Wow, white people are really white.

I have realized, following a conversation with the inimitable Shelly, that I never concluded my summer in the Orient. Now, you have all heard the story of how exactly it all ended, but I thought for the sake of both closure and my own fleeting memory, I shall set it down in writing. I shall warn ye briefly that this is going to be epic, as I try very hard to remember the details of my two-day ordeal.

I was scheduled to leave Harbin on August 9th, the day after the Olympic Opening Ceremony: a flight to Shanghai, and then to Atlanta. My exams were thus scheduled for Wednesday, leaving Thursday for concluding ceremonies ("graduation") and Friday for packing. To celebrate a job (not so) well done on the exams, I headed out with a group of my peers to play a game of frisbee -- it was a tradition of sorts among a few of us to play a casual game of pick-up every once in a while on a sketchy field on the outskirts of campus, littered with glass and weeds as high as our knees. During warm up, one student threw a floaty disc that hovered in the middle of the circle of players, and both B (my roommate) and I made a break for it. We were running full sprint for the disc, and B's shoulder collided with mine, and I fell to the ground, sans disc. B was left standing, victorious.

The problem was this: there was an audible snap. I stood up and walked off the field towards the water, reeling from the impact but not noticing anything except a dull ache. I didn't notice anything wrong until Beth came to check on me -- there was a distinct bump in the front of my shoulder on one side that was not on the other. B dismissed this, saying it felt fine. "Go on and play," I told her. "I'll join in later once I feel better, though I'll probably be playing left-handed." I thought, in my somewhat addled brain, that it might just be a muscle knot forming. Beth left, and almost immediately I knew it was worse than that -- I couldn't move my right arm. I had a sudden, tunneling vision of the hospital I knew was awaiting me -- lying in a ward alone as all of my peers (both American and Chinese) left as planned for home. "B!" I cried, somewhat strangled. She rushed over, and then called Afton, who was an emergency-trained specialist. By this point, my vision was tunneling and I was having trouble breathing -- purple spots were exploding in my eyes.

"She's going to pass out," someone said. I sat down so as to prevent that and concentrated on breathing, though it hurt every time I did so. One guy made a temporary sling out of his foul-smelling shirt, to no effect; I ended up holding my arm in place for about four hours. Wang Xu ran to go get a taxi, and he, B and E accompanied me into the taxi and to the hospital. The taxi driver kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, likely wondering why on earth I was so pale (more so than usual, I was told by numerous people. Hard to believe, I know) and worrying that I might throw up all over his interior. It was a definite possibility. I'm convinced he managed to hit every pot hole on our way to the hospital, not to mention that he drove us to the wrong one first, only getting it right the second time per Wang Xu's adamant instructions: 哈尔滨医科大学附属第二医院, Harbin Medical University, the Second Affiliated Hospital. I wonder what the first affiliated hospital was.

Inside the hospital, my friends had gotten the technicalities down to a precise science -- two students had gone before to the hospital about appendixes (one even had an appendectomy), another had gone because of a broken foot (and also had surgery) and someone else had gone because of stomach problems. I sat down on an examination table while two doctors ignored me and talked to themselves about something else. Then they asked B and Wang Xu why the weird foreigner was staring blankly at the wall and clutching at herself. (E and B very kindly helped me lie down, which eased the awkward clutching and pain a bit -- flies continued to land on the shirt-sling, however, and it was gross). The doctor got my paperwork together ("What's your last name?" he asked in Chinese. "Gu," B and I replied. He then proceeded to write the "gu" that means bone rather than my surname, and I almost laughed hysterically), and after a few minutes debating what was wrong with me and hearing three different explanations, they decided to take my x-ray.

"Follow me," a new doctor grunted at me in English, obviously one of the only things he knew how to say. "This is going to get obnoxious," B muttered. I followed a procession down the hall, dodging a pool of blood -- J, the American coordinator of the scholarship; Peggy, the Chinese coordinator; Wu Fei, my Chinese professor who had rushed over when she heard I was injured; Yuan Ke, my Chinese tutor who had come along; Wang Xu; B; and E. I had quite the posse. An English sign reading "Rediology Actinogram Room" alerted me that we had arrived at our destination, and I was led in to a large room. "Drop your arm," the doctor told me. I glared at him and stoutly refused, and he shrugged and walked away. My posse was standing in the hallway, watching; a giant sliding door not unlike what would be used in a fall-out shelter began to close between us. I looked at B. "Is this how superheroes are made?" I said, somewhat strangled. I was having flashes of Bruce Banner and gamma rays. "Yes," she nodded, and waved.

There was a zap, and then the doctor was right in front of me again, this time with my x-ray. I blinked -- weren't they supposed to warn me? Ask me if I were pregnant or something? Anyway, the doctor nodded and said loudly, in English again, "Fracture." A fracture? I relaxed somewhat -- that was nothing; they'd grab me a brace and I'd leave. Then he handed me the x-ray, and I was able to confirm two things: 1) the doctor did not have a clear understanding of English medical terms such as "fracture", and 2) my collarbone was broken in half.

