France (cont)

The Mount is full of little courtyards and gardens, and I spent quite a bit of time exploring them all. I also took time to walk around the mudflats around the Mount. I don't use this language very often, and I am not entirely sure what exactly I mean by it, but I felt truly blessed during my visit to Mt St Michel. Standing in the shadow of Mt St Michel, humility is unavoidable--and so is gratitude. Gratitude for the people who designed and created this wonder, and gratitude for the remarkable fortune that brought me here to witness it. In my twenty years I have seen and done quite a lot; I've had such incredible opportunities. So I marveled at my own existence while ambling around the wonders of Mt St Michel.

I left the Mount around 7:00PM to head back to Bayeux for the night (not before having my fill of Normandy's famous buckwheat crepes and fresh brewed cider, though). My train got to Bayeux around 9:30, and during my walk from the train station to the hostel I was truly anxious for the first time all weekend. As I said, I never really got the layout of Bayeux down, so I knew which direction I was going but not exactly how to get there. I'll readily admit that walking by myself then made me a bit nervous, but I didn't encounter a single person between the station and the hostel, so it was unfounded. Once back to my room I showered, briefly scribbled in my journal, and directly fell asleep.

The next morning, Saturday, I again woke up really early to catch a train--this time for Caen. I bid good-bye to my first hostel and got onto my train. Once in Caen, I was going to visit the Caen Memorial Museum, which is supposed to be among the best WWII (and specifically D-Day) museums, and I was doing a tour of the D-Day beaches from there. The tour was at 1:00, so I planned to spend the morning in the museum, take the 4 hour long(ish) tour, and then catch a bus to the town of Ouistreham (where my Sunday morning ferry back to the UK was leaving from).

As usual, I'd planned on walking from the Caen train station to the Caen Memorial. It had seemed reasonable on Google Maps. But it was not reasonable. I walked, following signs for the Memorial, for about 40 minutes before I ran into a highway. Deciding it would probably not be prudent to wander alongside a French highway, I backtracked into town and inspected the public transportation options. Via a combination of tram and bus, I made it to the Memorial in about 20 minutes with little difficulty. Should have done that in the first place, but I did make it there eventually.

[I should add here that they drive on the right in France, like in the US. However, I spent the entire weekend looking the wrong way while crossing the street because I expected the cars to be driving on the left. It came as a shock to me that I had become acclimated to UK culture that thoroughly; I kept thinking, "They're driving on the wrong side of the road!" When they were in fact driving on the "right" side.]

I got to the museum around 10:30 or so. I had enough time to see both the excellent WWII exhibit and the Cold War exhibit, but in truth I could easily have spent a couple more hours there. It was definitely a great museum. They really made an effort to portray the personal effects of the war; nearly every section had at least a few letters from soldiers on display, with representation from every Allied country. I now feel thoroughly enlightened about the French occupation and resistance. The Cold War exhibit was quite good as well, although it was odd to see it from a non-American perspective (one of the informational placards on a display case mentioned "American Hedonism," and I instantly got defensive...against the placard, which did no good). The Cold War part had one display where they showed an American propaganda film about nuclear safety (you know, your typical 1950s idealized white middle class family talking about what a great job the government was doing keeping them safe). I felt vaguely embarrassed. This is not to say the exhibit was one-sided, as it also showcased Soviet propaganda, but I was more fascinated by the presentation of the American stuff.

When 1:00 came around, I was the only one there for the English tour slot, so I essentially got a private tour of the beaches, which was pretty cool. Visiting the D-Day beaches has been a goal of mine for years, so I was thrilled to finally do it.

The first stop was at a beach called Point d'Hoc. Here, 225 US Army Rangers scaled a 100-ft cliff, into German fire, on the morning of June 6th, 1944. They managed to secure the position and control the area for two days before their reinforcements finally arrived. When the reinforcements showed up, only 90 Rangers were left alive. Where we were standing, on top of the bluffs, there were remnants of about half a dozen German gun emplacements, as well as a German bunker and the exploded wreckage of an artillery storage structure. But the massive and numerous bomb craters are the most stunning feature of the landscape. The ground is all uneven and hilly and studded still with barbed wire, slabs of concrete, and twisted iron. I'd never heard this story about the US Rangers at Point d'Hoc, and was duly impressed and proud of it.

Next we went to Omaha Beach. Ironically, it is a calm and peaceful beach, with a wide, flat stretch of sand between the road and the water. On the other side of the road from the beach are the bluffs that the Germans held as Allied forces landed. From the base of those bluffs to the water its 300 m, and I imagine each meter felt like a mile to the American soldiers who fought their way across it that morning. After explaining the mechanics and geography of the landing there to me, my guide gave me some time to walk around the beach by myself, which I appreciated.

I'd gotten lucky with the weather--the bright sun was warm, the blue sky was studded with fluffy white clouds, and the breeze was gentle. All of this made it utterly impossible for me to picture this beach as it was on D-Day. I couldn't get my head around the volume of American blood that soaked this sand that morning. Standing at the water's edge, looking towards the bluffs, I don't understand how anyone could have crossed that distance while navigating not only vicious gunfire but also navigating the various obstacles and mines that littered the beach. In the first wave of the landing, 90% of the soldiers were killed. It's unfathomable. I picked up a handful of sand and wondered whether this was pilgrimage; it felt like a sacred place to me.

We left Omaha Beach and went to the American cemetery. You enter the cemetery through the memorial Wall of the Missing, which has the names of all the US soldiers who were MIA during the Battle of Normandy. Just past that memorial is the cemetery itself, and the first thing I noticed wasn't the rows of white marble crosses but the two flagpoles that were flying the American flag. America owns that land; it was purchased for one symbolic franc from the French government. It was good to see the US flag flying; it didn't really hit me until then that I'd missed the sight.

It's a beautifully well-tended cemetery. My tour guide led me past a few specific markers that had interesting stories behind them; Teddy Roosevelt Jr is buried there, and he was awarded the Medal of Honor for his conduct on D-Day. I didn't even know he fought in WWII. Again I was given some time to myself there. I took some pictures, though I had mixed feelings about taking pictures in a veterans' cemetery. But I think I was sufficiently respectful. It's a very peaceful place, that cemetery, for which I was thankful. Very green and quiet, with the sea visible in the background.

After the cemetery we went to visit a remarkably well-preserved German gun emplacement and observation post near the Gold Beach (where the British troops landed). It was actually in the middle of farm fields, which was jarring. My guide explained that there were bomb craters here too but they have been filled in and leveled out so that the land can be worked. It was odd to look at the huge concrete-reinforced gun with gorgeous beaches and quiet farmland in the background.

