovely time for Ellen and myself. Although, I find it odd that this introspection of mine came from presenting the city to an outsider, rather than by my own local observations. Hmmm ... LW