Tuesdays

Come the weekend, my first thought for the past few months has been what to do with Tuesday. Earlier in the semester, I took Tuesday as an occasion to explore parts of London I hadn't yet seen, like Richmond Park, the East End, the markets, and all that. At the beginning of March, I decided to spend a few Tuesdays getting out of the city and exploring the countryside. Despite this ambition, I ultimately went off to see places I had already been last summer: Stratford-Upon-Avon and Oxford. In my defense, I really wanted to see a show at the Royal Shakespeare Company again this semester and I also didn't get to spend as much time in Oxford as I wanted to last time.

So off I went, first to Stratford. Booking tickets on National Rail is really easy, and I was really excited to see that there was a direct train from Marylebone Station to Stratford. When I got to the station early Tuesday morning, I learned that a landslide had closed off a major part of the rail line I was taking (here's proof: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-oxfordshire-31081630). So here's how National Rail resolved the crisis: take the train from London to Banbury (where I stayed last summer for two weeks), then a bus from Banbury to Leamington, then a train from Leamington to Stratford.

That sounds like a lot but it didn't add much time to the journey, I think only a half hour extra. It all went smooth until I arrived in Leamington, where they hadn't figured out the situation yet, so I was redirected to a "minibus." My only trouble was that the minibus driver had no idea what I was talking about when I asked "This is going to Stratford, right?" He leaped from the driver's seat and accosted the National Rail staff who redirected me, shouting "You can't keep doing this to me!" After a station manager got involved, the manic minibus moved along to Stratford. (Yes, I was witness to the entire ordeal, having inadvertently caused it...)

It was a bright day and I had a few hours to explore town. I revisited the site of Shakespeare's grave at the Holy Trinity Church. Last time I was there, the place was packed with tourists all tramping around taking selfies with the tomb; this time, I was the only one in the church. I did not go to the grave itself this time since it cost £2, so I just wandered around instead.

I went from there to walk along the River Avon for a bit; there I remembered that I had walked along a different part of the same river in Bath when I visited Shannon a few weeks earlier. I had a quick lunch at the Dirty Duck, the pub in Stratford where companies go after their shows; it's a great place to have a drink (we went a few times last summer) and it's close to the RSC. So I settled into my seat for the matinee of Much Ado About Nothing. I had studied this play with my class on film adaptations of Shakespeare, so it was weird to be watching the show without taking scrupulous mental notes. It was a terrific production, set in a manor turned convalescent home during wartime England.

You might notice a camera crane in that picture. The BBC was recording the production to broadcast in cinemas around the UK; this was their test-run for the final broadcast they would be making the next day. Without making any alterations to the original folio, the wartime motif was executed quite effectively even in this comedy full of wordplay and slapstick humor.

After the show I had a few hours before my three-leg return to London (thankfully, sans minibus). I wandered around the town and the river some more. I had considered dropping by the Shakespeare Institute to take a look at some academic happenings in town, but decided to stay outside since it was such a nice day. I continued meandering around town and along the river until I had to return to the station.

(I haven't quite worked out how to take good quality photos on the iPhone when it's very sunny out; maybe I'll figure it out before I leave.)

I actually enjoyed the ride back because I was able to watch the sunset behind a reel of fields and farms. I did not take any pictures of those moments--the train was going too fast, and there are times when I think a camera can be a bit intrusive on this kind of pseudo-sublime perceptive experience.

The next Tuesday trip was to Oxford; like my trip to Stratford, I traveled alone, however I was lucky enough to be meeting up with a friend, Marina, in Oxford. This is a very easy trip to make from Paddington Station, only an hour-long direct train. I met Marina, my former English Lit compatriot at Saint Michael's, and her boyfriend Sam at the station. They showed me around Worcester College, where Marina studied last year and Sam is still a student. I had toured St. Edmund's (Teddy) Hall last summer with a bursar and its smallness amazed me; Worcester seemed larger but still - like all the colleges there, I think - very intimate and community-oriented.

At Worcester College, Oxford: the archway through which Lewis Carroll first saw Alice Pleasance Liddell

After the tour, we had coffee near Gloucester Green, then ate makeshift Tesco lunches (always a good idea).

Marina and me on St. Michael's Street!

From there, we wandered around Christ Church College, where we got in for free (the power of connections, my friends).

I appreciate all the green space in Oxford; at many of the colleges walking on the grass is forbidden, so there are many open fields beyond the quadrangles. We walked through Christ Church Meadow along the River Cherwell. Sam studies biology at Oxford so he had some interesting knowledge to share on our walk. For instance, we noticed mistletoe in some distant trees; Sam told us that mistletoe is a parasite that infests the host tree through bird excrement. So much for that romantic signifier...

Punting on the River Cherwell

Marina showed me the Sheldonian Theatre, which is an elaborate and beautiful performance space. At the top of the building we had a fantastic view of the city of spires.

