A weekend in the north ...

For years, Edinburgh has been one of my favourite cities. Each time I come to the Scottish capital, it gets harder to leave. From its unique, tasteful architecture, to its prodigious castle, to its prolific summer theatre festival, the city has everything you need wrapped up in its tightly populated grey-yellow sandstone walls.

I arrived in Edinburgh late at night, hopping on the train after my 1 pm screenwriting course finished. Not much one can do while on a train, and I had six hours on my hands. So I popped a ridderall and wrote a blog.

I got into Edinburgh and met up with some of the lads for a curry at an Indian restaurant across the street from our hostel. As hungry as I was, the curry was disappointing. When ordering curry in England, a good rule of thumb is this: if the restaurant is a bit, shall we say, shitty, then keep the order simple. Tikka Masala or Madras. Don’t order anything special or out of the ordinary. Avoid Kormas or Malaya. With these complicated orders, the balance of spice to sweet, the mix of mango and coconut milk is a delicate task. If you're at a restaurant where, in addition to lamb Korma, they serve doner kebab, the most likely scenario is they botch it.

After the curry, I checked into the hostel and found it to be very nice accommodation. Four of us to a room with 2 clean bunk beds, our own shower, toilet and sink. With a hot breakfast in the morning and the presence of elevators and key cards (weird changes in form) the hostel was more like a hotel. I took a shower before going to bed, and for the first time in 64 hours, I got a decent night’s sleep. The next morning, after a full Scottish breakfast, I felt refreshed and revived, ready for my planned day of hiking Edinburgh’s crags.

A crag is a low-lying geological hill formation containing projecting outcrops of rocks or cliff faces. Luckily, Edinburgh had the Salisbury Crags, lying just minutes from the city centre. Looming picturesquely over the city, I had always admired Edinburgh's crags, but I never climbed them before. At about 10, I started climbing up the crags. I did not really know what to expect. I hoped that I would find that the trail leading to Arthur’s Seat (the highest point of the crags) would occupy at least two hours of my time, but I could not really be sure until I got up there.

The first stretch was steep uphill, following closely a cliff face on one side and a steep grassy bank on the other. I hugged the outer rim of the crag, circling it round its edge, until my trail lead me into a giant opening between several crags where my trail diverged into many. One lead back in the direction I came, but over the top of the outcropping of rock that I previously followed. Others went in all sorts of directions (you could probably follow any one of these trails to get to any given point in the city), but the trail I was most interested in was the one that went straight up, to Arthur’s Seat. I followed the path leading up to Arthur’s seat, which turned into quite a steep stretch, and reached the top where dozens of people sat and talked, looking out and taking in all that Edinburgh generously offered.

The crags proved to be a very enjoyable part of Edinburgh, and I was grateful to finally experience them. On the crags, there were families out for a hike, joggers out for a run, people walking their dogs, but the most intriguing part of the crags is that they are located just a five minute walk from the city. From Arthur’s seat, I could see the Castle and pin point the Royal Mile on one side of me, or turn around and look out over the bay on the other. Being surrounded on 4 sides by city life, it felt as though city of Edinburgh had its own public hiking-park.

After a fulfilling spell at the top of Arthur's Seat, I looked to shed the crowds in favour of a more reclusive trail. I hiked down a ways and turned in a new direction, where I found a very private trail. I followed this trail back up a bit until it ended by a large boulder jutting out of the side of the crag and there, perched on the boulder, overlooking the scores of people milling about below me and the city further down, I took out my journal and wrote an entry. I’m not sure exactly what I wrote, for I haven’t read it yet, but I remember thinking as I signed off that I dropped knowledge in some form or other.

As so the day went. With dozens of trails to hike (but no water, I always forget something when I travel ... think I touched on this in my journal), I had everything I needed to spend all day in the crags. I hiked Salisbury Crag and spent the day traversing and climbing these geological treasures so conveniently located in relation to the city. -- At the time, I was completely unaware, as by all probability I would be, that the events of the night to come would bring me back to these crags, 12 hours later.