The doctor said surgery was needed, and that I would need to stay in the hospital seven to nine days afterwards. Absolutely not, was my vehement position. I'm leaving for home in three days -- if need be just give me a sling and some Vicodin. J was trying to be reasonable as Peggy talked with the doctors and I sulked in a corner, clutching my arm as always. He told me that the doctors were worried about me flying in my condition, that my broken bone could be alarmingly close to a vein. "Will it result in death?" I asked, being obnoxious and in a bad mood because, well, my collarbone was snapped in half. "Because short of death, I'm leaving on Saturday." B was a champ and stood by my side the whole time, though I could tell she was worried about words like "vein", "plane" and um... "death".

Finally J convinced me to at least converse with their head doctor, Dr Hao, who had done his residency in Pittsburgh and had operated on my classmate with the broken foot. They marched me outside to another building -- my posse had shrunk by this time to B, Wang Xu, J, Yuan Ke and Peggy. Another sign announced my destination: Traumatic Plastic and Hand Surg Department. Dr Hao was amazingly competent -- he glanced at my x-ray, looked at me, then said he could have me in surgery my eight o'clock and out of the hospital by Friday afternoon. Yeah, sure, I said, surprised. Everyone else was relieved.

They then threw me into a hospital room with a woman whose hand had been mangled in some factory accident; her husband was there as well. There was some staring involved, but B took care of the talking while I mostly just lay on the bed and continued clutching my arm together -- any movement hurt so it was absolutely essential to me that there was a great deal of lying still.

A bunch of nurses came in and drew blood, asked about allergies and when I had last eaten, and they gave me a shot to test whether I was allergic to something. They were all very impressed that I could mutter Chinese around the chattering of my teeth. One nurse came in and shaved my entire arm -- I don't know why my wrist needed to be as hairless as my shoulder, but I said nothing. She then tried to make me lift up my arm so she could shave my underarm, but B and I educated her on American women's shaving peculiarities. She looked at my other underarm and was satisfied enough to let it be. Some other nurses then asked me if I wanted to be completely under or if I just wanted my shoulder to be numb. WTF? I thought. Sedate me as much as possible, duh. "Good, that's what the doctors wanted anyway."

My posse grew again -- my classmate JY came for moral support as soon as she'd heard, accompanied by the two students who had had surgery before at this very hospital -- M and "Lamar". They were life-savers. Everyone looked at my x-ray and exclaimed (M winced and looked pale, which made me worry slightly). Then there was some talk about catheters but I immediately told everyone to shut up or risk me being violently ill.

Eventually the time came to go to the surgery room, which was located several floors down. They had me get onto a gurney, which was mortifyingly embarrassing, but I was secretly grateful because I could close my eyes and ignore all the staring and think about how this was the first surgery I had ever had in my life (except for a rather unremarkable wisdom-tooth removal in my delicate pre-teen years). I had been shaking uncontrollably for a while now, due mostly to the fact that I was keeping so rigid to avoid moving and jostling my arm that it was literally causing my muscles to seize up. Lamar, M (hobbling on crutches), B and JY escorted me with the nurses.

It was eerily quiet in the room where they wheeled me in and transferred me to the surgery rolling table; only Lamar was allowed to continue into the room, while B promised to be waiting outside when the surgery was over. One nurse spoke a few sentences in English. Then, seeing that I understood Chinese, they told me about what to expect in surgery -- when I woke up, they would ask me to do basic functions like open my mouth, etc., to see if I was fully conscious. They would also have to stick a giant tube down my throat so I could breathe while under anesthesia (this one took me a bit longer to understand -- "You're putting WHAT down my throat?"), so I shouldn't be surprised if my throat hurt. I then requested that they save my sports bra, because I really like it and it was expensive (Underarmour is spectacular, friends); they agreed to do their best.

Lamar saved my sanity during all of the waiting by giving me coaching techniques on not panicking; he had had the opportunity, when his surgery was in the afternoon, to talk to other patients being wheeled around. "An appendectomy?" they said, "That's nothing!" So he told me to ignore everyone, close my eyes, and breathe. He stayed with me until the nurses wheeled me into the surgery room.

The nurses were offering me consoling words as they rearranged me, swathed my shoulder, prepared the monitoring machines, and cut off my shirt (my Georgetown Forever shirt I'd had since freshman year. RIP, somewhere in a Chinese landfill). They continually exclaimed to each other that I understood them. The doctor requested the x-ray so he would know what he was supposed to be doing -- this was a little alarming, I have to admit.

As they lowered the anesthesia towards my face, one nurse commented to another, looking at me underneath the glaring lights of the sterile room, "Wow, white people are really white. (白人真白）" And then apparently thinking of Lamar waiting with me in the other room, she added, "And black people are really black!" I felt an obscene moment of absolute clarity regarding the kafkaesque absurdity of life, and then I was completely unconscious.

Coming up next in my enthralling installment: my post-surgery stay in the hospital, including non-stop broadcasts of celebrities singing Olympic songs, eating left-handed with chopsticks and bonding with other patients in the ward.

Of farmers and freedom

This past Friday heralded a fairly auspicious holiday amongst we Americans, being, that is, the anniversary of our Declaration of Independence and thorough thumbing of King George and England. This also marked the second such Independence Day that I have celebrated in China, last year being in Beijing. I found that my ability to celebrate such an event to be rather stifled in that I was lacking in essential ingredients -- that is, fireworks, barbeques, and large crowds of inebriated Americans. Luckily, that weekend I managed to find all necessary ingredients to successfully celebrate the 4th -- in a rural village called Maoershan.