We went to Blackwell's to browse the book selection there; naturally, we two English majors spent a while in there. I bought two Penguin Classics there for 80p each, and a postcard with a great picture of the artists Man Ray, Roland Penrose, and Paul Eluard picnicking with their lovers in France-it's actually a very odd photograph but it fascinated me. We also stopped into the Oxfam Shop on St. Giles, where I had some success last summer finding good secondhand books. This time I found a great used copy of Mrs. Dalloway for a pound; it's my favorite book about London and I've been looking for a good copy to carry around with me while I'm here.

Last summer I did not get to visit the Ashmolean Museum, so Marina and I went inside and it is a really impressive collection; the building is enormous and there are artworks there from almost any age you could imagine. The Natural History Museum was really fun too.

Inside the Natural History Museum; the ceiling vault looks a bit like a ribcage, right?

We sat and chatted in University Park until we met up with Sam for dinner at the Three Goats' Heads. I was really excited to go here because they have a full selection of Samuel Smith Ales. When my Dad was in London in the 80's he drank this beer and has told me to look out for it in the UK. I have found it at a few places in London but it is rare; it's brewed in Yorkshire but seems a bit selective about its distribution. Anyway, it is a GREAT beer. I had a pint with a steak and kidney pie. While we waited for our food we played Scrabble--the board was right there and we couldn't resist. It was a children's board but we still had a good round on it.

Interesting thing about kidney in the UK: during the Second World War, nobody could afford steak so most people ate kidney instead; the result was a generation brought up preferring kidney to steak, so I've heard. It's a great pie, but I would recommend any pie here--every single one I've had has hit the spot.

I am so grateful to Marina and Sam for showing me around. I did enjoy Oxford the first time I visited, but walking around with locals can really make a trip. It was a very fun day out.

With friends and family visiting the next couple of weeks, I then spent some time appreciating the wonders of the city.

Sunset on the Thames

Does it all feel right?

The city is now past the pangs of a new season's birth; spring is alive! The parks are crowded at lunch time, every bench and patch of grass inhabited for at least an hour now each day. It is Friday, and I am writing at my desk with the balcony door open. The lyrics from one of Washed Out's trippiest songs are coming into my mind:

"Leaving heading eastbound

Weekend’s almost here now

It’s getting warmer outside

It all feels right

Call your friends, I’ll call mine

We’ll head out for a long ride

Sun is coming out now

It all feels right."

I want to write in this entry about exactly what feels right, and why that feeling seems so contingent to me.

In a bookshop a few weeks ago, I found a new hardcover print of Virginia Woolf's essays on London-which I did not buy because it cost £15. When I opened the book, I found this quote on the first page:

I read this on a day structured only by aimless wandering around West London. I agree, it is restful to amble at my own pace, for nothing more than my will to do so. I do not think this is true for everyone, but I really enjoy taking off with a vague idea of where I will go and finding whatever manifests along the way. 

Woolf's notion of the city attracting narratives reminds me of a concept I have been studying in my cultural criticism course, that everyone who walks in cities engages in the act of writing the space. This idea is attributed to a French philosopher, Michel de Certeau, who writes this, as he looks down on the streets of New York from the 110th floor of the World Trade Center in the early 1980's:

"The ordinary practitioners of the city life 'down below,' below the threshold at which visibility begins... they are walkers, whose bodies follow the thicks and thins of an urban text they write without being able to read." (from "Walking in the City")

He is saying that the miracle and the frustration of the city is that it produces infinite narratives that are all unreadable. Whenever someone takes a wrong turn, or discovers a shortcut, or recognizes a street name for the first time, or just treads the same tedious way as yesterday, some kind of revelation is brought to the surface of reality from the depths of the imagination.

Often something practical will structure a walk, like this day when I read that quote of Woolf's when my ultimate purpose was to meet a friend at a pub in Kensington. Along the way, other purposes subvert my plans: the levity of aimlessness is burdened by the infinite possibilities of encounters with other people, with historical sites, with fate or contingency. As I made my way to Kensington, I located the site of the Great Exhibition of 1851, now a barren field; I stumbled into a peacock sanctuary; I thought someone behind might be following me; I found Ezra Pound's old flat which a neighbor told me is selling for "much too much" [with the unspoken implication: "for a peasant like you"]. These things happen.

Site of the Great Exhibition of 1851 in Hyde Park

10 Kensington Church Walk

What remains to be considered is the narrative constructed by such incidents. It all seems so random and not at all cohesive. I think this post itself is starting to enact my walks; aimless rambling with no declared purpose.

So I will write about some more concrete happenings. My friend Delaney visited London last weekend. I took her around to some of my favorite spots: Camden Lock, the Regent's Canal, Primrose Hill, then later Borough Market. On the canalside, we saw a soccer ball fly over our heads; it came from a garden nearby where kids began to cry (in the poshest English trills you've ever heard) "Oh no!" We tossed it back over the fence and they carried on playing. On the way back, we walked along the Southbank, where there were a few live musicians playing and a sun setting brilliantly over the river.