***

The events of the night started after a shower, a shave and an inexpensive meal at a Mediterranean restaurant, (meaning, instead of ordering a doner kebab, I got a shwamera chicken kebab). Accompanied on a dudes’ night out by fellow program members, we wandered the streets of the Scottish capital, looking to get our hands on some fun. Our first stop on the night was Shisha, a restaurant and hookah lounge just off the Royal Mile, where we encountered some mixed news. The bad news, the lounge was full. The better news, but they could have a table ready for us in 15 minutes.

In Shisha, our group of dude’s gathered round a table, puffed some hookah, and set some ground rules for the night: no talking about girlfriends, but talking about girls was obviously acceptable. This was a dudes’ night. We weren’t talking about the semester-only students of the Dickinson program. This was a night for year-long Dickinson students only. Mikey wouldn’t talk about Lil’ Wayne (but saying ‘ya dig?’ occasionally was tolerable so long as it fit into conversation after someone said something cool) and in exchange I wouldn’t talk about Gulliver’s Travels or Mrs. Dalloway, (but the core themes of Swift’s scathing satire and Woolf’s bounding existentialism were permissable in the event that someone inadvisably brought them into play). And so the night slowly matured, scented in frothy strawberry, peach and vanilla smoke, complimented by intelligent conversation.

Staggering out of Shisha with a much lighter tesco bag and a pulsing hookah-high, we gazed out, mystified by the night, unaware that soon it would take on a sudden change in momentum. The streets appeared intricate and puzzling. The city seemed clouded and confusing. In the quest of searching for a bar, or a club, or some form or further intoxication, through a hazy run of bizarre events and a foggy series of uncontrolled impulses, in 30 minutes time, we found ourselves drifting south through town. Heedlessly, but with a concealed intent of reaching the crags.

***

The wind blowing fast off of the rocks finally knocks me back into recognition. I am racing frantically up the crags, desperate with each step to hit the black peak, churning harder and harder, careless of time as it transitions from the meaningless labels of ‘late’ to ‘early.’ My mind feels a lucid coherence that was not present when I walked out of the hookah lounge. My body finds stores of energy and persistence that should not be available after a full day of hiking, but more I push on, more I churn, more I give. Up and up, on and on. Then, I reach it. I stop. I breathe.

I fix my view out passed the blackness, to the twinkling city, feeling as I do so, that I am not just looking down on Edinburgh, but looking down upon Scotland, England, Wales and this strange yet magnificent island that I have called home for 3 of the 21 years of my life. As my eyes manage to see through the black, passed the city, to the bay, it appears that I am looking at Cornwall, at the Southern coast of England, that all of Great Britain has shrunk itself into my view.

After this reflecting moment, I finally become aware of my fatigue. I slump down onto the grass, close my eyes, and melt into the ground. As I breathe, the crag breathes with me. “Didn’t I write something about this in my journal earlier today? Nevermind.” I feel an inseverable tie to this island, to this city, to this crag, and most closely, to this very hike. As I lie back amorphously, gazing up at the stars, I think about a concept I wrote about earlier in the day, just paces away from here, about hiking and nationality: ‘It’s not where your feet are from, but where they take you’ or some shit like that. But I think further. No, there's more. Feet are just the first level of a 2-part metaphor, that where they take you is irrelevant if your mind isn’t open to it. That to fully learn, or for that knowledge to really define you in a locational sense, you need the right mindset. But when you finally strike that balance, of location and mindset, something magical can happen; and, if it does, that’s really where you’re really from. That’s who you really are.

So where does this put my stupid quotation? ‘It’s not where your mind is from, but where your feet takes your mind, which then forges a strong connection to that place which will come to define you for years even though that place may or may not be where your feet are from.’ That doesn’t quite have the proper ring to it. Maybe I’ll just leave it as the first one, and take the mind-feet metaphor as a given. If I'm lucky I think I could get this quote on a poster in a high-school health classroom somewhere ... LW

STUDying abroad 2: Derby Day ...