The weekend was intended for a chance for us Americans, being mostly from cities around the country, to experience life in a traditional farming village ('nongcun'). This tiny area is called Maoershan after a mountain that resembles a hat. The weekend was kicked off when someone thought it would be a good idea to climb to the top of that hat, and somehow I thought it would be a good idea to agree. The funny thing about mountains in China, however, is that they are basically large Stair Masters (TM) -- stairs lead almost all the way to the top, and with a 'direct is faster' approach causing the stairs to be unbelievably steep. I somehow made it to the top, after scaling a stretch of sheer rock, helped only by rickety chains and a few footholds. It was absolutely worth it, of course; 会当凌绝顶，一览众山小 as the poets sing. We had to then hurry down the muddy, slippery rock face and stairs as it was about to rain. Afterwards, we were rewarded for our bravery and endurance with a public bathhouse where we could shower off the sweat and mud and grime -- and truly, showering with one's professor is quite a new experience for me.

Anyway, the extent to which the goal of experiencing Chinese farming life was reached can be easily doubted, but nevertheless that night we celebrated with a bonfire, fireworks launching all over the two-street radius that made up the tiny village, chuanr (or sticks of meat) roasted over barbeques (one of which fell on my leg), large quantities of Snow Beer, and -- of course -- karaoke.

Now, karaoke is without a doubt the leisure pastime of choice for many Chinese. Outside of our own American celebration, there were two other parties going on in this minuscule village, centered around karaoke. I decided to further investigate these areas. In one, there was also a bonfire, where men were running and jumping through the flames. When they saw me and a couple other Americans, they waved and shouted at us to join them. I declined on the fire jumping, instead politely applauding when the jumper's pants did not, in fact, catch on fire.

The other party was far more low key, but I am proud to say that with a few other students, we turned their quiet evening of relaxation and singing into a raging dance party. I also managed to talk with a girl who had just taken her college entrance exams, and her father who -- like many others -- thought that wearing a shirt was unnecessary.

And that was how I celebrated America's Day of Independence. That aside, I may still know nothing about farming in China, but I've become a champ at singing Theresa Deng in karaoke.

Miss you all!

From (near) Russia, with love.

One thing about China that I have managed to forget -- or at least push to the back of my mind -- is how every step out of the haven of my room is usually an (un)fortunate misadventure of some kind. Take, for example, my foray to go swimming yesterday. With the company of two other students, I made my brave way across campus towards this chemically-laden waterhole. Once there, our predictions about hidden loopholes involving money came to fruition -- particularly, we were all made to purchase ten-kuai bathing caps that were absolutely ridiculous, but nonetheless worn by all swimmers there.

We entered what appeared to be a changing room leading to the pool, but was instead of maze full of twisting corners and unnecessary crowds of people. We got sidetracked by far too many naked women, toilets, showers, and eventually a small body of water we were forced to wade through before actually reaching the pool. We had barely stepped into the pool area when a woman literally leapt out of the water and hurried towards us. Two other women followed her, one of them grasping -- what else? -- a digital camera. Apparently they take them to the pool when they exercise, too. We were forced to pose for at least five pictures with varying amounts of gestures and smiles and hand holding. Yes, I was wearing my swim cap at this moment -- I'm glad that that look of mine has been immortalized. One women insisted on a picture alone with my roommate, Beth, and proceeded to PAT HER BELLY. Zhen piaoliang! she cried to all of us. So pretty, she claims, simply because of our blinding pastiness widely displayed by our swimsuits.

Following this, we proceeded to spend forty minutes doing various quasi-laps ("quasi" because it was impossible to swim for long without running into people -- we usually managed half a lap. Why is this country so crowded? And why do all of its citizens like to swim at the university swimming pool?) and exercises. We were being watched by just about everyone there, but only one woman actually had a conversation with us -- she has three daughters in the U.S., and wants to come visit, but for the visa and airplane costs -- while the rest generally gave us a wide berth. The lifeguard spent most of his time frowning sullenly at us -- though that may be his natural expression -- and I certainly am glad no one was in distress, for he seemed to not care much about guarding life.

"But what is Harbin like?" you ask. "Outside of overly chlorinated swimming pools, that is. I hear there are many Russians."

Indeed, I reply, Harbin merits a small description before I can further relay any mishaps to you all. Truthfully, however, my days are so busy that I rarely leave campus -- and when I do, it is usually to the street behind my dormitory for 5-kuai noodles at a Xinjiang restaurant. My weekends are also jammed pack, as exhibited by an exhausting and ultimately useless trip to Jingpo Lake this past weekend, while this upcoming one involves some independent Mongolian prefecture. However, one day I spent wandering a pedestrian area of downtown, and Harbin has an architecture quite unlike other Chinese cities, of a distinct Russian influence. And yet, limited as I have been in my explorations, this is the only instance of the so-called strong Russian influence. Everywhere else is distinctly Chinese -- in that ugly, cinder-stone building kind of way.

And yes, it seems like every foreigner is Russian -- or Korean. Outside of the Americans in my program, of course. When I was buying water at the gym the other day, the man at the counter stared at me and asked, "Eluosi? (Russia?)" "Meiguo," I replied. America. This is the one city on Earth where I have been happy to insist on being American -- Russians are, in general, not popular with the Chinese here. And everyone first assumes I am Russian. Yet in general the people of Harbin seem a friendly bunch, though they will drink you under the table with all of their beer and constant Chinese toasting mastery and repeated cries of "Gan bei!"