At the market I bought Mozzarella di Bufala, made with buffalo's milk, which turned out to be a great decision, and one that I hope to make many more times. I ate it on tomato slices with some balsamic and pepper.

There have been many moments full of wonder in the walks I have taken around London. When I write them out, they seem to me more like individual sketches rather than a continuous experience.

I am always thinking about how contingent an experience walking can seem. This sort of question was on my mind last night, when I read the Evening Standard:

"Locals told today how they rushed to save the life of a man stabbed outside a cocktail bar in Dalston. The victim, 20, was knifed by a suspected lone attacker... A witness said: 'There was a kid bleeding out. People rallied to help'... The man is in critical condition in hospital." (Evening Standard, 12 March 2015, page 6)

Contingency is what determines how we live. While the randomness and arbitrary encounters might seem exciting on the walks I have taken through London, its potential to determine mortality is terrifying.

So the conclusion of Washed Out's song seems especially relevant here-perhaps the best way to paraphrase an answer to the question I posed earlier about how walks construct narratives:

"What’s it all about?

The feeling when it all works out." 

When it does all work out, I am grateful, but I think I have to remind myself that there always remains that possibility that it will not.

But Woolf tells the reader in Mrs. Dalloway:

"Fear no more the heat o' the sun  

Nor the furious winter's rages." (lines from Shakespeare's Cymbeline)

Today, beyond my window there is a city whose heat and furious rages seem more apparent than ever, so I will go for a walk now.

Personifying Places

These past two weeks have been pretty hectic, between writing midterm papers and taking a few trips. I had two major assignments due this past week, and on Friday I celebrated by taking a trip to Berlin, where I met my friend Delaney who lives in Madrid. We planned this trip in January, so it was really surreal to actually leave for the trip; for the past two months it has sort of seemed like something I planned for way in the future. I am really glad we did plan this trip, since it gave me two weeks to enjoy London and focus on some schoolwork after my trip to Amsterdam.

Yeah, everyone loves to talk about how cheap travel is in Europe and how it's really terrific to go to every single city on the continent and it's so easy and why wouldn't you jump at every opportunity that comes your way? What nobody told me - or what I just wasn't paying attention to before - is how tiring it is. Getting to the airports for cheap flights - which usually depart at the crack of dawn or late at night - is a pain. I think I've written here about this whole cycle before, from which emerges the big question: how am I going to have the energy to do everything I want to do in this place? So two weeks for me seems like a good span of time to break up trips during the semester.

Before I tell you about a recent trip I took, I'll share a few quotes I've been thinking about as I try to figure out why I have been choosing to visit certain places.

Rome says: enjoy me. London: survive me. New York: gimme all you got. (Zadie Smith)

Cities have sexes: London is a man, Paris a woman, and New York a well-adjusted transsexual. (Angela Carter)

These are two of the wisest London-based writers of the past few decades, I think. It's all imaginable, right? I know I've been putting down Central London a lot for not seeming as authentic a place as I hoped for in London, but really I think the sense of imminent doom pervades the cityscape, i.e. crossing the street at any time, walking with a backpack through a market or down Oxford Street, being watched on the endless reel of observation that is CCTV, etc. So, though I haven't had any significant run in's with mortal fear, "survive me" seems an apt subtitle for London.

Anyway, considering these notions, that we can personify places and imagine them as human, what makes London a man? London I don't entirely understand as a man. The city does have a long history of cultivating young gentlemen, at least up to the First World War; I noticed today in the crypt of St. Paul's Cathedral that everyone buried there is male; and of course, there's that towering phallic presence, Big Ben right in the heart of Westminster. But it's also the city of Queens Elizabeth I and Victoria, two monumental figures in its history. I'm sure other arguments can be made.

I can add a few: Amsterdam is a quirky uncle who still behaves like a child; Berlin is a brooding teenager. So what exactly qualifies these descriptions?

After the Second World War, Berlin had to be totally reconstructed because of the extensive damages the city suffered. Looking for Old Europe? It's not really much of a motif in Berlin at all. I think Berlin is a brooding teenager because the skyline is relatively young (mostly constructed post-1960) and very chromatic (and thus, overwhelmingly downcast). I say this in jest, but the melancholic energy of Berlin is of course inevitable and tragic; every block bears some reminder of the terrors experienced in the city-monuments and statues in memoriam to oppressed groups in Europe.

The Jewish Memorial

There is an exception to the sense of grayness: the Eastside Gallery, where a span of the Berlin Wall has been transplanted and designed by artists from around the world.

my favorite part of the wall

trying to "be" the wall

This goes on for a while; it's a great walk to take. Walking along the Wall  reminded me how constructive public artistic forums can be and that we need more of them in the world - spaces where anyone can contribute and anyone can enjoy it for free. The project of the Eastside Gallery is to spread messages of peace, freedom, and hope. So there is much light and color in a city that otherwise seemed hopelessly dark and colorless to me.