The last stop was near the village of Arromanches, where the remnants of the artificial harbor built by the British forces are still visible. The harbor was quite a technological achievement, and a crucial objective of the D-Day landings, but I had never heard of it before. Its construction involved towing giant, hollow concrete blocks across the Channel, then sinking the blocks by opening valves that filled them with water. The Allies would never have been able to take Normandy without the use of that harbor.

By the time we got back to the museum, it was 5:30. I thanked my guide for the excellent tour and began making my way back to the city center. I knew what bus stop I needed to go to get the bus to Ouistreham, but on my first attempt I failed to get there. I thought that the bus that left the museum stopped there, but did not realize while reading the map that it only stopped there in one direction--and not in the direction I was travelling. So I had to go to the end of the line, then ride it back about halfway. I'm sure the driver thought I was an idiot.

Nonetheless I made it there in time to get the bus to Ouistreham. I was surprised by how cheap and comfortable that bus was--Ouistreham's about 20 km from Caen, and the bus was less than 2 euros. You can't go a mile for under 2 pounds in London. the only downside was that, although technically I knew where I was going (the stop was Ouistreham port), I had no idea what to look for (and it was already dark) and the stops weren't announced at all; furthermore, you had to request a stop in order to get off. I had to guess, and I was quite proud of myself for guessing right.

From the bus stop I made my way to the hotel I'd booked for the night; Ouistreham didn't have any hostels. Since my ferry was at 8:00AM on a Sunday, it wouldn't have been possible for me to stay in Caen for the night--no buses that early on a Sunday, and I thought a taxi would have been both expensive and difficult to get. So I sprung for a hotel room--a cheap one, but still much more than a hostel would have been. I was pleased to see that it was quite literally next door to the ferry terminal, though, so the convenience/peace of mind was worth the extra money. My room was small but clean and cozy, and the en suite bathroom seemed like an extravagant luxury after two nights in a hostel. I had not had dinner, but I decided I was far more tired than hungry. I simply didn't have the energy to walk into Ouistreham and try to find a restaurant. Exhausted, I feel asleep directly after showering.

I checked out shortly after seven the next morning and checked in for the ferry. I treated myself to French espresso one last time there in the ferry terminal. The ferry over was OK; I was a bit bored because I finished the novel I'd brought with me by 10:00 (Lady Chatterly's Lover by DH Lawrence; I don't particularly recommend it, though it had its moments). I did some homework and wandered around the ship to kill time. I got a cup of tea and felt quite British, because it wasn't very good tea and that bothered me as much as the bad coffee in London bothers me. The worst part of the ferry, though, was right after we docked. The foot passengers had to wait to disembark after the garage had been emptied, so I was just standing around with my backpack for about a half-hour. The not moving and not knowing why I wasn't moving made me quite anxious and frustrated, and I wished briefly that there was someone with me to assuage my anxiety. I finally got into the ferry terminal at about 1:30--plenty of time before my 2:05 coach back to London, which thankfully was leaving right from the terminal.

It felt odd arriving in London--I was going "home" to a foreign country that just happened to be less foreign than the one I'd left. Weird to be comforted by the familiarity of the Underground signs and British accents. Of course, once I got into the Underground to go home I found out that the line which would take me directly from Victoria to Ealing was suspended due to a signal failure, so my commute was longer and more involved than it should have been. But at least I knew right where I was, and there is something to be said for that.

Thursday I leave for Ireland! My itinerary includes Dublin, Carlow, Kilkenny, Cashel, Galway, Sligo, and Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland. I'm flying from Belfast to London on Sunday March 8.

On a more sober note, my grandfather has been diagnosed with lung cancer and will be going in for surgery this Thursday. So far the outlook is quite optimistic, as they have caught it early, it's localized, and he does not have symptoms; the doctors are confident that surgery alone should take care of it and they expect him to recover relatively easily. Nonetheless I'm worried and wish I was able to be there with my grandparents this weekend. Please keep him in your thoughts and/or prayers.

La Belle France

I just got back from my holiday in the Normandy region of France, and it was pretty awesome.

Last Wednesday (the 18th [Elizabeth's 21st!]), CAPA hosted a cream tea. So of course my European Gov't and Politics professor decided we should end class an hour and a half early so we could go. It was good fun, and there were tasty pastries along with solid tea. One of my classmates told me this was her first time drinking tea in Britain; I was stunned, since I have now got up to an average of about three cups a day. Anyway.

I left directly from the cream tea for Victoria Coach station (coach is what the Brits call long-distance buses). My coach left for Poole, on the southern coast of England, at 6:00PM. It was nearly a three-hour trip, and I got to Poole shortly before 9:00PM. My initial plan had been to walk from the bus stop to the ferry terminal--I had Google mapped it, and it was a bit over a mile. From the directions I had, I had guessed at a half hour's walk. My ferry didn't leave until 11:00, so I had plenty of time, even if I got a bit lost.

But...it was well after dark, and I was in a strange city. And it looked like a fairly sketchy city. I sort of replayed in my head all of the various discussions I'd had with my friends from Pitt about travelling alone--I'd spent a lot of time insisting that I was cautious and intelligent about things. I could almost hear Christina lecturing me about walking alone at night; she would tell me I was being stupid if she were here. So I got a taxi instead, and decided that the 4 pounds was worth the safety. Of course, it meant I had an hour and a half to kill inside the decidedly dull ferry terminal, but there are worse things.

As far as methods of travel go, the ferry wasn't bad at all. If it weren't so slow, it would be preferable to flying. I actually managed to sleep most of the way, and I can never sleep on airplanes. The ferry was also the beginning of listening to French; everything was naturally said in both English and French. I could pick out a few words of the French, not many. We arrived in Cherbourg at just a little past 7:00AM local time, Thursday morning. Well-rested would be a stretch, but I'd gotten enough sleep to function.

The sun wasn't up yet as I made my way from the ferry terminal to the train station. The way was well-marked, but it was about a 40 minute walk. I'd expected this, having looked it up beforehand, but my backpack was quite heavy by the time the train station was in sight. I'd bought my ticket in advance and tried to print it from the automated ticket machines, but they did not like my debit card for some reason. So I gathered my courage and my old broken French and approached the ticket counter. It went quite smoothly, although my accent was terrible; the woman behind the counter and I could communicate OK. She printed my ticket for Bayeux and my set of tickets to Pontorson as well. My train to Bayeux didn't leave for another hour, so I went into Cherbourg to explore--i.e., to find an ATM and some food.

