Let's go to Ireland

Friday, September 30, 2011

Currently, I am on the 11th bus of our journey-- backpacking through Ireland. Yes, it seems just as surreal to me. We started planning this trip about two or three weeks ago, when we found out we had a fall break from friday to tuesday. We knew such a long break deserved a far away destination-- there was no way I was going to spend this break lying around the house. So, I found a group of Vines people who all wanted to go to Ireland. Almost immediately, I hooked up with K, and we seemed to have almost the exact same ideas on where we wanted to stay and places we would like to see. No couch-surfing, or antique-Roman villages for us. We are all about cute Ireland B&Bs, and luxurious ferry rides to coastal island towns. 

But the planning always seemed so far off. We’d be going to Ireland eventually. Or we’ll worry about that next week. But it just hit me Wednesday night that we’d be leaving TOMORROW! Totally crazy. We’d all been so busy writing our case study papers for the British Landscapes course that the reality of vacation hadn’t set in. 

So, Thursday morning, we went on a school field trip to the Imperial War museum in London. It was a pretty impressive place with so many artifacts like uniforms and letters soldiers wore during the world wars. The holocaust exhibit was most memorable. They had so many graphic pictures of the atrocities committed against the Jews, and testimonial videos taken by holocaust survivors. I almost cried when one Jewish man spoke about how he had lost all faith in prayer because no matter how hard he prayed, none of his family or friends were saved. It was such an unexplainable tragedy. None of our hollow reasoning can make it any better.

After that exhibit, I was pretty drained, but I tried to absorb the museum and accept the message it wanted to give, and then move on.

Once we’d finished touring the museum, our director dropped us off at Victoria station so that we could head out more easily. (awesome!) and then we made our way to the Victoria coach station. We had some time before the coach left, so we walked/intenselypowerwalked down the Thames to see Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. I was sacked out by the time we made it back to Victoria. 

We met back up with A, who had wandered off, back at Victoria coach station, and boarded the neverending train to our ferry. We left around 6 and got into P-Dock around 2, so I was wrestling around unsuccessfully trying to sleep on that coach for over 6 hours. Upon reaching the dock, I thankfully received a renewed burst of energy as we played cards and drank hot chocolate before boarding the ferry. And this ferry was no tug-boat, my dear, this was a legit cruise liner with seven decks full of amenities. We then proceeded to run all over the place-- exploring the game room, the movie room, and the upper deck which was perfect for viewing the twinkling harbor lights and the bright Welsh stars.

I was too over-tired to sleep after we finished exploring, so I took my laptop over to a quiet nearby deck with lots of tables, chairs, and outlets to read some of the Nathaniel Hawthorne short stories my tutor suggested I brush up on before our first tutorial next week. It was around 3:30 when my eyelids began to droop and I headed into the next room and sacked out on one of the coaches.

So that was the two-and-a-half hours I have slept in the past 30 hours because at 6 am, we got off the ferry and on a coach headed to Cork. C and I are coach buddies. Since I opted not to bring my ipod in lieu of saving space for my mac, she has been sharing one ear of her music with me. That’s one of the quickest ways to ensure my affection, let me tell you. After transferring at W-, we arrived in Cork and hopped on a bus to Blarney Castle (but not before promptly losing A again). That place was absolutely beautiful! A thick fog hung over the deep green marsh land surrounding the castle and gave the area an air of mystery-- of magic. We climbed the moss-covered spiral staircase up to the top where we bent over backwards to kiss the Blarney Stone, which supposedly gives you the gift of eloquence. An area I particularly liked about the castle and the surrounding grounds was an area called the Poison Garden. It was a beautiful little plot which grew only extremely deadly flowers and plants-- one was a common plant found around Ireland which caused many infant deaths, most being intentional because the plant was given from mothers to their children. Such a terrible, yet romantic garden. I don’t know why, but I was struck by the irresistible poetry of the poisonous beauties. The whole area seemed to radiate an aura of goblin faerie dust. The rain began to get heavier and heavier and I wondered if I might drown under my purple rain coat and lie for ever under the moss and the deep blue hydrangeas.