Another gem in Berlin is the food. Currywurst is a must have in Berlin; I had a small box of it (a long sausage chopped up and served with ketchup and curry spice) near Brandenburg Gate. On our first night, Delaney and I waited for over an hour to buy kebabs at Mustafa's Gemüse Kebap, a small streetside haunt in Kreuzberg with a long line. For a good reason-sure there are lots of great kebab places in London, but none quite this good in my experience. I think the principle is this: if the deliciousness of the kebab justifies how unhealthy it is, it's worth the abject bodily guilt.

inhaling my kebap after the long wait

currywurst

We met up with Delaney's friend Patrick who has been studying in Germany all year; he told us about a lot of the ins and outs of German culture, which was much appreciated; most people in Berlin spoke to me in German, so I felt like I was missing out on a lot of cross-cultural interaction since I don't speak a lick of Deutsche. The streetsigns were really fun to try to pronounce as we walked along, though I did this under my breath since mimicry is never particularly polite.

One of the most fascinating parts of Berlin, in my opinion, is right in the middle of Alexanderplatz, the city's tourist haven. It's a striking contrast that's impossible to miss: the Berliner Dom (consecrated 1454; reconstructed 1975) and the Berliner Fersehturm (constructed 1969). They stand close to each other, but could not be any more disparately designed:

Berliner Dom

Berliner Fersehturm

It's interesting to me that the Dom, which is effectively a reproduction of an Old-European cathedral, and so looks very old, is actually a more recent construction than the TV tower. In the heart of Europe, where for centuries religion and science have spurred conflict, these two representatives of each faction share a block of space. Since Berlin was reconstructed so recently, I feel like I have to question whether or not these choices were deliberate.

So maybe Berlin is a brooding teenager after all - confused and contradictory, characterized by a dark wardrobe and a perpetual look of discontent. The streets were very quiet at night, or at least in the area where we were staying (specifically along Greifswalder Straße), which came as a surprise to me, since I have heard so much about Berlin's vibrant arts scene and its clubs and bars.

We did learn from Patrick that a cultural practice of many Germans is to buy beer and then walk around drinking in public with friends. So we did just that. The beer in Germany is pretty great, and buying it from the convenience stores only costs about €1! So, in Berlin we did as Berliners do. Along the way, walking around the city center at night, we tried to find a statue of Marx and Engels that had popped up on Delaney's Triposo app (which is highly recommended for short trips) and seemed nearby. We searched for it for a while, only to find that the park it is in has been closed off due to the construction of what appeared to be luxury apartments in the area. Can you think of anything more ironic than luxury apartments being built around a statue of Marx and Engels?

On another topic, a running theme in my experience has been minimal interaction with locals, which is disappointing, but inevitable on weekend trips since they are so quick. How can anyone really know a place without knowing its people? How can someone personify a city without understanding the actual persons who live there?

This brings me back to where I started in this post: travel is tough. A weekend is really not enough time in some places; I might sound like I have many convictions about Berlin's personality, but really this is just how I perceived and interpreted what little of it I saw. I've heard people say it can be the funnest or the saddest city on earth. Here's an article that explains all of this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/02/01/travel/in-berlin-history-squares-off-against-hip.html

All in all, I am really glad I went; engaging with a new culture is always exciting and interesting, even if only for a few days. Though this post might sound a bit bleak, these are the notes of someone who was totally rapt and thrilled by the opportunity to interpret a new space.  It's the same when I talk about London and maybe sound a bit critical; it's all shared with you in the name of curious excitement!

I will be grounded in London for the next month, so look for new posts on local travel and more urban exploration.

The Identity Crisis

When Shannon met me off the train at Bath last weekend, one of the first things she told me was, "Bath is having an identity crisis." I trust her intuition, but I had to wonder what she meant; she told me, "You'll see. Just wait."

Bath is a beautiful provincial city. It was the first of many "Cathedral Towns" I have visited in England this semester, though last summer I went to Winchester for a day. To leave the city for a weekend without traveling far was really refreshing. As cheap as travel is in Europe, it consumes a lot of energy to get to the airport, then onto the plane, then from landing to the destination; and on top of all that, to have the energy to explore as much as you possibly can in a weekend! So the trip to Bath was comparatively easy, when I think about the trip I took to Amsterdam. Along the train ride, I watched pastoral scenes ramble and roll past me.

After arriving in Bath, Shannon showed me the house where she is living for the semester, which really feels more like a home. Her program is very academically oriented, which I envy a bit. As great as it is to have a lot of free time in London, it does make me wish from time to time that I could engage more with my coursework this semester.

We strolled around the Royal Crescent, and then through the city's botanical gardens where lilacs and crocuses were already in bloom. When we came closer to the city center, we went by Bath Abbey and the Roman Baths, the two most major attractions in the city, though we did not tour either-I'll go another time.