As for my surroundings, Heilongjiang University (or Heida, as the students call it) is a fair distance away from the center of the city. And on certain days, the wind patterns allow the wonderful aromas of the nearby medicine factory's fumes to permeate the city. And if you, like me, find this slightly bothering -- don't worry. I've been told by at least two people now that the fumes aren't toxic...

Internet at last.

Hello friends, I just wanted to inform all of you who were worrying (or to remind you that you should have been worrying) that I have safely arrived to my destination in the Northeast of China: Harbin. I spent a thoroughly exhausting and socially crippling week touring Shanghai and Beijing, but -- except for a few extra flowers, a few more policemen, and new subway lines and cars in anticipation of some event they're holding later this summer (it seems important) -- I have nothing much to say about my time there to add to the last time I wrote you about it.

Currently I am busy with classes. All you currently need know is that the refrigerator in my room insists on one temperature (very cold), and thus I am not able to eat yoghurt for breakfast as it is frozen solid. This needs to be remedied.

EDIT: Refrigerator fixed. There is this magic thing called a 'knob'. It has instructions in English that go like this : MAX ---- MIN.

Pura vida, continued at last

Since Shelly has neglected numerous times now to complete the annals of our voyage to Costa Rica, I have thus commandeered the task, being slightly more amenable to procrastinating during finals than she is, apparently. However, to make this easier for me, I have simply decided to copy from our "travel log" (this term should be used loosely) written throughout our trip. I shall indicate the writer in brackets, [thusly], though all was written under the all-seeing eye of Ms. Shelly, who was after all the one behind its dutiful recording for posterity. I am well aware that these notes most likely make no sense, but I think their ambiguity -- like Confucius' philosophy -- is what makes it beautiful.

And so, I shall start on the day after we had reached Montezuma:

[Shelly] Slept. S itchy, woke up to spray self w/ bug spray outside. Ran into German boy. J woke up @ 6 to eat almonds. People talked outside door.

Thursday. Accidentally called Jenn.
-woke up 9:30ish. S took pix of A. A looked like mermaid. A ate almonds. S ate almonds. S took picture of J. J kicked up mattress.
-dog [illegible] in front of bathroom door. All 3 had difficulty passing.
-restaurant: hippie/banana. S reminded of Jack Johnson banana pancakes (song). A got veggie burger. S buddha burrito w/ ranchero sauce [Alison] not enlightened. [Shelly] J mahi mahi sandwich.
-walk to waterfall. S umbrella. [Alison] Started along stream -- quickly realized flip flops not ideal shoes for this trip. Journeyed for [illegible] w/ 3 Canadians w/ a baby -- S & A feared for child's life.
-1st waterfall no jumping; swimming pool too crowded. Continued along "well marked" trail (according to Lonely Plts) which was NOT. v. steep. Scary. Black tube marked trail. Continued for a bit. After steep descent/slide (blue rope) arrived at top of 2nd wfall. Watched ppl jump off. J jumped. All swam in pool. Tried rop-thingy tied to tree: J couldn't get rope to S; A "shelly-flopped". A jumped off cliff. Water rushed up butt. Watched crazy guy dive in head first. S jumped, spread-eagled. V. painful. Swam more. Watched crazy guy climb rope and sit in tree. S tried to reenact Herbal Essences commercial/Monkey King w/ small waterfall. Water v. hot. J jumped again. All pruny. Cute dog. Man in underwear (S didn't believe A at first). J disappeared -- went further up mtn for bathroom break. [Shelly] Asked J to take pictures and J went all the way across to get camera.
-[Alison] Somehow made it down the mtn. A's flipflop broke; repaired.
-Walked along beach, feet dirty. Went to use internet, made floor filthy. S couldn't find symbols for her password -- went to Wikipedia to copy & paste. Looked up constellations for star-gazing. J & A went to supermarket for drinks, chips & oreos. S bought cheese. Gross.
-Went to horse place. A successfully booked tour in Spanish.
-Went to beach again. Ate more. J swam; S & A watched. All swam ([Shelly] A peer pressured) [Alison] S almost drowned by waves -- washed up on beach like dead whale. ([Shelly] untrue) [Alison] Moved further down to avoid rocks.
-Started building sand castle. Architectural triumph. Didn't finish before sundown, took forever. Exquisite detail. Code orange/red/blue. (First attempt flooded, moved back 5ft.)
-returned to hotel, showered. ([Shelly] Yay. Read an outdated Elle, looked @ pictures. Dog still sleeping) [Alison] Dinner @ La Naranja. J: 2 banana/mango milkshakes & casada w/ beef. A: passion fruit con leche, cansada w/ chicken. S: coke in a glass bottle, some pasta thing. ([Shelly] chicken + mushroom). [Alison] No coffee :(
-[Shelly] Chicos bar. A: cosmo. S: Long Island iced tea. J: coke + whiskey.
-tried to look @ stars but no towel.
-back to room (on the way back argued about beds), slept.