Not much was open in Cherbourg, but I did find an ATM. I also found, by literally following my nose, an open patissiere where I obtained an excellent pastry. Breakfast of champions. While wandering I found a fruit stall also and bought an orange to supplement my sugary carbohydrates (and yes, I know that fruit is also just sugar, but it made me feel a bit better than just eating a pastry).

The train from Cherbourg to Bayeux was great. It was more comfortable than the British trains, and the countryside was gorgeous. It was an overcast, foggy morning, but the rolling fields of Normandy were beautiful covered in fog. Being out of the city was fantastic. I got to Bayeux around 11:00AM, and had a ten minute walk to the town centre from the train station.

Bayeux is a little dot of a town amidst the countryside. It's been around for centuries, and its medieval history is quite evident just by looking at it. All of the streets are very narrow and winding. There's a stunning old cathedral and several half-timbered houses. In addition to its medieval history, Bayeux has a lot of WWII history as well--it was a town of some significance during the Battle of Normandy, and it's quite close to the beaches. In fact Bayeux smells like the sea.

When I got there it was too early to check into my hostel, so I went to go look at the famous Bayeux Tapestry. This tapestry is nearly 1000 years old. It is a 70 m (about 230 ft or 76 yards) strip of cloth with wool embroidery, and it tells the story--in detail--of William the Conqueror's victory at the 1066 Battle of Hastings. Its condition is quite remarkable; it's been impressively well-preserved. I appreciated its significance, and its great condition, but I didn't find it all that thrilling. Still, one can't go to Bayeux and not visit the Tapestry.

By this point my backpack was definitely uncomfortable, and I set out for the hostel. Although there were several signs directing me to the hostel, I still had a hard time finding it. Truthfully I found Bayeux quite hard to navigate. Normally my sense of direction is decent, but I never quite got Bayeux figured out. Anyway, I did eventually find it. I greeted the man at the desk in French, and he responded with, "English?"
"American."
"I'm British, so let's go on to English then." And we carried on in English. On the one hand it is probably good that he spoke English, because I definitely would not have caught all of the information he gave me if he gave it in French. But it was a bit disappointing, on my trip out of England, to run into a Brit first thing (not that I don't adore the British!). The hostel was quite cool--it was housed in a 15th century building, and my room was located up a winding stone staircase and behind a heavy wooden door. It was a double room (a room with two twin beds), but there was no one else there. I was right next to the showers. I thought it was cozy, and I felt secure leaving my backpack there as I went out to explore the rest of Bayeux unburdened.

I wanted to go into the cathedral, but it was closed to visitors for rennovations, so I contented myself with taking lots of pictures of the exterior. I had an uneventful but pleasant afternoon. Bayeux is a gorgeous town and I really enjoyed walking around, taking pictures, and enjoying its peaceful atmosphere. After eating lunch I got the best espresso I'd had since leaving the States. Whatever the British may say about the French, the French have at least mastered coffee, something the Brits have yet to do.

Around sunset I went back to the hostel and inquired about dinner. From what I could see in the town there wasn't much open late, certainly not much I could afford. But the hostel served dinner for 10 euros, so I asked for a spot. Still a bit expensive, but better than any prices in town, and I was too exhausted to think about cooking for myself (there was a kitchen the guests could use). I was quite glad I chose to have dinner there; the food was amazing and there was more of it than anyone could reasonably eat (there were something like four or five courses served). Also, it was served in a big common dining room--there were probably about thirty people there, most of them rambunctious French teenagers. They were quite friendly to me. During the course of dinner, one of the staff members came up to me and asked me my room number and told me he had put another girl in my room. It took me several minutes to process this, because he said it all in French and the dining room was incredibly loud. But I got the gist eventually. When I went back up to my room, I was sort of accosted by a couple of French girls, who began speaking to me in rapid French. I responded rather haltingly, and they immediately switched to English, anxious to tell me all about how they thought this hostel was like a horror movie because the building was so old. I wondered whether one of them was my new roommate, but it wasn't so. When I got into my room, the new girl was in there and introduced herself in French--her name was Richelle. I reciprocated in French, and she said immediately, "English?"
"American."
"Great, I'm Canadian." Apparently my accent was really, really bad--not surprising, considering it hadn't been much good even when I was actively studying the language three years ago. Richelle was quite friendly; she was from Vancouver, in her third year at uni, and was spending the year studying in Lyon. She was just in Normandy for the weekend. She was a lit and French major.

I was in bed by 10:00, mostly because I was exhausted, but also because I had an early train Friday morning. Friday morning I went to Pontorson, to go to Mt St Michel. This involved an hour and a half train ride followed by a twenty-minute bus ride from the train station out to Mt St Michel. But the travel went smoothly. En route I befriended a middle aged Australian woman, who wanted my opinion on President Obama, among other things.

Mt St Michel is difficult to describe for several reasons. First, it is kind of geographically/structurally difficult to explain. Second, it is just too gorgeous for words. So I refer you to my pictures. I spent all day there. Visiting the abbey itself was astounding; I mean, I have now seen my share of neat old churches, but this was literally fantastic. Nothing inside there was built on a human scale; everything is huge, dramatic, awe-inspiring. [Sidenote: As the abbey and the Mt as a whole humbled me, I was reminded of Ayn Rand's Fountainhead--the scene where Roark gets lambasted for building a temple to the human spirit, on a human scale.]

to be continued...

Cambridge, among Other Things

Last week at Hornsey was a nice-change: low-key interspersed with moments of success. Mostly. I spent much of the week doing classroom observations of about 15 Yr 8 (so, 12-13 yr olds) girls who had been referred to Behavioural Support for our group work sessions. We began group work with these girls on Friday--Davinia (a Behavioural Support staff member) and I are running them together. Next week is Hornsey's half-term break, and when the girls come back the following week we'll begin meeting about twice a week. The workshops are designed to help the girls understand how to recognize and control their behavior; they have been recommended to us because they have some behavioral difficulties but are not so far gone that they need to be put on Behavioural Support's intensive monitoring system. We're hoping to rein them in before that happens; this is an intervention of sorts. The briefing session went well; they were mostly cooperative and many contributed.

And Jade, one of my most frequent charges, completed her English coursework and was successfully entered for her English GCSEs! Her last assignment was an essay on Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and she willingly sat down to write it while I supervised. Her final essay was almost entirely original (she, along with many of Behavioural Support's students, has a bad habit of plagiarizing. I don't think they beat it to death here the way they do at home, and I have to fight them out of this tendency). It included brief moments of very basic analysis, but even very basic one-sentence analyses are better than plagiarized summary. And she came up with those analyses herself. The following day she even sat down to proofread the essay, with my help, and made the changes without protesting. As a bonus to my ego, Jade told Davinia during a one-to-one check-in session that she enjoyed working with me.