After finishing up at the castle, we headed back to Cork and (after finding A again) boarded a bus to Dingle (subsequently losing A again). And this bus connected at a little town of which I could never find the name. We wandered around aimlessly for a while, and I finally found a cash machine which would let me enter my pin number and take out some euros. And then, after much indecision, we decided to grab a quick bite at a local grocery store and head back to await our connecting bus to Dingle (where we found A again). I bought a loaf of bread, cheese, and digestives, and was delightfully satisfied with my dinner. I also felt strangely delighted with this backpacking across-the-country situation. Normally I would have expected myself to balk at the thought of such a venture. Carry all my stuff around with me everywhere? uh, no thanks.. But I’m actually really enjoying it. The whole experience is so.. liberating. I have all I need on my back, so if I feel like hopping on a bus to a new town, I just hop on the bus. Nothing holding me back-- tying me down. I feel so confident, like I could do anything or go anywhere now. so freeing

So after arriving in Dingle, K, C, H and I began to wander around looking for our B&B (Emlaugh Lodge). We got dreadfully turned around, so K called Maggie, the B&B owner, who was sweet enough to drive over and pick us up (or “collect us” as she called it. We haven’t been able to see much of Dingle, since night fell before we arrived. But the air of anticipation is almost as good as, and maybe better than, seeing the place that is supposedly the most beautiful place in the world. We’ll see in the morning.

In a Portsmouth Museum

written thursday, on the drive back from a field trip to Portsmouth, UK. feel free to comment if you want to discuss the poem with me.

In a Portsmouth Museum

Finish your lemon ices, and we’ll move

to the next room. There, behind

the glass, are genuine musket balls,

and canons are past the tea shop, along

the beige wall. Rosary beads on that

table were excavated just last summer.

Scuba divers carved them out

from bedrock-- covered in layers of silt. 

Delicate work,   wresting

them from all those bony fingers.

Over here are surgeon's tools.

A quick chap could

amputate your arm in

three minutes-- sawing your

bone in two with jagged

knives.    They couldn’t give

you brandy, or you’d

hemorrhage, and that’d be

the end of you,   unless someone

happens to paint your

portrait as you lay gasping

through your shattered lung, or

jots down a few romantic

lines about you, or digs 

up your skull 

a hundred years later for

a museum display.

If you’d kindly step inside

the doors, I’ll continue with the tour.

Hemingway

Everyone in the house tonight is locked in quiet, exhausted desperation, trying to finish their papers before the deadline tomorrow night. I'm already finished with my paper on Margery Kempe's madness, as well as I think I can be finished. I can't stop myself from re-reading it over and over again. Each time I seem to find a spelling error here, a comma error there. So, I can't seem to bring myself to submit the paper even though I know I won't make any more substantial changes to it tonight.

Between these intervals of proof-reading, I finished reading Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms. I felt completely unprepared for Catherine's death. The shock of that sadness and poor Henry's devastation has left me feeling very down.. His stream of consciousness style and plain, matter-of-fact way of putting things was terribly beautiful.


"If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry." (ch. 34)

Initial Oxford Feelings

The past few days have been a flurry of activity. On Friday, I moved into the house I will be living in this semester at Oxford. The house is huge and in a beautiful woody location about thirty minutes outside the hustle and bustle of downtown Oxford’s center. There are about forty other students who I will be sharing the house with, and I have three other roommates, so there’s never a dull moment around here. 

This weekend has been full of get-to-know-you type conversations and orientation afternoon teas. Although all this activity has been tiring, I have willingly thrown myself into it. I’m almost scared to be left alone with myself because my homesickness starts to choke me and I can just barely hold back tears. Nighttime silence has become a time I long for yet dread. Visions of home and peace flood my mind more easily when I have nothing to distract my thoughts. 

We begin classes tomorrow, and our orientation to all things Oxford. The coming of schoolwork will certainly bring stress, but it will be a distraction from this loneliness, so I welcome the work.. at least right now. Right now the year seems to stretch out before me like an unending highway, but I’m well aware that it will fly by just like this past summer, like every school year before now. I want to call this city and these people my home, as I learned to call Gordon my home. And maybe I will.. in time.

Holiday in London

Written August 29, 2011-- my last day touring London

I have spent the last week touring London, England with my mom, so let me offer my first impressions of the city. London is old, really old. You are reminded of that fact every time you turn the corner. Almost every stone building features ornate molding or corinthian columns, and every park contains a Roman-esque statue of a general or otherwise distinguished Brit. Age is what largely distinguishes this city from others in America, but it has other unique characteristics as well. The city is not as hectic as New York, and the subways are remarkably cleaner-- and let me say that London has just about every city I’ve ever visited beaten in the public transportation department (except maybe Washington DC). It took a little bit of getting used to, but once you get the hang of it, London’s “tube” (subway) system is very clear and easy to use, much more so than NY, but maybe not as clear as Boston due to the fact that London is a larger city. The red buses are a little harder to navigate because we had a hard time figuring out where each bus made its stops, but once you know where you’re going and what signs to look for, riding the buses is a very pleasant mode of travel. London streets are even marked for tourists crossing the street; when you reach an intersection, the direction you should watch for cars is painted on the asphalt in big white letters. Thank you, Elizabeth. I also think you feel more safe walking around London at night than you would feel walking in NYC after dark. 