I brought it upon myself ... again. Eleven o’clock at night, 3,000 words to write and a 3pm deadline looming like a visit from your parents, it was STUDying abroad all over again. But this time, I was ready ... sort of.

By “ready” I do not mean to say that I was well prepared on the topic, or that I dutifully planned out my approach, or that I had any idea of what I was going to write about; but, I was “ready” in the sense that I realized days and weeks before that the completion of my essay for Capitalism and its Critics would come down to this ... another all nighter.

I knew that I would be completing my analysis on Weber and Marx’s theories on capitalism in this selected manner because it was Derby Day. Derby Day is an annual contest between University of East Anglia and University of Essex, where the two universities go head to head in 50 sports, an exhaustive competition of athletic ability of both unis’ first team club sports. As UEA students need no encouragement to get enthusiastic for Derby Day (whether competing or not), it was likewise beneficial to students of Essex University, for though they lost miserably across the board to UEA, the good news was that, for the day, at least they weren’t in Essex. With such a day full of sports, school spirit and (if you attended the rugby match) heavy drinking, I took every opportunity derby day offered to lure me away from my books, realizing full well that I would not be sleeping tonight.

My first distraction (Er ... um, showing of school spirit) was the men’s basketball game. At this game, UEA showed its class. Commendable displays from Dwight Dunston and Simon Rotherham gave UEA a comfortable lead throughout the game; but, in the end, it was the play of Mikey Lenane that sealed the victory. I don’t mean to lavish unnecessary praise on my boy, but he single-handedly won the match. Let me set the scene: 43.7 seconds left, UEA is up by 7 points, the game is on the line, and who but Michael Lenane is at the foul line. As clinical as a serial killer, Mikey goes one for two at the line to put the game beyond all doubt, sealing the victory for UEA. Glum faces and scattered tears commenced as Lenny’s second free throw swished through the net. Essex knew they had been broken by a basketball masterclass.

After the game, I was back at the books. Now I’m not saying that “The Protestant Ethic” by Max Weber is not interesting, far from it, but I was eagerly looking for another excuse to procrastinate. After plowing through a couple chapters of Weber and Marx, I found my distraction. I realized that I had not run in the past four or five days. I convince myself that long ago I read some article that I haven’t read about some positive correlation that doesn’t exist between physical exercise and essays on theories of capitalism, so I decided to indulge once again into the foggy grey could of procrastination.

I lace up my Nike’s and step outside. It was a glorious day out. The air was warm, the sun was out and I had a spring in my step. I take to the trails winding through UEA’s wilderness and Earlham Park, around the lake, and I recognized that I am quite good at procrastinating. That is to say, I procrastinate well. I was just about to make my way back to the village, when I realized that the rugby team had a match, today being derby day and all. I was not sure when the match was, and I figured I probably missed it, but I jogged over to Colney Lane to check out the scene.

The rugby team is playing, and it’s fucking packed. Hoards of students were at the match, shouting, cheering, drinking and watching little rugby. The entire sloping edge of the field was littered with rowdy UEA-ians, and soon enough, I found some friends and sat down to match the match.

It was a great atmosphere. It was a feeling of university spirit for UEA that I had yet to encounter during my year abroad. Students watching rugby, cheering for their school, and getting seriously fucked up. A few yards from me, two lads starting wrestling. This went on for a bit until one of the duo ripped his chinos, which prompted a break to get back to drinking. The next I saw of this guy was 25 minutes later when, clad in only his boxers and a hat, he took to the pitch in a drowsy airplane run, giving players high-fives, eventually exiting the pitch on the other side.

UEA won the match, a close contest, 23-21 and more props go out to mates of mine, Steven Hyde and his try, (an actual accomplishment that doesn’t need embellishment). As I left the match and picked back up on my run, I dreaded the looming chore of Weber and Marx, and the 3,000 words that I, as of now had 21 hours to write ... what’s worse is that this the second time I have done this to myself.