Friday after work I originally intended to get a half-price ticket to Les Mis, but I decided against it because I was exhausted and didn't really think I had time. Nonetheless I did not want to go right home, so I went to wander about Westminster instead because the sun was breaking through the clouds and I knew it'd be gorgeous. And it was.

After taking some pictures, I went over to Westminster Abbey. I still have not been in to see Poet's Corner, and the Abbey was already closed for visitors when I got there late Friday afternoon. However, I was just in time for the choral Evensong service, which is free. I went in. Evensong is a traditional Anglican (Church of England; Episcopalian in the States) service. It's rather short and usually sung rather than spoken. It consists of a recital of the Lord's Prayer, some spoken prayer by the officiant, a couple of Psalms sung by the choir, two short readings by the officiant, some sung prayer, and closing prayer by the officiant.

It was my first foray into the Abbey. Although Poet's Corner wasn't accessible from where I was, there are dozens of tombs and memorials lining the wall of the Abbey along the way from the door to where the service is--most notably Sir Isaac Newton's. The Abbey itself is beautiful, a solemn and stately sort of beautiful. It truly is, in the most literal and true sense of the word, awesome.

And I won't even bother to attempt to describe how magnificent it was to listen to the male choir's pure singing in that ancient sacred space. Their clear voices were the only music in the service. Those of you who know me well know that I like Gregorian chant; this was like live Gregorian chant but cooler because they sang in a lovely old form of English--it was Modern English, but with the occasional Middle English word or syntax slipping in (so...an early 16th century version of the psalms, perhaps? sometime thereabouts). I had goosebumps throughout much of the music. It was one of the more remarkable hours of my life.

Saturday I woke up early for a day trip to Cambridge. The train left Kings Cross at 9:15 and I was in Cambridge by 10:05. The train station was a bit more than a mile outside of the town centre, but it was a lovely morning and the twenty-five minute walk was enjoyable. The sun was out, the wind was gentle, and it was warmer than it had been in a while. If Oxford was a literary pilgrimage for me, Cambridge was a scientific one.

As I approached the town centre, I wandered into an open college purely at random; I just noticed that its gates were open and went into the courtyard. It turned out to be Christ College, where Darwin had studied. There was a plaque of Darwin, showing his familiar old likeness. There was also a very cool, life-size bronze sculpture of a young Darwin on a park bench with a stack of books. I was pretty excited.

Once in the busy town centre, my first stop was at the TI office to get a spot on a walking tour--I haven't yet done a walking tour that wasn't worthwhile. Cambridge, like Oxford, is very dense at its center, with streets barely wide enough for cars and always flooded by pedestrians and cyclists.

Part II of my two-part series on famous academic pubs: the Eagle in Cambridge where Watson and Crick first announced that they had worked out DNA's double helix. They have a plaque on the facade of the pub, and it is literally footsteps away from the old Cavendish lab where they worked. I passed the pub on my way to Trinity College. Once at Trinity, I beelined for the famous Wren Library, where I knew that they were cool manuscripts on display.

The Wren Library (named for the famed Christopher Wren, who designed it) is now one of my favorite places. The atmosphere reminded me more of an old cathedral than a college library. There were large high-set windows, and it was a rather small room by library standards. There was one sort of large aisle flanked by bookshelves and desk areas. Each of the bookshelves was topped with a stately marble bust of everyone from Socrates to Dryden. Every book on the shelves seemed to be bound in ancient cracking leather. There was a large sculpture of Lord Byron at the end of the library. Along the aisle were large display cases covered in heavy red cloth, which you pull back to view the works on display. The displays did not disappoint; most impressive was the display on Sir Isaac Newton, who had both studied and taught at Trinity. There was a 1st edition of his Principia, with his own hand-written corrections. There were also some letters of his, where his diagrams and calculations were clearly visible. Apart from the Newton stuff, there was a Wittgenstein notebook, a couple of pages of the Winnie the Pooh manuscript (A.A. and Christopher Robin Milne were both Trinity students), a Byron manuscript, a 1st edition Shakespeare, and a nice collection of early illuminated Bibles. Noticeably missing were the John Milton manuscripts that I had heard were on display here; they had been removed (for some very important purpose, I'm sure). The picture here is of Trinity's courtyard; the library had a strict no photo policy.

I reluctantly left the library, but the bright sunlight outside was nice consolation. I went out the back of Trinity College, to the banks of the river Cam. This area was known as "the Backs"--one can stroll along the river and admire the backs of all the college buildings, and they're just as gorgeous as the fronts. Along the river I felt like spring was rushing in; there were small patches of little blooming flowers, and the sun's beams were brilliantly reflecting off of the water. The ground was damp and muddy, but not the dreary sort of winter mud--I was reminded of the Cummings poem where he describes Spring as "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful." It was a lovely walk; I meandered about the riverbank until it was time to go back to the TI for my walking tour.

The tour was quite good. A good portion of it was spent in King's College Chapel, Cambridge's most famous building, and for good reason. I've posted a couple of pictures, but they definitely don't do the place justice. It's the textbook example of Perpendicular Gothic architecture, and the fan-vaulted ceiling is the most perfect example anywhere in Britain (the only country where fan-vaulting can be found). The chapel's stained glass is purported to be the finest in England. One of the most striking features of the chapel is the very darkly stained oak organ screen, which stretches across the chapel to separate the antechapel. The gold organ pipes are gorgeous against the oak. As if all of this weren't enough, the Ruebens painting "Adoration of the Magi" adorns the altar. While we were there, the whole place was full of sunlight as well. Truly stunning.

The tour went over a few other colleges, too (there are 31 Cambridge colleges total). All were pretty, but none more impressive than King's or Trinity. We went to Trinity College chapel, which I had not been able to go into on my own earlier. The choir was practicing while we were there, and I have pretty much run out of adjectives for beautiful.

Afterwards, I went to get a late lunch/early dinner before my 5:45 train back to London. I tried to go to the Eagle, but I was in the awkward time slot of post-lunch and pre-dinner, so they weren't serving dinner. I went to the pub next door instead, which was quite good--even if the structure of DNA wasn't announced there. I returned briefly to the river for another look at the Backs before leaving town for the train station.

I think Oxford was cooler, but I also have a stronger attachment to Oxford. Cambridge was certainly prettier and less touristy. The colleges seemed a bit more receptive to visitors. It was also more condensed than Oxford--it was easier to get around to everything on foot than it was in Oxford.