Friday
-woke up, went to supermarket. All got buns + water.
-horse place. Stood around. Got on horses. A: Chancho. S: Dominga. J: Polleito. + 2 other women.
-started on trail. J's horse started running. S's horse followed. [Jim writes something illegible in margin]. Scary for S, scratched arm, ripped shirt.
-trails/along beach. Very pretty (waves, rocks, sun).
-reached waterfall. Climbed on rocks. Went thru waterfall like Monkey King. S umbrella but didn't really help. Rested & looked @ crabs. Roasted under sun.
-back. Slightly different trail. Horses slightly faster. Canadian woman screamed a lot, "despatchio"
-[Alison] on way back A held extended convo w/ Oscár, the tour guide, in broken Spanish. Topics covered: whether A has ridden a horse before, where we were from, wheter A was single or had a husband, A's age, Oscár's brother in Houston, the details of our length of time in Costa Rica/Montezuma, the shade, if A likes the playa or not (sí, me gusta), the fact that it's good to learn Spanish & English, the names of the horses, A's brothers, and an entire conversation topic that A didn't understand but kept responding "Uh... sí" to
also: A's horse really liked S's
-ate lunch @ Organico (pure food w/ love). A: veggie burger. S: hummus/avocado sandwich. J: organic burrito thing. Talked a lot about Doug
-[Shelly] Jim fell asleep while S & A read US Weekly, then said "I'm going to take a nap.
-s & A read outside room, S feel asleep. Guy locked loudly on door. A studied Chinese & watched white-faced monkeys. A made friends w/ Chris (Québécois film).
-all went for walk. A & S got coffee. J bought water & chips.
-walked on beach, collected shells, saw lots of small crabs. Sandcastle not there.
-Walked around town, then went to Montezuma restaurant. Sat upstairs, got bad fruit milk drinks. A couldn't get sandwich. S got fish filet. J got chicken catalan. Orange soda & mojito. Listended to reggae covers of Pink Floyd.
-walked back, played Monopoly. J was bank. A had own construction company. S went broke, mortgaged all homes. All were in jail together at some point. J awkwardly paid German guy. Dog went to sleep. freaked out at raccoon (they were eating dog's food.)

Saturday
-Woke up 7ish (A & J). S a bit later.
-bus stop. Saw Caroline (headed to San José).
-S read/slept. A & J looked at trees.
-another bus.
-ferry. Everyone rushed to buy tickets. Two ppl cut in front of A.
-all got (nasty) pizza. Bar guy laughed @ A & S b/c we were counting change (v. poor).
-Gtown kid (Sam) talked to J. They were group of 4 and live in LXR
-all read except A (studied Chinese). Arrived
-took cab to bus stop. A asked bus driver and he said [Alison] dose vente (12:20), A (confusing French & Spanish per usual) heard dos et vente (2:20), so missed 1st bus while sitting in café drinking cokes [Shelly] (and orange soda). Played cards in café. Guy not amused by us not being able to figure out money.
-sat at bus terminal.
S & J went to ATM. S got colones. J did not get money.
-S & A went to look for food. Bought hats (2 for $9). Walked entire boardwalk. Bought coconut cookies (100 colones). Went to market next to bus terminal (bought water + chips).
-V. windy/dusty. S's hat blew into a fence.
J talked to American girl w/ nose ring who lives in San José. Awkward but not as awkward as Gtown convo.
-ate cookies/chips.

And the rest is history, my friends. We made it back to Liberia, wandered aimlessly through the town before heading to bed. We then woke up on Sunday for our flight to Newark -- at the airport we stood in line for the length of time for a Chinese dynasty to arise and fall, and were smacked with a $70-plus airport tax. Our flight from Newark to DC was unpleasantly delayed, making us arrive finally back at campus after 1:00 that morning. Then I went to classes the next morning, thought wistfully of waterfalls and beaches and volcanoes, and bemoaned my existence.

Much like I am doing now, in the middle of finals.

Spring Break: Awkward Begining

You wanted some notion of what I did during my break here it is.
Oh, frack, I have an awkward story to start it out with.

So my break begins on Thursday like the 13th of March and instead of packing, I decide to go out with friends, and friends of friends, assuring myself that I will be going home at like 10 pm so I can pack. We went to two pubs I'd never been in before. I believe I had one pint in the first one, and none in the second as it was quickly approaching 10pm. Then, as I am having a good time, I decide I will stay out for 30 minutes more as they are all heading over to this very seedy pub called the Blue Eyed Maid. We enter to find the paradigm of awkwardness-karaoke night. Imagine if you will a room full of a dispropotinate number of men all having gotten off work 5 hours ago, and have all probably been consuming alcohol in a steady stream since then. Let me add some of the cast of characters. *Most names are not real, and were invented so as to be able to refer to these people while we were there*

There is Socrates, a man who stands in the corner near the bar and whom we think has some affiliation with the establishment. Late 40s wearing a vest, and staring awkwardly at my friend Sarah throughout the night. He will also later chat up a british woman a good 15 years his junior, and I think makes out with her at some point.

Aristotle- african american man of around 30 who asks another male friend to do karaoke with him.

Girl 1- We assume has just broken up with her boyfriend as her mood tends to fluctute from 'having a really great time' to sullen looks at her frined.

Girl 2- Girl 1's bff who tries to console her and usullly looks like an idiot as she dances like a person with ADD.

So, we are sitting in said pub for about an hour, ok this gets really awkard i just cringed, when two british guys about my age come up and being talking to me, even though I am clearly in conversation with legit friends.

Guy whose name I can't remember-"My friend really wants to talk to you."

Me- "Um..."