To experience--even just for the weekend--a more intimate study abroad program was really fascinating. That, and the Burlington-like feel of Bath made me nostalgic for Saint Michael's. Even though my friends and I at SMC talk enthusiastically about our classwork and share our ideas all the time, I was startled to see that kind of lifestyle reenacted by Shannon's program. I am glad I have made myself try something completely different--a huge university program in a huge city--but, of course, to be reminded of my old ways magnified my sense of longing. I wondered, momentarily, if I was the one having an identity crisis!

(This has been alleviated by some contact with my home institution through the literary publication I work on, The Onion River Review. We have been selecting submissions for publication this week, so I have been able to keep in touch with the other editors on FB messenger and Facetime, which has been really terrific. Look for the annual publication in April!)

That night the whole group of us--Shannon's housemates and their friends in the program--went to a local pub they frequent. (I am including what follows for the consideration of anyone preparing to travel from the US to live elsewhere for an extended period of time.) At the pub, Shannon and I were accosted by a drunk local woman who began to go on a rant about America's stereotypes. It wasn't a violent interaction, though it became more and more offensive, for example, when she asked us five or six times if we were Amish, if we were from the Jersey Shore, if we were really Americans because we aren't obese, if we think we're alcoholics after having just one drink, ad nauseum.

What struck me as particularly ironic was the extent to which she was criticizing the culture she evidently consumes herself. But, of course, she couldn't be reasoned with. I was more disturbed by this than my mother, whom I told about it on the phone a few nights later. Mom was rational about it, reminding me she was drunk and wanted to argue and American students are an easy target for criticism. All true.

And we did the right thing--moved our drinks and talked to other people we were with, or to put it another way, retreated and barricaded ourselves from her. When I saw she was talking to other people we were with in a similarly unpleasant way, I told the barkeep and he said he would do something about it; but before he could, her boyfriend arrived and took her away.

This kind of scenario can take place anywhere, really--especially when there's a big group of American students in the same space. I was frustrated because I have been trying my best to not impose anything stereotypical about America. But, as Shannon and my mom suggested, I moved on.

We went from there to a local club, where a sudden breach of Americana beset us in the form of a thrity-member bridal party dressed as the Pink Ladies. Later, one of Shannon's coworkers told me that her favorite holiday ever was to Ohio. So, I was a bit confused by the range of pro/anti American sentiment I encountered that night.

The next day, Shannon and I walked around town. We saw two great guitarists playing Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" in the middle of a pedestrian street. We followed the River Avon later in the day. This, I think, is the best part of Bath. It reminded me of the Regent's Canal in NW London. There were canal boats moored along the way with names like this:

As we went along, we got to see a lot of gardens in the backs of homes. I think the analogy between American lawns and British gardens is true. People seem to take a lot of pride in their gardens here.

It was surreal to see Shannon situated and oriented in her new home. I don't think there are many things as satisfying in the world as being shown around a new place by an old friend. I have many other opportunities for this in the near future, between hosting some family and friends in London in March, and traveling to see others in their places in April.

So, what about the identity crisis in Bath? Shannon thinks it has to do with the fact that there is a substantial older population in Bath, but also a lot of university students in town. What occurred to me when I arrived back at Paddington on Monday was how different Bath and London are, though they are only a ninety-minute train ride apart from each other. I am reminded of what that guy told me in the tube, that the city and the country are so different they're almost adversarial. I couldn't quite get a read on Bath. But, I've lived in London for nearly two months and I can't get a read on my own locale.

Which brings me to some thoughts I've been having about what a weird situation it is to be a student abroad. I'm hearing all about people I know falling in love with where they're studying, and I too have had an extraordinary experience here so far. But, it feels almost like a liminal space, to be living in the most expensive district of a city and not working or paying rent. It's an enormous privilege that I'm not sure I'm comfortable with. I don't like telling people I meet that I live in Zone 1. Think about it: there are over 8 million people who live in London, and about 10,000 of them live in Zone 1. It feels unreal, with no sense of local community to speak of, except for my program.

Ultimately, I'm just passing through this city. All I can do is enjoy my time here, be open to new opportunities, and perhaps hope that I can come back someday, maybe to live as an actual Londoner (even though many of the people I have met who live here don't actually like it much). My real hope is that by the end of my semester here, if I do want to come back, I will at least know why: why this place, and why me in this place.

Absoluut Dood

I left Friday afternoon for a weekend in Amsterdam with my friend Liv. We met at Eindhoven Airport early Friday night, Liv having flown in from Florence and landed a few minutes before me. We took the bus from the airport to Amsterdam Centraal, a trip which costed €25 and lasted over two hours. We were fascinated on the bus by how similar the Netherlands highway is to one you might drive on in America. Firstly, for me it was odd to be back on the right side of the road. But the similarities we noticed most of all were all the car dealerships, big and bright billboards, and the abundance of space on the road. This made us both a bit nostalgic, though in a weird way. I do not particularly miss the highways in the United States, but seeing something that felt similar did evoke this kind of longing for home I have not yet felt this semester. Amplifying this was the presence of other Americans on the bus, chatting and laughing loud enough for all to hear. (This is a trope of my experience so far, especially on the Tube.) So the bus ride was a bit disorienting, as travel tends to be, especially in those incipient hours after landing.