Next weekend, I'm going to visit Normandy. I'm leaving the UK on Wednesday night and taking a ferry across the Channel. Looking at my calendar makes me feel like my semester here is nearly over. When I get back from France, I have just four days before I leave for my ten days in Ireland. Once back from Ireland, I'll have a little over a month before flying back to the States. Surreal.

Foreign Concept

I had a most interesting European Gov't & Politics lecture yesterday. The topic was British gov't, and I learned quite a bit.

There is no written constitution. I've known this, but I never realized the full implications. Nowhere is it written that there needs to be a legislative body called Parliament; nowhere is the position of Prime Minister mandated. Parliament is required to hold elections every five years, except when they decide to vote to suspend elections. (To be fair, that has only happened once, in 1940, during the bleakest hour of WWII.) There is nothing comparable to the American Bill of Rights; indeed, in the American understanding of the term, Brits do not have guaranteed rights. Officially, Britain is not even secular, since the Head of State (monarch) is also the Head of the Church. One House of Parliament (House of Lords) is appointed rather than elected.

And no one is concerned about this. They're not really bothered that one house of the legislature is not answerable to the people; they're not worried that the government is not officially obligated to respect their right to freedom of speech, press, assembly, and religion. When I asked Dr. Fosdal about why continuing House of Lords reform wasn't high on the priority list, he just kind of shrugged. "It's been around for ever, literally 1000 years. And no one knows what to do with it--no one knows what the House of Lords should look like. The public doesn't really care that much, and the politicians can't be bothered to undertake the complex task of re-envisioning and reforming it, not when what we have seems to work all right."

He told another story that I found entertaining: "Once I was invited to the investiture of a life peer [official giving of title to a new member of the House of Lords]. After he took the oath, he bowed to the throne that's in the chamber three times. Afterward, I asked him why three times. And he just shrugged and said, 'No one knows'. And that pretty much sums up our entire system, really: no one has any idea why we do what we do except that it's been done that way for longer than anyone can remember."

I do not understand this. It's the first time I've become aware of an essential difference in...I don't know...consciousness, maybe...spirit? attitude? perspective? I can't find the right word, forgive me...between American and British. The idea of a House of Lords, of no clearly written guarantee of basic rights, of no official check to governmental power, outrages me. Institutions should not exist simply because they have always existed; on the other hand, the future existence of current, useful institutions should not just be assumed without something concrete holding them up. It is a system with no objective or reasoned foundation. Instead, it has been crafted piecewise over the last millennium, with no clear target or destination. It is the Brits' easy acceptance of their odd system that feels most foreign to me here, more foreign than pounds sterling, effective public transportation, and tea with milk.

Of course, I cannot get my head around the British perspective of their own system. They are inundated with their 1000 years of history; at home I marvel at things dating back more than 100 years. I read a quip somewhere: "For Americans, 100 miles is nothing and 100 years is a fantastic distance. For the British, it's the opposite." After 1000 years, things must inevitably become entrenched--as much as I cannot imagine living under a monarch, the British (mostly, anyway) can't imagine not having one, however outdated it may seem. At what point do things become inseparable from national identity--and if they are, what would be the effect of tearing them away? One thousand years of history could be halted by one vote in Parliament...at what cost?

When I was in Oxford, I was told about the ridiculously antiquated uniform the students are required to wear to their exams. It's been University policy since like the 16th century or something absurd. And every ten or fifteen years, students protest it for being antiquated. But ultimately everyone decides they don't really want to get rid of it, even if it is archaic, because it's a unifying tradition.

As I left class last night and hopped on the London Underground, I thought about my pocket-sized copy of the Constitution. My senior year I went on a school-sponsored trip to DC, and we had all been given them. I'd given it no thought since high school, when pocket Constitutions had been fodder for jokes among my high school friends (We didn't get out much, clearly. Explains a lot, I am sure.). Suddenly I wished I had it with me, because its uniqueness and brilliance had just truly hit me full force. It is a beautiful document, an elegant and well-reasoned plan of government. To even have a plan, a framework, is tremendous. To have such a carefully thought out plan, one that was able to provide for a future wildly different than anything anyone could have imagined in the 18th century, is nothing short of miraculous. I settled for going over it online when I got home.

Certainly, the American system is riddled with flaws and abuses of power. Ironically, perhaps even more so than the British system. I'm not naive and am usually quite cynical when it comes to politics and gov't. But even Bush and Cheney, though they gave it their best effort, couldn't overcome our Constitution. No matter how displeased we are with our government, we know with surety that terms will end and elections will take place at the appointed time. And we know why that is. Every branch of our government was designed mindfully, with a clear purpose. We know the answer to "why"--and it is a far more satisfying answer than "because it's always been done like that."

So, I am officially adding another entry to the list of things I miss: a brilliantly written Constitution.

Another Reason to Be Concerned about Science Education

Following is an actual conversation I had with Jade, a 15-yr old Year 11 student, today:
Jade: "Miss, what's my next lesson?"
Me: "You've got science."
Jade: "Miss, I don't want to go to science."
Me: "Why not?"
Jade: "'Cause it's rubbish, miss."
Me: "Science isn't rubbish. Science is everything. Besides, you need your science GCSE, so you've got to go."
Jade: "I'm just going to sleep. I already know the basics of science, miss."
Me: "Really? What are the basics of science?"
Jade: "I know the fire thing and the baby system."
Me (trying not to laugh out loud): "What is a baby system?"
Jade: "You know, the baby thing."
Me: "The reproductive system?"
Jade: "Yeah, reproductive thingy."
Me (laughing now): "All right, you know the reproductive system. What is a fire thing?"
Jade: "Like how to put out fires and things."

Miscellany

Nothing too exciting this week--just a bulleted list of thoughts:

• During my European gov't and politics class, the 7 of us (it's a small class) got into an argument about the protectionist provision in America's economic stimulus bill. My professor made a comment about how America was responsible for peanut butter, and we all stopped fighting and began reminiscing about American peanut butter. Dr. Fosdal observed, rightfully, that the best way to get Americans to band together is to insult peanut butter.
• Public trash cans are nearly non-existent here, particularly in Central London. Even at Tube stations they're hard to find. Last week I had to carry an empty paper cup home from Kensington because I couldn't find anywhere along the way to get rid of it.
• At the Tower of London they were playing film clips of Queen Elizabeth's coronation near the display of the crown jewels. It was certainly beautiful, but the pageantry was almost absurd. The concept of monarchy is just utterly ridiculous to me, and even living here it is difficult for me to get my head around the fact that there is actually royalty still in existence.
• A girl tried to hide from me while I was working last Thursday.
  
