Booked Porch (Part 2 of 3) ...

(Continued) In his book, Mark Twain, Travel Books, and Tourism, author Jeffrey Alan Melton begins by dissecting the hobby of tourism, the concept of traveller and the cultural phenomenon of tourism that rose to prominence in America during the 18^th century, part of which, as he would argue and I would agree, resulted from Mark Twain’s incandescent brilliance, and impeccable travel writing. It was for his books such as The Innocents Abroad, A Tramp Abroad and Following the Equator that Twain was widely famous, not for his novels Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer, as today’s readers would most commonly believe and be mistaken. As Melton, and I, would put it: in America, with Twain, rose tourism. But as Twain would modestly write in The Innocents Abroad, he was merely “drifting with the tide of a great popular movement.” But what is this “great popular movement?” It requires definition.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines the noun travel as “the act of travelling” and verb, to travel as “to make a journey, typically of some length.” This definition is as critical to later points as it is apt and helpfully lucid. Remember this. It will come in handy later.

But as is of considerable value to the ethos behind travel writing comes the representation of the person that is travelling and duly the representation of all people that travel, i.e. the travel-er. But yet, I do not wish to confuse this with “traveller,” as that is a term not to be thrown around lightly. Melton quickly acknowledges the importance of this distinction:

“Don’t be a tourist,” advises a high rotation commercial for The Travel Channel ... These words convey two messages simultaneously: the more direct one encourages viewers to tune into The Travel Channel to learn about foreign cultures and thereby avoid mistakes and embarrassing situations while travelling; the indirect one encourages viewers to stay at home and watch the rest of the world from the comfort of their armchairs. “Don’t be a tourist,” indeed. We need also to consider a third implication, a message that has been intertwined with tourist mentality since the beginning of that boom in the mid-nineteenth century. The subtext of the direct message reads: by learning of foreign cultures – by watching television, in this case – one can transcend being a “tourist” (a lowly creature) to become a “traveller” (an altogether impressive creature) (5-6).

The importance of this distinction is vital, but Melton is not the first to acknowledge this. When going anywhere, no matter what one’s specific goals are, people travelling (note here that this does not necessarily mean a “traveller”) wish to shed the repulsive glitter of tourism, and vow to gain wisdom and enjoyment to by means of “learning of foreign cultures,” regardless of what their specific goals and planned activities are, hence why people pay thousands of dollars/pounds/euros (the phenomenon is universal) simply to leave their homes and experience another part of the world.

In specific relation to this point was my extensively less developed mini-ethos on my trip to Prague. Despite recognizing that fact that I was a tourist, (which it is unknowable how many tourists do or do not realize this point), it was a main wish of mine to, paradoxically, feel as though this reality was not so. In accordance with Melton’s description of the “tourist” as a “lowly creature,” I wished to shed this widely held notion. In Americans Abroad, Henry James’ cunning wit pinpoints this very concept that I, and every other ‘travelling person,’ American or otherwise, wishes to avoid: “A very large proportion of Americans who annually scatter themselves over Europe are by no means flattering to the national vanity. Their merits, whatever they are, are not of a sort that strikes the eye – still less the ear. They are ill-made, ill-mannered, ill-dressed” (209). As, in my trip to Prague, I would only concede to James’ admonition of “ill-dressed,” but I would contest his other allegations in my particular case, which exemplifies both the stereotype of the tourist and the ‘travelling person’s’ wish to break from it. Melton examines the “separation of traveller and tourist identities,” and establishes the divide of high (altogether impressive creature) and low (lowly creature) cultural ideals between the two identities, the praise of the “traveller” and the disdain for the “tourist.”

With this division in identity of ‘travelling-people’ to “tourist” and “traveller,” comes division in ideology and activity and the dilemma of defining the crucial, separating difference. Melton writes, “Critics have long recognized this struggle and illustrate the deep abiding desire to distinguish between desirable travellers and the undesirable tourists” (7). 20^th century cultural critic, Daniel Boorstin stubbornly insists upon dual identities of “travelling-people’ and offers his own definition as guide of deciphering the tourist from traveller. Boorstin studiously examines the historical connection between travel and travail, reminding us that to travel is to work, which suggests that to tour is something that lies in another categorization completely. Melton again clarifies this distinction helpfully:

Travellers seek and earn experience, while tourists sign up for a program and sit back to wait for experiences to come to them. For travellers there is work to be done; it will not be easy, but it promises rewards worth the discomfort. This image is powerful and attractive; it is also romantic – the lone enduring trials and tribulations because he or she has to, “because it’s there.” Many of us are up for the ideal, but few, really, are up to the actual physical and emotional challenge such a self-image requires in praxis. The tourist identity, in the end, can only suffer in contrast to such a romantic ideal. For tourists, there is little work to be done’ it will be easy, and it promises comfort. Although this image may attract our more hedonistic urges, it nonetheless suffers aesthetically in comparison to the romantic traveller (7).

With this highly romanticised yet, hard to define concept of the traveller (where no one seems to fit) and the easy, default identity of the tourist (which everyone seems to fit), both of these conceptions of ‘travelling-people’ now possess distinct ideologies, which, in turn, will alter both behaviour and the all critical travelling mindset of expectation.

Booked Porch (Part 1 of 3) ...