We arrived and sorted out 48-hour tram passes, which only costed €12 for unlimited access. It was a great investment, because out Airbnb was on a tram line that took only ten minutes to reach from Centraal Station, but would have taken about an hour to reach by foot. We made it to our place in no time and were really happy with the flat we had chosen. Our host was a local, very friendly and helpful, and the flat itself was spectacular. The place is outside the center of the city, in the Docklands to the north, and the building is tucked between two small harbors.

In the morning, we took the tram into town and ate Dutch pancakes for breakfast. We figured it would be a suitable start to a brief Dutch adventure. And it was. But, the things themselves were huge, so it was a bit of a struggle for me to finish the entire thing. I am glad I did, because I wasn't hungry again until we ate dinner!

Liv had Nutella with strawberries, I had Nutella with bananas

We then began wandering aimlessly. Amsterdam is a great place to do this because it is so small and easy to get around. I surprised myself on this trip because I didn't do much research in advance and it still turned out to be a great time. I usually like to have an idea of what I want to do, but we found a good balance between pursuing the must-dos and finding things randomly.

We found a store selling Dutch cheese and those immaculate snacks Stroopwafels. The selection of cheese seemed endless, even vertiginous, from certain perspectives...

Having decided we wanted to visit a museum, we walked toward the Anne Frank House. The line, like the shelves of cheese in the store, was endless. We decided we would try to come back later. So we went off in the direction of the Van Gogh Museum and Rijksmuseum. But first, we took some time to appreciate the magnificence of Amsterdam's canals.

We walked under the archway of the Rijksmuseum to find the infamous iAmsterdam sign flocked with tourists, so we took our picture with the sign from afar, and I think it turned out to be a good photo-op.

I thought ice skating there would be fun, but the charge was €8 for two hours and it wouldn't have been worth it with so much to explore around us. We were not sure where the entrance to the museum was, so I asked a man standing behind a desk at the Stedelijk; he was wearing round spectacles and a black turtleneck and was bald (and I know these are minor details, but I can still imagine the entire scene unfolding). When I pronounced the last name "Goh" he leaned in, bemused, and asked with a tilt in his neck, "Van Hoh?" So that is apparently the Dutch pronunciation. He directed us, smiling, probably internally cursing at the insouciance of Americans. But for me there was something endearing about that moment.

So we went to the Van Gogh Museum and waited in line, which only took about twenty minutes. The Van Gogh Museum was for me a totally speechless experience. I have always loved his work and I have favorites, but it is something entirely different to see his paintings up close. The museum emphasized his relationship with his brother Theo, his source of support and love in the world, whose son would establish the museum in the twentieth century. The museum does a fantastic job of synthesizing different documents and sources of inspiration from Vincent's life: letters he wrote, novels he read, paintings he admired, a vase he painted in a still life, and the like. I was struck by an article written by his friend, Albert Aurier, who wrote the first public recognition of Van Gogh's work. Here's an excerpt that moved me and perplexed me:

From "The Isolated Ones" in Mercure de France, January 1890

In almost all his canvases, beneath this morphic exterior, beneath this flesh that is very much flesh, beneath this matter that is very much matter, there lies, for the spirit that knows how to find it, a thought, an idea, and this Idea, the essential substratum of the work is at the same time its efficient and final cause. 

I spent a long time looking at two of Van Gogh's paintings in particular: "Undergrowth" (which I had never seen before in any medium, but ended up buying a postcard of) and "Garden of the Asylum" (which I had seen reproduced many times before). Reader, if you are ever in Amsterdam, visit this museum.

We left after wandering around the entire building and encountered a political protest. The crowd was set around a stage where a band was playing reggae and the vibes were good so we lingered. A young man, probably a few years older than us approached us with a clipboard and told us a bit about the protest. It was aimed at urging the Dutch government to provide free shelter for homeless refugees in Amsterdam. The fact that this seems plausible in the Netherlands demonstrates the size and scale of things there, which is such a transition from the United States, and is absolutely refreshing.

I asked the same guy if he could tell us about a good place to get a drink. I said we wanted a good place to get a Heineken. He made a grossed-out face and said "Don't drink Heineken here. Get something better." He suggested Cafe Berkhout around the corner, and told us to drink De Koninck. This turned out to be brilliant advice. The cafe was a great place to watch people bicycling and wandering about, and the beer was probably one of the best I have ever had. Really, this beer is nectar of the gods. If I could have taken some back to London with me, I would have.