• I had a different girl analyzing the lyrics to her favorite rap songs because she wouldn't look at real poetry. This was really the first time I'd ever attempted to teach literary analysis, and although I was working with the world's most reluctant student and a rap song, I really enjoyed it.
  
• I still haven't decided what to say to people who ask me where in the States I'm from. My typical answer is "I go to the University of Pittsburgh but I'm from Michigan," but sometimes that seems unnecessarily complicated, so I just say "Michigan." Sometimes just "Pittsburgh, in Pennsylvania." I don't like just saying Pittsburgh because I don't feel like it's true--but I live there for the vast majority of the time, so perhaps it is. I have no idea. It should be fairly insignificant, particularly since the people asking usually are just being polite and don't really care. But it matters a great deal to me because this is the first time I've had to confront the fact that I actually live in Pittsburgh for about 11 months out of the year.
  
• I was not a fan of The Merchant of Venice. What was Shakespeare up to in that play? It's grotesque. And remarkably unfunny for a Shakespearean "comedy." The two storylines seem only sloppily connected. I hated everyone at the end of it, except perhaps Antonio, but he was a bit of an idiot, really. In any event, this play, along with The Taming of the Shrew, has earned the dubious distinction of a Shakespearean play I'd just as soon forget.
• On a brighter note, I saw a brilliant production of A Midsummer Night's Dream yesterday. It was put on by the Royal Shakespeare Company, and was remarkably well-done. I've always enjoyed this play, and this was the first performance of it I'd seen. It was wonderful and hilarious--a fitting choice for my first theatre outing in London.
• There are people who don't like art. Who knew?
  
• The London snow has become the news item everyone loves to hate, much like last summer's gas prices: everyone is sick of hearing about it but brings it up continually anyway.
• I was asked to write a recommendation letter for Dr. Bialostosky, one of my favorite English professors at Pitt. He's up for a teaching award, and I was thoroughly flattered that he chose to ask me for a recommendation. His two undergrad courses have had a profound academic impact on me (even if the volume of reading in Criticism was overwhelming).
• I've heard a lot about the Superbowl riots in Pittsburgh last weekend, and I've seen a lot of pictures. I'm a bit upset that I wasn't there for it, but I also think the extent of the damage is embarrassing. Was it really necessary to break out the library's windows and completely demolish one of the most useful bus stops on campus? At least the Cathedral wasn't damaged.
• Life with the Martins is pretty sweet--I don't have to cook, do dishes, or even do my own laundry. I haven't had it this easy since 6th or 7th grade.
• I've started booking stuff for Ireland, which is both exciting and scary. I plan to book stuff for Normandy tomorrow, which is a bit scarier because getting to all of the things I want to see there is much more complicated than I imagined. But I am confident I will work it out.
• I still haven't really found good coffee here. It's a good thing I like tea.
  

Shutdown

(I am trying not to bombard people with millions of posts, but I must vent my frustration over my morning. Feel free to skip this one, as it is mostly a rant.)

It snowed last night in London, and it is still snowing (it's noon here now). Not much snow, really--there's maybe four inches on the ground. But it is too much snow for London.

This morning my computer was uncooperative and I was unable to get online to check my e-mail or the news. As a result, I was unable to search for either school closings or Superbowl results. I left the house about 6:55AM, a bit later than I should have.

I did not realize the extent of the snowfall until I got outside. I thought there was a good chance Hornsey was cancelled--but I didn't want to take the chance. I called the school as I trudged towards the bus stop.

[Here I will depart from my story to provide with a quick orientation of how my daily life depends on London's public transport. The closest Underground station to me is Ealing Broadway. Both the Central Line and the District Line stop at Ealing Broadway, and it take me 25 min or so to walk to the station. Alternatively, I can walk about ten minutes to catch a bus to the station (5 min bus ride, usually). Typically I take the bus in the morning. West Ealing rail station is closer to me than Ealing Broadway--a 10 min walk--but it does not connect to the Underground. It runs trains to Paddington and to Heathrow, so it is a useful station, but I do not use it regularly.

To get from my house to Hornsey, I walk/bus to Ealing Broadway, where I catch the Central line heading east into Central London. At Oxford Circus (a 25-30 min ride) I transfer to the northbound Victoria line, which I ride to Finsbury Park (15 min tops). At Finsbury Park, I catch the W3 bus to Weston Park, where I then walk for about 5 min to reach the school.]

No sidewalks had been cleared yet, and the side streets were still covered. I got no answer at the school, but it was only 7:00AM so even if the school was open there probably wasn't anyone in yet. I got to my usual bus stop and waited there for not even a minute before a passerby informed me that no buses were running.

This was worrisome. If there were no buses running anywhere in the city, then I would not be able to get from Finsbury Park station to Hornsey School. I had no way of knowing whether there was this much snow everywhere, or whether any city buses were running. For all I knew, it was just Ealing that couldn't cope with a few inches of snow.

So I continued trudging through the snow, trying to ring the school. I got alternatively voice mail and busy signals. I had the other interns' mobile numbers in my bag, but I didn't want to stop and dig through my bag in the snowfall. I decided to pull out their numbers when I got to the station.

Once at the station, I called Stacy, who answered almost right away. She lived in the same building as the other two guys who work with us, and I knew that they travelled together in the mornings. "Is Hornsey open?" I asked.

"Well, that's the million dollar question. No one has any idea. We can't get through to the school. But there are no buses anywhere, and the Bakerloo line is shut down near us, so we're screwed even if it is open. Can't see how we would get there."

At this point, if I had any sense, I would have turned around and gone back to bed. But I kept thinking that at home, school would not be cancelled for this amount of snow. I knew, though, that most students used the city buses to get to school, and now I knew that it wasn't just Ealing's buses that weren't running. So I should have figured it out.

But I just didn't want to miss a day of work. We were already all scrambling for hours, since the school gets a couple of weeks off in April. If the school was open and I didn't show, I didn't think I'd get in trouble, but I'd miss seven hours needlessly (we have an hour requirement with CAPA). So instead of turning around and going home, I told Stacy that I was going to get into the Tube and that I'd keep trying the school. We promised to share information as soon as anyone got any to share.

Once in the station, I noted that the District line wasn't running--it was closed from west of Earl's Court, a station in Central London. But the Central line was running, and did not seem any more crowded than it normally was on a weekday morning. I grabbed a copy of the free morning paper and got myself a nice standing place halfway up the train. I tried calling the school one last time before I lost service; no answer.