London is truly a tourist’s city. There are tourist attractions, ice cream vendors, t-shirt, novelty shops and restaurants everywhere. My mom remarked that she had never seen a city with so many restaurants, and that is definitely true. You are never at a loss for a little cafe in which to grab a sandwich and tea, even if it means those cafes are chains-- there was a Starbucks, Pret A Manger, and a Cafe Nero on just about every street. 

We met a couple from our home church who recently moved to Derby for tea at Kensington Palace one afternoon. They explained that it was exhausting to work here because of all the little things you have to do differently here that you would do without thinking about in America. For example, driving takes a lot more effort and concentration because you are driving on the opposite side of the road. (I think if I had to drive here I would have a crash within 5 minutes, what with the disorientation and all the buses barreling down on you.) The couple also said it took more concentration to read things because UK English is an “almost foreign language”. Ok, granted, they use some different phrases than we do in America, but on the whole I haven’t had a super difficult time understanding anyone (except our Polish concierge and the Chekoslavakian waitress), but maybe I’ll have more trouble in the future.

One of my favorite things we did here in London was our visit to Kensington. Unfortunately, since the olympics are going to be held here next summer, the city is in an uproar renovating everything, and Kensington was on the renovation list in a big way. This meant that all the furniture had been moved out of the palace, but the state rooms were still open for visitors because in place of the furnishings, they had created an exhibit called “The Enchanted Palace”. It was like stepping into Alice’s Wonderland. The point was that you were supposed to go around to each of the open state rooms and find clues to royal secrets and figure out which seven princesses had called Kensington their home. Modern art and weird galleries were displayed in the rooms, and you got to discover copies of old letters that the princesses had written way back when they lived there. Princess Victoria’s room was called “The Room of the Sleep-Walking Princess”, and inside the dark room was a bed with about seven mattresses on top, dolls and point shoes were strewn about the floor, and a wolf was displayed running across the ceiling. The point was that although Victoria’s childhood was unhappily very restricted, due to the Kensington system, in her dreams she wanted to run like a wild thing through the woods. All in all, we learned a lot about the Princesses who had lived in the Palace, and afterwards we walked a loooong way around the palace park grounds and then had tea in the Orangery, which was delicious!

Touring Buckingham Palace was my Mom’s favorite touristy thing we did here. We were lucky we got to tour it when we did because the palace is only open for tours during August and.. I think September. She liked it more than Windsor Castle because the palace was just as ornate and beautiful as Windsor, but the furnishings felt a little more modern, and the layout of the place is more open and airy than the castle. She said she could see herself living at Buckingham more than she could see herself at Windsor, and I agree but you can’t deny that there isn’t anything much more beautiful than that ancient castle with its lush gardens. 

To Pass the Morning

I wrote this one a while ago and just stumbled on it. I made a few changes and voila. What do you think?

To Pass the Morning

Outside, the school’s brass bell chimes the hour,

(hours)

commemorating a moment.

I count them, one by one,

to pass the morning

noon

afternoon.

Meanwhile, all water in all streams flows

onward and evanescent clouds

float slowly through

our milky sky.

I like to nod at them as they pass

by and pretend we share

a connection—

that they exist,

and I exist,

which is another of those mysteries,

like whether a tree makes

a sound as it falls

alone in a

forest.

I think it does.

The falling sounds like a bell—

a brass bell—to mark its passing.

Steel and Sawdust

This is a poem I wrote for the Idiom, Gordon's poetry and photography journal. The theme was: The City, so I just let my mind wander to when I recently walked the streets of New York. I'm not going to say any more about it although I've been told that the poem's meaning is rather confusing; but to me, it says exactly what it needs to say.

Steel and Sawdust

On our way to Central Park,

we passed a skyscraper

under construction,

steel beams poking

intothe atmosphere, like a

tower of Babel.

Buildings are your favorite subject.

You could talk on modern

engineering from 59^th

to 95^th and not grow weary

of describing angles, spires,

complex structures.

You told me they’re rebuilding

the World Trade Center—

creating a memorial.

New steel will rise from older ashes,

phoenix-like.

I thought of how my father’s father

made our house

from wood and blood  and nail.

How my mother carved

each year on bedroom doors.

The smell of sawdust still

reminding me of goat’s milk and

Father’s sturdy hands.

But you talked

too quickly

too volubly

like buzzing in a 9 to 5

bee hive— turning out a product.

I don’t really mind. The scent of

sawdust is meant

to be savored.