After decompressing in the cafe, we walked to Vondelpark, the largest public park in Amsterdam. Being there validated this romantic idea I have of Europeans being very active and happy people. Everyone there seemed to be running and on a bicycle, and smiling while they were doing it. We even saw a guy dancing like Napoleon Dynamite on a pair of rollerblades with a boombox playing funk music beside him. I began to think this was my kind of place.

We sat by a large pond and watched the birds chase each other around, and the sky turning from light to purple to black.

We decided it was time to find some food. We wanted a cheap but traditional Dutch meal. We didn't exactly find something Dutch but it was cheap. For dinner, we ate Schnitzel at Cafe Lusthof, a cozy restaurant that for some reason called to mind old Europe, though I don't know why. I didn't mind the meal, but I didn't love it. Still, of course, I am glad I tried something somewhat local and traditional.

After dinner we walked back to the Anne Frank House where we made it just in time for the last admission. I have never read Anne Frank's diary, but she has always had a kind of mythic presence in my understanding of the Holocaust and World War Two. I was moved, but it was an ambiguous experience for me. Touring the house, I felt like I had to engage my imagination to really experience the place as tourists are intended to experience it. But, for some reason, this felt a bit shameful. Again, it was an ambiguous feeling being there, but very sad and melancholic for certain.

Our next destination has an ironic place in the itinerary: the Red Light District. It was, emotionally, an inappropriate follow-up after touring the Frank family's hiding place. Still, I don't think I would have liked the place on any occasion; the Red Light District is scummy and pretty uncomfortable to walk through. There, we saw some unprintable things, which, though disturbing and shocking, were fascinating to observe as a cultural outsider. It seemed, somehow, the main drag of Amsterdam's nightlife, but this is the perception of a tourist. Even though there were many people walking through the area with friends and drinks and songs, out host later told us that it is a huge point of contention in the Dutch government and that most people from Amsterdam do not go there often, if ever.

Venturing through here made me think of the Dutch photographer, Ed van der Elsken. He began his career in the 1950's in Amsterdam, taking what might now be considered traditional photographs of urban life. Here are a few examples:

I got thinking about Elsken because of the shift, later in his career when he worked in Paris, where he developed his style to be much more provocative, sexually explicit, and shocking. So, I wonder how growing up and starting out in proximity to this neighborhood and its history might have influenced his later work. He had a really productive career as a photographer and many of his photographs are extraordinary. I had forgotten he was Dutch until I saw a postcard of one of his photographs in a shop that day.

The next day, we took it easy and wandered around a bit more. Our host suggested we take the train to the airport instead of the bus, because it is much quicker, a bit cheaper, and at least takes you through the Dutch countryside. She also suggested we have breakfast at Dwaze Zaken, a cafe a short walk from Centraal Station. We explored a bit more, bought some Gouda and Stroopwafels (of which my supply is dwindling too quickly now...), and then settled into a cafe for breakfast. We eventually found Dwaze Zaken, where we had a last drink before heading back to Eindhoven. The train ride offered magnificent views of the Dutch countryside--the kind that called to mind Van Gogh's drive to replicate the beauty of pastoral life.

Here are a few last photos I took of the city before we left:

Amsterdam Centraal Station

Sint Nicolaaskerk (Saint Nicholas's Basilica)

I know, this is a long post, but I saw so much in this city and have so much to say about it!

So, I will explain the title of the post. I encountered this phrase at the Van Gogh Museum on one of the captions for a painting. I laughed when I saw it, my thoughts first reminded of The Dude from "The Big Lebowski." Then I read the translation on the caption from Dutch to English. "Absoluut dood," the caption told me, means "absolutely surpassed" in English. Cool, I thought. If I ever learn Dutch, I will go out of my way to use that phrase.

Then I searched the phrase in a Dutch dictionary online, still captivated by it. The dictionary told me "absoluut dood" means "absolutely dead." Wow! That's a huge leap from "absolutely surpassed!" The caption was saying Van Gogh had absolutely surpassed a period of artistry in his career, transcending his former skills. But it was really saying, apparently, rather that a period of Van Gogh's career was absolutely dead in relation to another.

But I have been wondering how "Absoluut Dood" might be transposed as a kind of caption for Europe itself. Here we are, months away from the seventieth anniversary marking the end of the Second World War, a time at which Europe was absolutely dead. Now, in 2015, a traveler can pass through a city like Amsterdam and ignore all things historical.

Do places ever shirk their histories? Will Europe always be“Absoluut Dood” in the directly translated sense, as a result of World War Two? Or is the phrase qualified in the translation that I encountered at the museum -- has Europe “absolutely surpassed” its history? I wonder about this because of a frustration I felt in Amsterdam: that each of my mindless steps was passing over centuries of history that I did not know about. In one canal block, I might have stepped where someone died of Bubonic Plague, where Rembrandt first locked eyes with Hendrijke, where Jewish families were taken into captivity, where students protested in response to the Prague Spring of 1968--perhaps all in the same step. And despite all the trauma of memory and history, everyone in Amsterdam seemed so happy and friendly and helpful.