As the train sped along--it seemed to be doing just fine--I scanned the paper for Superbowl news. It was too early, though; the game had just ended about two hours ago, and the results weren't printed. The predicted low temp was, though: -5C. This is about 20F, and therefore not really that cold. But it is apparently the coldest London has been in more than a decade.

With roughly four stops to go, the train all of a sudden got crammed with people. Seriously, people were getting stuck in the doors because of the crowds. It seemed to come from nowhere. It did not seem like a good sign.

At Oxford Circus I shoved my way out of the train and decided to exit the station before boarding a Victoria train to Finsbury Park. I was determined to get through to Hornsey before going any further; Oxford Circus station was mayhem.

Above ground, I called them twice before a human finally answered. "Is the school open?" I asked.

"No, I'm afraid we're not," said whoever had finally decided to pick up a phone. I then called Stacy and made my way back down into the station, intending to hop on a westbound Central line train to get home. It was about 8:00 at this point.

It seemed to be a lost cause. A calm British announcer was listing all of the delays over the intercom: "We are currently experiencing severe delays on the eastbound Central Line. The Bakerloo Line is closed north of Queen's Park. The District Line is part suspended. There is a good service on the Victoria line..." I couldn't even get close to the Central line platform--there were crowds all backed up the stairs. It was infuriating because I knew that 80% of the traffic was for the eastbound service into London, and that if I could get through I could probably get onto a westbound train. Rather than fight the crowds, I decided to leave the station and grab a cup of coffee somewhere, to give the rush hour crowds time to pass.

That may have been a fatal mistake on my part; it's hard to say. In an event, when I got back to the station at around 8:50, there were fewer crowds. I managed to get onto the westbound Central line platform. But in the last half hour severe delays had developed on the westbound Central Line as well. Nonetheless, the sign over the platform said "Next Ealing Broadway train within 15 min." Fifteen minutes seemed reasonable to me, given the madness in the station, so I put on my iPod and waited.

Twenty-five minutes later, the sign still said "Next Ealing Broadway train 15 min." I seriously doubted it, and began devising alternative routes in my mind. I wondered whether the District line was up yet; if I could get to it, I could ride that the Ealing Broadway.

I stopped a TfL worker and asked. He told me that the only line currently running dependable service was the Victoria line (ironically, this meant that I could have actually gotten to work on time). If the District and Central couldn't get me to Ealing Broadway, my only other option was an Overground train to West Ealing. But the Victoria line didn't run to Paddington. It did, however, run to Kings Cross. Kings Cross did not have any Overground trains to West Ealing, but it did boast five Underground lines, two of which ran to Paddington. My new plan was to get to Paddington via Kings Cross.

Sure enough, there were Victoria line trains running every four minutes in both directions (as I boarded the train, my iPod informed me it had low battery). I got to Kings Cross quite smoothly. From experience I knew that both the Circle Line and the Hammersmith & City Line went to Paddington, and that they left from the same platform. I was sure to get a train quickly, since both of them were high-frequency services.

But as soon as I stepped off of the escalator, there was a sign saying that both the Circle and the H&C lines were completely shut down. I turned around and formulated another plan: get back on Victoria and go to Victoria station. Victoria station had Overground trains; I had no idea whether they ran trains to Paddington or West Ealing, but I felt sure that the Underground would never get me home.

At Victoria station, every Overground train had been cancelled. The District line ran out of Victoria and was running good service according to the announcements--but it was also closed several stops east of Ealing Broadway. I had no choice but to take Victoria back to Oxford Circus and try again for a westbound Central Line train.

When the train pulled into Green Park, the station before Oxford Circus, there was an announcement that there was no interchange for the Central line at Oxford Circus. There was a third line at Oxford Circus, the Bakerloo line, which I never used and did not know very well. I knew part of it was closed, but I didn't know what part. With no other plan, I got off at Oxford Circus and inspected the Bakerloo map.

Win! It went to Paddington; the part of it that was closed was past Paddington. It also seemed to still be running smoothly. I even managed to get a seat on the train.

I was now worried about getting a train from Paddington to West Ealing after everything had been shut down at Victoria. The only back-up plan I had was to ride a different branch of the District Line from Paddington to CAPA and chill in the student lounge there. That wouldn't solve anything, but at least I'd finally get to go to sleep. But I didn't even know if CAPA was open; I'd need to call them first.

Luckily, it seemed that Paddington was still running trains. I scanned the departure board and saw that the next train to Heathrow would stop at West Ealing. It was scheduled to leave at 10:03; the station clocks read 10:00 exactly. I sprinted to the train and got a seat. Finally feeling satisfied, I loosened my scarf as my iPod finally died.

I needn't have sprinted; the train didn't leave the station until nearly 11:00. Once it did, it stopped for nearly 10 min just a couple of minutes outside of the station. I finally made it to West Ealing around 11:30, and then back home, where I promptly got into my pajamas and sat down to write this.

Seriously, though--all of this for four inches of snow?! It's not as though they were surprised; the imminent snowfall was the major news item of the weekend. It's absurd that a city of this size and significance is completely unable to cope with a flurry.

Total travelling time: 4.5 hours.
Net distance: 0 miles.

Cheers.

Kids and Crowds

I finally feel like my life has settled into routine here (although I'm still struggling to find the motivation to complete even the simplest homework assignments). It seems as though I am always tired, and I've been maintaining a fairly constant 11:00PM bedtime (much to the amusement of my fellow interns, who apparently would prefer I come into work as hungover as they do).

This week I met a few more of Behavioural Support's favorite students, and worked a bit more with the ones I already knew. The kids are getting used to me, I think, and they are certainly determined to test my limits. Sherife was concerned that they were giving me a hard time; but although they can be uncooperative, most of them have generally been friendly to me so far.

The work gets more manageable every day. There were some definite high moments this week--I got one student through an oral exam on Romeo and Juliet, an essay on the play East is Easy, and a creative writing assignment (she actually named her main character after me, which was cute). My co-workers in Behavioural Support are confident that she'll get through English if we can keep pushing her through coursework. I worked with one student on a science assignment who is notorious for being entirely non-communicative (no one can ever get eye contact out of her, and her voice is typically almost inaudible). But she actually asked me content-related questions about her science work--always a good sign. Results are always mixed, though. Jade might have handed in an essay on East is East, but it wasn't in paragraph form and didn't really address the prompt. She learned Romeo and Juliet, but without reading any Shakespeare. Lisa showed interest in her science assignment and worked on it for a bit, but I don't think she ended up completing it. When I was in sixth grade, my father told me to pick my battles (if you see this Dad, I was listening) and that phrase has always stuck with me. Never more than during this internship, though. With every class period there seems to be a dozen possible battles, and it's always difficult to decide which ones are worth pursuing.