R-"I think I know you from somewhere"

Me (I of course conclude this is a line of some sort, and as I'm not really into the whole chat people up in bars thing, I respond...) "I don't think so. I remember every person I've ever met" (Please take the hint and go away)

R-"No, really, I think we've met before"

Me-"I really don't think so"

However, we talk slightly about school, and then there is an attempt to get me to sing karaoke made, which I refuse, because, as Alison can tell you, I SUCK AT SINGING.

Anyway, I am requested to applaud for them which I do, and then I go back to talking to my friends and try to fend R off when he comes back. Later, when we are leaving I use a newly developed hand signal to get one of my male friends to drag me out when R is speaking to me.

Ok, ready for the really awkard part. Flash Forward to the Present.

So yesterday I go to Borough market, where I go every week usually on Thursdays to buy apples and a sandwich with Sarah, and then sometimes on Saturdays to buy Mushroom Pate, because it is awesome, except that I haven't gone in ages because the only sell it on FRI/SAT. Anyway, I go and I'm handing the guy my money, and I look up and realize that it is R, the guy from the Blue Eyed Maid, and I feel like an idiot, because I have in fact met him, pretty much every week for multiple months. And now I have lots of Catholic guilt about this.

Frack, I need to be less awkward.
Love to you all,
Eleanor

SHELLY ZHAO. I WANT AN EMAIL OR SOMETHING FROM YOU. POSTHASTE. RIGHT FACKING NOW. ARG.

Wales finished

We sat back on the bus, for an hour, and then drove to Oxford, where per the wonderfully stringent EU reguations, our bus driver had a break for 30 minutes, instead of pressing on and getting us to London in 45 minutes. However, this does not leave very much time to get food as 1, it is late on Sunday night in Oxford, so there isn't that much open, and 2.) we are 5 minutes from the nearest open place. Leaving 20 minutes to order, have food arrive, and eat. We found this very random New Orleans/Mexican place, somehow, this is a combination that makes sense in England. It was the only open/non-croweded place our weary eyes could spot, so we entered, ordered a plate of nacos and something else, and a pitcher of a rather nice alcoholic drink called a Hurricane from the rather awkward/shy bartender. Our food arrived very promptly, i mean in about 5 minutes, which was in marked contrast with our Welsh experiences, so we were rather overjoyed. We proceeded to eat all of our food, drink all of our drinks and then dash back to the bus, arriving 2 minutes late. This was of no consequence as the bus driver decided that he wanted to wash some of the windows during his break, and then got blocked in by another truck or large vehicle of some sort, and was thus 15 minutes late in fetching us. We were all rather grouch and cold and stormed back on the bus and arrived in London appox. 45 minutes later, having played some sort of a drinking game on the bus evolving screwdrivers made in cups I think we appropriated from the breakfast buffet during our journey.
The End.

Geschichten aus der Toilette

I would like to talk for a moment about Viennese high culture, and in particular the fine arts. There are many nice aspects of Viennese high culture. Classical music is among them. We have a nice classical music museum and two weeks ago we went to a wonderful concert in an incredibly amazing room and with some incredibly amazing music. This is all very good.

And then there is the play Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald (Stories from the Viennese Forest [that surrounds the city]). This was organized by our Georgetown den-mother Helga and one of our tutors, Robert. Now, we are required (sort of) to come to one theater piece and one opera. The opera is "The Magic Flute" by Mozart, a staple of classical opera, so I assumed that the play GADWW was a staple of some classical canon of theater that I was hitherto unaware of.

This was false.

Of the nine Hoyas - Hoyae? nescio. - in Vienna, five of us showed up. The others either had legitimate reasons for not coming, like a project due the next day, or illegitimate ones, like preregistration for Georgetown (lame). But I didn't want to disappoint Helga, who is very nice and puts a lot of effort into these things despite being a dolt. Interestingly she did not come because she had to put her eight month old baby to sleep because he can't fall asleep without her, and because she will probably nurse him until he's at least twelve if she keeps up her present attitude.

No matter. I came, and I think I deserve some credit for that. The tutors were jackasses though and took names of the people who didn't, because they have the impression they have some power over us. This is an impression that many Vienna Hoyae have, but I'm getting off topic.

The plot

Marion is a young girl in "the dark time" (i.e. Nazi time). She is bethrothed to a butcher by her insensitive father. Also running around on stage is a fifty-five year old woman with platinum blond hair and hot pink pants. She attempts to sleep with various male characters. There is also a young Nazi on stage, though I didn't determine his relationship to everyone else. I believe he was the token Nazi because he shot his gun into the air and complained about race problems. Everyone in the audience was appropriately guilt-stricken for about five minutes before blondie throws her leg over his arm and makes out with him passionately. Alfred is another young man, who makes his living in questionable ways. He and Marion fall in love despite Marion's betrothal to said butcher. Butcher practices Jujitsu on his fiancee, displaying dolthood. Marion and Alfred sleep together, move in together, debate the existence of God. Insensitive Father walks on to stage and sits down. Blondie lies down next to him with her head in his lap. He rubs her boobs and then goes down on her. Alfred walks onto stage inquiring if they have the time of day. Blondie's head pokes out from under Insensitive Father's ass and they have a conversation. Marion and Alfred have a baby. A fat old man chases a little girl around stage with a knife.

Intermission.