Note from the author: Ok, this started as a 5-7 page essay on travel writing ... but I got way too into it. I'm not sure who is interested in reading this 4,500 word monstrous theory on travel and my plans for my upcoming trip to Western Europe. But I figured I'd post it anyway, just on the off-chance that it reaches my target audience of someone intensely interested in travel like I am, with far too much time on their hands, again like myself. That said, enjoy:

My fingers drag across the screen of my mouse pad, I left click, and I’m booked for Portugal. I’m going to the continent, again. As you may have read, the last time I went to continental Europe was 3 months ago when I spent a week in Prague. There, the goal was as simple as it was accomplished. Pick a city. Stay for at least a week. By the end of it, don’t feel like a tourist. The inescapable fact of my being a tourist despite this goal was irrelevant. I knew I was a tourist; I just didn’t want to feel like one. Through the week, I got to know the city, briefly dated an Australian local, hung out with some crazy dudes from New Zealand, smoked a spliff with a Czech at his birthday party, met travellers that were only here for a few days, watched them go, met new travellers, and by the end of the week I was able to block out the nagging reality of being a tourist in favour of not feeling like one.

As I have now a one-way ticket to Portugal and limited fund of $1,259 left in my savings account, I plan to explore Western Europe with different goals in mind. First, I am taking my laptop with me. I deliberately avoided doing so in my trip to Prague, deciding instead on writing a novella about my week in Prague upon my return, a story to culminate the experience after reflecting upon it back home in England. This time, I plan to blog on the road, post in Europe; and, as my plans on the continent are completely open-ended from the moment I touch down in Lisbon, my blog will reflect the open-ended nature of my travels in my writing. When I post, I, like you, will not know from where I will go, or what I will do, or, to be honest, if I am safe, or if I return.

I feel that this directly addresses the main flaw of travel writing as a genre. In my research for an independent-study on travel (hence why I’m writing this. I was going to just hand it in to my professor, but instead I thought I’d make a post out of it ... hope it doesn’t get too long/dry), the assurance and certainty of return is an inescapable fact of the genre. When one reads about Bill Bryson disputing his hotel bill in Copenhagen or Twain’s thoughts on travel in Italy, the certainty of their safe return always combats or lessens the effect that that any harrowing or exhilarating incidents will have on the reader. Meaning, when writing about something like travel, where the journey itself is the main pleasure in its own abstraction, the journey back, the physical movement of the traveller back to its origins, is no less significant than the journey from. The Odyssey isn’t about the Trojan War, but about Odysseus’ journey back to Ithaca. Travel writers such as Bryson or Twain no doubt realize this importance, but their failure to disguise the factuality of their return from the reader ultimately results, I am arguing, in a lessened impact of the events that occur along the trip. For, the reader knows, despite what tricks the author tries to conjure, that the author has returned and their trip has ended, manifesting itself in the physical, published book they hold in their hands.

For my upcoming travels, it will be one of my goals to avoid this nagging characteristic of the genre. The assurance of return, I contend, and would support through my own experience of travel writing about Prague, ultimately and unavoidably affects the style and content of the writing. For, though the author may wave his wand, and wave it quite well, what is even further inescapable is the author’s own knowledge of return. It alters content. It changes events to construct a narrative. It is the goal of the author to recreate their emotions and fears and apprehensions of ‘not knowing what will happen,’ but the invariable outcome is that the author does know what happens, because they both have lived it and returned to write about it. As a result of this, the knowledge of return becomes manifest in the writing, in the way that the story is told, and the tricks and waves of the wand that the author will pick and choose from his toolbox of which to employ. This is not to say that while I am on the road, that I will not be employing any illusions to relate effectively my travels to the reader, but the truth is that I will not know which tricks to play, only my best guesses, and therein lies the truth of travel for which I am aiming.

I will able to accomplish this feat more by means of technological advances as opposed to literary innovation (but, perhaps after a few beers I might jokingly argue the latter). Mark Twain did not have the means to accomplish this instantaneous form of blogging, but much of The Innocents Abroad was taken from letters that Twain wrote while on his journey and were published in newspapers back in America. Furthermore, as an amateur writer, I am devoid of any financial impulses to write, wait and hoard, and sell my writing for the purpose of a book, something that Bryson clearly had and prepared for along his journeys. I am without funding, again unlike Bryson, even from my parents, so herein lies another truth to the experience ... kind of a Kerouac-ian type thing.

Another reason for my choice to break in format of my blog is perhaps a personal one. Since I commenced in this year abroad, I have kept a journal (It wasn’t until after a couple months that I thought maybe I should adapt it into a blog). Since then, I have written in it diligently, and hundreds of pages are filled with descriptions of events and thoughts I have had throughout the course of my year. But what I have found so fascinating and rewarding is (when I read it back, I haven’t yet) the notion of not knowing what lies ahead for me. There is no way for me to know, and that I feel very much mirrors the core ideals of travel, or least the travelling that I hope to engage. With the at-the-present method of posting, I hope to mirror the unknown nature of my journal and, more so, offer it to my readers, see what you guys think of it. And lastly, I feel that the journal was (had to be) the first, original form of travel writing. Think of Lewis and Clark and other explorers (which we will get into later), their journals are no doubt travel literature in perhaps its purest form. So you might say, my project is a throwback to original travelling, leading to its bastardization through modern technology at the hands of a cynical liberal-arts college English major on their year abroad. I can think of no more frightening foe.

(Ok, so I have basically covered the grounds of format of my writing, and have scratched the surface of the travel writing genre, but now it’s time to get stuck in to my thesis on travel/tourism itself.)

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