There were low moments, too. Ceylan, a student that I've been doing a lot of work with, got thrown out of a science class that I was sitting in with her. That was a big failure for me; Ceylan normally gets on quite well with me, but I couldn't get her to focus in class. Then I couldn't convince her to get back to class. When she decided to go back to class, she wanted to demand an apology from her teacher (who, in her defense, was being a bit of a jerk to her) and I couldn't get her to see why that was unreasonable. Once back in class, I could not get her to actually do work. Nor did I succeed in getting her to stay after to speak with her teacher, who has quite clearly given up completely. She's right; he does pick on her. But she can't (or won't) understand that the best way to revenge that is to prove him wrong and show him how smart she is.

Never a dull moment in that place. I think the entire school will combust the day Sherife leaves it.

I spent the weekend in London. Friday night I went to the British Library. I didn't spend too much time there because I plan on going back. While there, I saw the Beowulf manuscript and handwritten Beatles lyrics in the same room--I was thrilled. I actually worked Friday during the day, and I was exhausted by the time I made it home. I was out by 10:30PM.

Saturday morning I went to the British Museum, although again I did not see much. I feel like that museum deserves several trips. I concentrated my time there on the Enlightenment exhibit, which actually wasn't as cool as I had thought it would be. I saw a bit of the Egyptian galleries (well, I saw the Rosetta Stone) and I perused the Pantheon galleries. It's unrealistic to do more than two or three galleries in one visit; I only saw a small fraction of one floor. Earlier in the week one of my professors had joked that the British Museum only glorified the Brits' tendency to steal things, and I am inclined to agree. In the Pantheon galleries there is literally an entire Greek temple, and there is also a little pamphlet explaining that the Greek government has requested the return of much of the British Museum's Greek artifacts. Can't blame them; the entire enterprise reeks of Imperialism. But I suppose once you started ordering the return of artifacts to their homeland, it would be difficult to stop. I could see it feeding nationalism and isolationism. An intriguing debate.

I left the Museum and headed to a football match with a group from CAPA--it was Queens Park Rangers vs Reading; QPR was at home. I was freezing most of the time because I only had my coat and my lightweight scarf on. The game was quite exciting. I enjoyed the fast pace, particularly since my favorite sports to watch at home (baseball and American football) are sometimes unbearably slow, even for me. But this was ninety minutes of continuous action, and there's no denying the sheer athleticism the sport requires. It was fun being in the stands. I'd heard a lot of hype about "football hooligans," but I honestly thought they were pretty much on par with American sports fans (although perhaps the Premiership games are crazier; this was a Championship league game). Most people sat down for most of the game though, which I found to be a nice change from Pitt football games, where everyone stands and you can't see anything if you sit. I decided that sporting events are a bit like Catholic churches; unless you're a regular you have no idea when to sit, stand, or say things and you just have to take cues from everyone around you, who all seem to know every ritual. There were a group of small kids sitting just behind us--couldn't have been older than five--who cheered loudly throughout most of the game ("QPR! QPR! We are QPR! Rangers!"). They were adorable. The match was a draw, 0-0, although (in my very uneducated opinion) QPR played a better game.

This morning I went to Camden Town to visit the market there; it's probably the most famous of the London markets. Having learnt my lesson from yesterday, I put on long underwear, a long-sleeved shirt, my thick scarf, and gloves before leaving the house. It was a wise choice, since it started flurrying mid-morning and I was outside most of the day. The markets (there are several in Camden Town) were an interesting mix of touristy trash, hipstery trinkets, and good food. The first street of stalls is basically all just cheesy UK souvenir stalls, but once you get into Camden Lock there's better stuff. It's very international; there's a lot of jewelry and crafts as well as vintage clothing stalls. Every foot of it was thoroughly crowded. Browsing and people watching were quite entertaining. I had hoped to be able to pick up a few gifts while there, but I didn't really find anything I thought would work. That part of it was a bit disappointing, because now I really have no ideas about what to get for people.

I left Camden and went to Trafalgar Square, where I met Alan and Rachel. We were headed for the Chinese New Year celebrations. There were enormous crowds from Trafalgar Square to Leicester Square and overflowing into Picadilly Circus; the cold hadn't deterred anyone. We watched a couple of performers in Trafalgar Square. It was cool to see the Chinese decorations contrasted with the neo-Classical architecture of Trafalgar Square. Then we walked to Leicester Square and into Chinatown proper. There we fought against very pushy crowds to catch sight of a couple of dragon dances. They were great fun to watch. We got a late lunch (or possibly early dinner?) there in Chinatown. The food was good and I would guess it's more or less on par with American Chinese food, except perhaps more expensive and less deep-fried (and no General Tso's, unfortunately). With time to kill before the fireworks display and no real desire to push through any more crowds, we walked away from Chinatown towards St. James' Park and all the way to Buckingham Palace. I enjoyed the walk immensely. The sun had begun to set, dramatically backlighting the bare trees, whose branches all tangled together. Winter really is a beautiful season, but even as I enjoying seeing the park and Palace through the sunset flurries I caught myself thinking about how lovely that same street will be when things start to bloom. The fact that we had just walked, in about twenty minutes, from Chinatown to Buckingham Palace delighted me.

We went back to Chinatown for the 6:00PM fireworks. I love fireworks, and I love Pittsburgh's usually fantastic firework displays, but this one was unlike any I have ever seen. We had a great viewing spot, literally as close as we could possibly be, pressed right up against the fence in Leicester Square. There weren't many fireworks that went up into the air and burst the way most American fireworks do; I suppose these were more properly firecrackers. There were strings of firecrackers hanging vertically from a cable in the park; they were probably about six feet long and suspended from about nine or ten feets. And they lit the strings, and the noise was fantastic. There were also stationary spinning wheels of colored sparks that were awesome. There were other hanging strings of a different sort that just rained blinding sparks--and noise. Meanwhile, they were setting off rockets almost continuously, which exploded with a bang and a flash of light. The smoke was unbelievable also; by the end of it you could hardly see into the park where they had been lighting them. To give you some idea of how close we were and how intense it was, Rachel informed me as we left (between coughing fits) that I had bits of fireworks in my hair. She was right, and I had them all over my coat as well. I still smell vaguely of gunpowder. It was a brilliant display.

Another week of work and school ahead...