Upon getting back to the flat, I showered, had tea with the flatmates and at about 8, I settled down to do some serious reading with the hopes of teaching myself enough about Marx and Weber’s explanations of the rise of capitalism that I could form some semblance of an argument about social theory and the nation state.

I sat back on my bed, and read poorly. That is to say, I read inefficiently; but after an un-diligently spent couple of hours, I had my argument: I was going to agree with Marx’s outlined preconditions for capitalism, but concede that Weber’s theory of the “Protestant Ethic” explains most effectively why capitalism took hold. It was now about midnight, but finally I knew what I was going write about. After this important breakthrough, I chilled out and a mate of mine came over. I explained my argument, she thought it sounded pretty solid.

After the procrastination sesh, I took to the kitchen for some munch. Having demonstrated my incompetence in responsibly preparing an argument or even some basic ideas upon my subject, I did however make an intelligent run to tesco earlier in the day (I viewed it at the time as just another excuse to leave my books, but now I saw it as an act of inspired genius) in anticipation of this exact scenario. I poured myself a bowl of Wheeto’s, mixed with 2/3 skim milk and 1/3 chocolate milk, took to my laptop and I started writing.

I think it was the bowl of Weeto’s, but once I got stuck in with Marx and Weber, I worked diligently, thought scrupulously and wrote meticulously. Each idea after the next was laid neatly on the page, thoughtfully discussed, and impeccably written. Each piece of evidence was smoothly introduced, clinically synthesised and systemically examined. Marx’s preconditions for capitalism took on more significance, became clearer, and his ideas on social class (though not particularly relevant to my argument) became more painfully true. Weber’s sociological fact-finding mission to explain the rise of capitalism became a myriad mystery of history and religion, a riddle of Catholic hierarchy and Lutheran philosophies, explaining on ideological grounds why core ideals of Protestantism led Europeans centuries ago to acquire capital in a vigorous manner that Catholics did not follow. Both men were geniuses in their own right, and I lavished in the opportunity to scrutinize their work in juxtaposition to my own thoughts and ideas about the world. In a word, it was fun.

As I wrote page after page, time being irrelevant at this point, I was kicking this paper’s ass. I do not know whether to be proud or embarrassed, but I am convinced of the assertion that my argument on Weber and Marx was my best written paper thus far during my study abroad. This quality of writing reminds me of a year ago in English 435 when I was crankin’ out close reading papers like it was my job ... all day, err day. With few papers to compete with or left to be written this year, Marx, Weber and the Rise of Capitalism is likely to remain at the top, but obviously I would welcome its replacement.

Morning came and, along with light, it brought an end to my frenetic, yet productive whirlwind of writing. I celebrate with another bowl, for now it is breakfast time; and, for the first time in what feels like ages, I relax. I reflect upon the night, I learned a couple things. It gets light at ten to six in the morning, but with the change to British Summer Time, on Sunday it will get light at ten to five. Also, I reread a frantic 500-word comment I left on my last blog post, spawned by a quick shift in concentration in response comment left by a reader and I realized I went way too far (sorry about that dude).

A bit of mid-morning editing (but surprisingly little) and I’m done. Two o’clock and I stroll down to campus to hand it in. The sun is out again and my Birkenstocks allow a nice cool breeze to tickle my toes. I hand in the paper with a great feeling of accomplishment, and I can’t make up my mind whether I feel like sleeping. I get a text from Mikey reading: “I just woke up and saw that it’s an awesome day again. Day drink?” My mind conjures flashes of a couple Kronnenbourgs and a cigarette beneath the sun in the square, and then calculates that this is the perfect way to unwind. “Alright, I’m in.” As our group sits in the square watching another perfect Norwich day begin to take its first steps in becoming another perfect Norwich evening, I have no obligations between now and my trip to Edinburgh this weekend, but a couple beers to drink and a couple cigarettes to smoke.

The life of a stud abroad is a rich one indeed, and sometimes, you can learn a lot in areas that you don’t expect to. You take up the experiential over the intellectual at first, but then the experiential wraps back around and you learn more in both categories than you ever thought you could. What starts as Derby Day and an excuse to postpone work leads to Derby Day and new experiences, no sleep and an A-paper. Twain’s quote: “I never let my schooling interfere with my education” seems relevant here ... LW

American terrorism ...