So, what I am asking is this: what place does history have when we travel somewhere? And if it does have a place in a weekend itinerary, how do we engage with it?

As a result of all this pedantic clatter, I think I am in need of a good snack.

Thankfully I brought back a small wheel of Gouda. It was a terrific trip with Liv, and I am already looking forward to future travel plans!

Toedeledoki! (Dutch for farewell!)

On a Darkling Plain

Last Friday, my critical theory class read Matthew Arnold's poem "Dover Beach," written in the 1850's. I have read it for classes a dozen times in the past few years, but this time it seemed particularly fated that I should have to read it closely: the next day I ventured to the White Cliffs themselves! My friends Anna and Devon and I took a train from King's Cross to Dover early Saturday morning. The London sky was gloomy and dark, perhaps hungover. I was momentarily excited to pass by the Battersea Power Station on the ride, known to me as the cover of the great Pink Floyd album "Animals." It was just as bleak a sight as I imagined, so it was only momentarily thrilling, after which it just blended in with the rest of the dreary scene. 

We arrived in Dover two hours later. The town itself felt remote, in the way a dusty, disheveled attic feels remote. Passing through, I wondered if this was really the site of that great emblem of England. We made our way to the waterfront, where we walked along Dover Beach and went out on the pier. The horizon was hazy and indistinct, until the clouds shifted and the sun's shades illuminated the waters and distant French shore. Barges were passing by in a slow, incessant cortege. At the end of the pier, from the right perspective, I finally saw the chalky cliffs.

To the far left is Dover Castle. A local told us that the castle itself was only five-hundred years old, and thus not too impressive...He advised we visit the Roman Lighthouse, which, as its title suggests, is quite a bit older than five-hundred years. We did not make it to either, but noticed them throughout the day, especially during the hike up the cliffs.

As we moved closer to the cliffs, we saw the immensity of the Port of Dover. Vessels were loading hundreds of lorries all lined up in several long queues. It is the world's busiest passenger port, and has been in business since 1606. From here, the barges cross the channel to Calais and Dunkirk, two places I would love to visit. This port is where a flotilla of fishermen took off to rescue the stranded English army in Dunkirk during the evacuation of 1940.  It is never quite as potent as I expect it will be to stand in a distinctly historical place. I think it is difficult to imagine the kind of panic this place felt during the Wars. This would have been the first place to have been passed over by the Luftwaffe on its way to bomb London and other English cities. I have read about these histories from America, so to be up close now is a strange and foreign thing-to be in the historical space itself (not to say that America isn't a historical space).

Following the public footpath that climbs up the cliffs, the trail progressed from concrete to grass to mud. We approached a bend in the path and attempted to continue on. If you recall my episode at Richmond Park, you can imagine my dread in making such decisions. But this way turned out to be too squelchy even for hiking sneakers. We turned back and reared up a rocky hill like billygoats to another path. It was wider, but just as slick. Here is the view from this trail:

We had lunch at a bench and took a moment to clean off our sneakers. The sky was getting darker, and the sun spread onto the French shore. This was a beautiful sight, but I could not take a good enough picture with my camera. Many things just have to be seen in person-I have been learning this everywhere I go.

After straddling a few posts on the way down a very muddy hill-and taking a few moments to inevitably relive the harrowing memory of The Great Richmond Spill of 2015-I sat down on a hill that led to the clifface. When I was sitting there staring out at France, I noticed a group of Exmoor ponies lazing only a few yards away from me. They were rolling over to scratch themselves, eating grass, and staring out into space. They seemed indifferent to the view and the cold wind, the families shouting and laughing on the trail, their dogs yapping ahead of them, and the distant drone of the port's loudspeaker. But I envied them-they live with this view every day!

We learned later that the ponies are kept at the cliffs as a sustainable method of keeping the grass short; I think that's pretty cool.

On the way back, we took our time to appreciate the view once more before leaving. Looking out, I could not help but think of Matthew Arnold's poem, which he wrote while on his honeymoon in Dover.

"Dover Beach"

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in. 

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world. 

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

It was a really special day for all of us, and has made me more eager to explore the many other footpaths of England.

We took the next train back, which we did not realize was the high speed train, so we ended up having to pay an extra £6 each. Lesson learned: wait for the cheap train. We made it back in an hour though, and I was happy to get right to bed after our ten mile hike!

A few days later, my friend Shannon arrived in the UK for her semester in Bath. I met her at Paddington Station and we had a great time catching up. We had breakfast in Little Venice, then strolled around Hyde Park until her train left for Bath.

It was so exciting for me to send a friend off on her big adventure-it feels like mine started ages ago, so it reminded me of that crazy combination of fear and amazement. I'm visiting her two weeks from now. Hopefully we will have some time to walk a few miles of the Cotswold Way, which begins in Bath.

Tomorrow I am flying over to the Netherlands for a weekend in Amsterdam. I will be sure to keep you posted and give a thorough report upon return!