So I left at this point, because I do not believe this qualifies as art, only a waste of my time. I would like to say that at least I was not smoking marijuana like the youngsters in front of me. I believe my decision was right, because the rest of the play consisted of Marion becoming a whore, covering herself in Nutella (which Europeans love) and being licked, yes, in that area, by her father, who doesn't realize who this Nutella-drenched woman of the night really is.

Perhaps the one thing this play did achieve (other than teaching me the German word for lap) is make me think about what qualifies as art. I have decided that it must be a work that either has some insight into the human condition, conveys some perception of the world, or elevates the spirit (so we can count music). GADWW strikes out on all three counts. Thank you, Vienna.

Also, bad plays are so awkward. I think they are the most awkward thing ever.

O Canada

So here's some background: last year my peer Elizabeth told me that she went to the Cornell linguistics colloquium for undergraduate students and presented a paper she had done. I was impressed. She told me there was one at McGill, too; alas, we had both missed the abstract deadline. I resolved to submit my paper for 2008, which I did in February, and which was accepted to present at the poster session of the 2nd annual McGill Canadian Conference for Linguistic Undergraduates (McCCLU). So, having found a relatively cheap flight via studentuniverse, I confirmed my participation and booked the flight to Montreal (Montréal).

This was the first time I had been to Canada since... well, since before passports were required to cross the border. 1998, in fact, was when my family and I drove up to Québec City for a summer road trip -- my first time out of the country. I remember that we were confused because there were two signs announcing our arrival in Canada, spaced out by about ten feet, so we didn't actually know when we had arrived in Canada. We took pictures at both signs. By the way, I think "road trip" should be one word, but spell check disagrees. I also think "spell check" should be one word, but spell check disagrees. I shall bring this up in Morphology class on Monday to delay talking any further about ergative case marking in the Hanis Coo language.

As you know, I hope, Québec is what we would call a social oddity in that it has an dominant language different from that of its country. French, that is. This led to many difficult situations wherein I had no clue which language to use, and also to quite a bit of linguistic tongue-twisting. It is not uncommon to answer someone's French question in English, or to have someone say things to you in both languages. I talked to one woman in the train station on my way back to the airport, and it went something like this:

Alison: Pardon, vous attendez l'Aérobus?
Lady: Sorry? The, ah...?
Alison: Oh, the Aerobus. For the airport.
Lady: Ah, non. Vous allez où?
Alison: A Washington.
Lady: Vous y demeurez?
Alison: J'y étudie.
Lady: Oh. Ben, si vous demandez à the information bureau...
Alison: J'ai... I already asked. He said Door 17, I just don't know what time it's coming.
Lady: Oh okay.
Alison: *smiles blankly, then two minutes later finds an excuse to change seats because of awkward silence*

I didn't really meet any Canadians, to be honest. Every student I met at McGill was an American. Surprisingly, McGill is located a stone's throw from downtown. I walked out of the front gates and all of a sudden I was surrounded by tall buildings. The campus is very charming, as is the city, from the few walks I took around the area. Everything was covered in snow, however -- SNOW. In LATE MARCH. And not just a dusting, but it was piled up several feet along the sidewalks. Temperatures were also hovering just below freezing during my visit there. Crazy French fur-traders.

Anyway, I am resolved to return to Québec and do more of a tour around than my brief foray into Montréal, however pleasant it was. Who's with me?

On Wales and horses

Friends,

I owe you many comments. But first. Alison, your post on CR is amazing. You climbed a volcano! You took public transport! You saw monkies! I also highly doubt that Shelly will ever get to her post. Is she even alive? Please say yes. On an ADD note, I had a dream that she had cut her hair in a bob and was now engaged to a man that looked like Vic Jao (Zhoa?!&) fro F4. It was kind of amazing. She also had him meet me and basically asked if I approved of him, which I did. Seconldy, congrats to Jeff's sister!

Ok. Wales...Is really pretty. As Ali has been there, I will just refresh her memory. It is far more wild than England. There are far more tress than in England. Anyway, it has a wild sort of look and feel, as if it hasn't been tamed by their eastern neighbors.

We left London early in the morning on Saturday and took a bus. Apparently we passed pretty countryside but I passed out on the bus as I was exausted. We arrived in Cheapstow at about 11 am. This is the first village in Wales and has an old castle and not much else. The castle is from around 1067 and was built right after the Conquest by whoever William 1 put in charge. I would have had to pay like 6 GBP to go it, and I was like...um, no. So Sarah Holcome from Gtown and my friend Anita and I walked around with a few other people and explored the town, which is like two streets. We then went to the local pub and had lunch. Now this is very important. IT TAKES AN HOUR TO GET FOOD IN WELSH PUBS. EVEN IF THERE IS NO ONE IN THEM. So as we were waiting for our food, Sarah and I ran out and went over to their very old church. It was rather different from the other churches i have seen in GB, I happen to have a thing for churches...I think it is the catholic guilt. Anyway, this one had side aisles and had unusually tall ceilings and a wooden roof. This, i feel was a giant fire hazard, but apparently there had been no fires, in like 800 years. Awkward.

We then went pack to the pub, where our food had still not arrived. As we were supposed to be leaving at 1pm, we were getting a little upset as it was 12:55 and still no food. Finally at 12:57, we got our food, eat it in 10 minutes and ran out. If you go to Wales, but a sandwich from a grocery store and walk around unless you have hours to spend. So we left Wales and headed to Tinturn Abbey...