“The face of Jeremy Morlock, a young US soldier, grins at the camera, his hand holding up the head of the dead and bloodied youth he and his colleagues have just killed in an act military prosecutors say was premeditated murder.”

I read on in horror.

“Moments before the picture was taken in January last year, the unsuspecting victim had been waved over by a group of US soldiers who had driven to his village in Kandahar province in one of their armoured Stryker tanks.

According to testimony collected by Der Spiegel magazine the boy had, as a matter of routine, lifted up his shirt to reveal that he was not hiding a suicide bomb vest.

That was the moment Morlock, according to a pre-arranged plan, threw a grenade at the boy that exploded while other members of the rogue group who called themselves the "kill team" opened fire.

They would later tell military investigators that the boy, a farmer's son, had threatened them with the grenade.”

An English friend of mine sent me an email with this link; and, once again, I was defenceless.

It is a very tiring and depressing chore, being an American. Time and time again, this arrogant, ignorant nation fucks up, loses the infinitesimal sliver of morals and ethics that it has, and once again I regret the ominous day of June 18^th, when my student visa expires.

What the fuck is wrong this nation? Apparently, Americans have lost joy in their favourite pastimes of baseball, obesity and racism and have now resorted to killing Iraqi’s for sport. The aforementioned and disgraced Jeremy Morlock has opted to testify against his fellow comrades in exchange for a lower prison sentence.

“Morlock has told investigators that Staff Sergeant Calvin Gibbs was the ringleader. In videotaped evidence, he has said Gibbs would pick out a possible target with a comment such as: ‘You guys wanna wax this guy or what?’”

As impossible as it is for me to fully put my outrage into words, it is equally a laborious task to ponder what the most depressing aspect of this scandal is: Is it that Morlock was swept up by his superior? That someone like Gibbs could rise to level of Staff Sergeant in the US Military? Or is it that these soldiers were routinely accustomed to mutilating dead “bodies by cutting off fingers and ripping out teeth to keep as trophies?”

Maybe it is that these atrocious acts are all part of a design to ‘keep America safe’ and that these soldiers are ‘protecting’ both Americans and Afghanis? That these college-rejects are protecting me?! Or, alternatively, maybe it is that our nation is so riddled with ignorance that we have learned nothing from Abu Ghraib. Maybe it is the ineffective process of Obama's government to get our troops out. Or that speaking about the war doesn’t win votes; but whiny empathy for high gas prices does. Or wait, maybe it is that the US embassador is working nonstop to keep this story quiet. But possibly, it is the fact that, most likely, a fraction of the American public will ever catch wind of this atrocity.

But no, here’s the most depressing part: Innocent Afghanis are dead and there is a disturbingly large portion of Americans that, were they to read a newspaper or a magazine or (perhaps first) learn how to read, would find nothing wrong with this act. Don’t tell me I’m being naive ... those people are out there, millions of them.

Being an American fucking blows. Americans are so wrapped up in their blankets of ignorance and Krispy Kremes, that they think they are intelligent, worldly people. What is this? Some perverse, bizarre Socratic dialogue?! Here’s a fact: less than a third of Americans have a passport. This means, one third of America could to travel to another country, whereas, the vast majority of the nation are content with living their whole lives in America without setting foot outside their 99% white community in Witchita, Kansas, content in their belief that after their meaningless lives have finished they will be in heaven with all the other evangelical nutjobs that believe the world was created 12,000 years ago.

Obviously, these appalling acts do not represent America, and excuse my largely irrelevant, sanctimonious America-bashing, but doesn’t this shit just take the piss? Isn’t this shit awful? And don’t you feel deeply saddened when this fucked-up nation just refuses to learn? But , the inescapable reality of the situation makes being American such a depressing fact of life. You’re supposed to be proud of where you’re from right? Isn’t that how it works? Someone fill me in here ... LW

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