We arrived and the weather had turned rainy slightly. The abbey is, like the poems indicate, in ruins and is very pretty. Again, we would have had to pay admission, and it looks the same inside, so we decided against it and instead climbed a large hill near it to go look at this other church which is in ruins from a fire that was performed during a Black Mass here during the 70s. Aside from that spooky connection, the church even in ruins is quite pretty. The bell tower is still intact but inside there is grass growing through the floor tiles and vines climb up the walls and through the latice work of the windows. We then walked down the hill and got some icecream, which was freaking amazing. It was creamy and very good. Yum yum yum. I also bought a mug with a welsh dragon on it. This is the only souvenir that i have bought by the way.

We then went to Hay upon Wye which is my favorite town ever. Why. Because they have 42 bookstores. I bought a book called 'Zoli' which was about a Romi girl and the importance of song and oral history. I liked it a great deal because I am a nerd.

After this we left and drove for freaking ever to get to your hotel in Bristol, because apparenly there are no hotels in Wales. this is not true, but our tour company probably got a good rate. and as we didn't end up in the 'wilderness hostel' (i think this means barn) that we were supposed to be in but rather a holiday inn express, I was like, ok whatevs.

We ordered Chinese food for dinner and watched rugby on TV in the lobby. Apparently there was free wine from a box that came will our food. I thought I would go blind if I had some, so I refrained and instead had a coke that I had bought at the grocery store on a expadition during which we also purchased carrots to give to the horses the next day.

Early the next morning, we awoke eat as much of the free buffet breakfast as possible and boarded the bus and headed for Breakon Beakons, Wales' really big pretty park. We dropped off half the group to go riding and then we went to a local pub and had lunch, I believe there was lamb served. It was good, also, coliflower (which is not spelled that way) with cheese, yum.

Then we went riding. I got a surly big horse named oberon. He pulled himself together, or sorted himself out as we say across the pond, and was fine for most of our 2 hour ride. Most of the ride was more of a walk through fields and near a lake and it was cold as hell. I had tights and jeans and a coat on and gloves and it was more than nippy. The we wound our way to the base of a freaking mountain and then slowly ascended on our horses. The trail got freightenly narrow at points. You all know that I am freaked out by heights right. So imagine how happy I was when I was on a trail maybe a foot wide running along the side of a hill with a good 500 foot steep slope. NOT COOL. There was however an amazing view from the mountain and ruined houses along this random trail just stainding out in the middle of nowhere. Oh, and there was a sheep, just chilling there eating some grass not paying any attention to the 20 horses that walked by him/her. Our ride concluded, we returnd to the pub where we had lunch, picked up the rest of the group and headed back to london. My fingers are tired. More later....

Stranded

I am on board a ship. IN the middle of the atlantic. Ok that is not true, it is somewhere in the Carribean or however that is spelled. However internet is expensive but i am spured to speak to you all as i got a message in my georgetown email accout telling me that my geemail accout is at 90% capacity. I then went...I have a gmail account...hum.... It got awkward but I thought I would just let you know that I am alive and I will write when I get back to where it is not 50c a min to write to you. Love you all. Even you Student Guard Zhao who i'm nut sure is alive. More love than I can say, missing you all. Eleanor

Pura vida

So since I'm pretty much losing all of my Scrabulous games at this point, I thought it would be an opportune time to talk about my Spring Break adventures rather than pouring over a dictionary. As you know, Shelly, Jim and I had long discussed what to do for the break. We were rather limited in that we were (ARE) poor, and having found (relatively) cheap flights to Costa Rica, we settled on that. We spent the weeks up to our trip all pretending to be Student Guard Zhao to earn money at extra student guard shifts (Jim wasn't very cooperative with this, but I took two shifts for the Spring Break Fund). One Lonely Planet guidebook and phrasebook later, we were on our way to Liberia.

(By the way, Shelly insisted on detailing every minuscule happening of our journey, so doubtless she will be able to contradict everything I here share with you. I shall cover the first half of the week, and then Ms Zhao shall conclude the journey.)

Our flight to Houston left at 6 in the morning on Monday, and so we arrived at the airport at 5. Shelly insisted we drink her disgusting raspberry-flavored Smirnoffs which she had brought to the airport, so before going through security we all chugged a bottle. In the waiting room, Zhao promptly fell asleep, and I commenced re-teaching myself Spanish so that I could fake my way through any necessary interactions with the locals. This was marginally successful. I know all the phrases for safe sex, now, although ordering in a restaurant is still a bit difficult.

Anyway, we got to Houston unscathed; Jim disappeared for a while to buy an omelet burrito, but we thought he may have run home and abandoned us since it was his fair city of origin. Then some guy wasn't allowed on the flight to Liberia because his passport was in bad condition, which was unfortunate as it was for his honeymoon. Bugger. Well then we proceeded onto the plane, and I tried to sleep but couldn't really and watched instead August Rush, which is a rather terrible movie. Don't see it, my friends.

We arrived at the Liberia International Airport about three hours later, and "airport" here is not what "airport" is in America. An "airport" in Liberia does not actually have an indoor area like one would imagine, but rather you walk off the plane, across the runway, and into a small pavilion-like shaded area where someone stamps your passports and you collect your bags. You then walk through customs, but since they don't say anything to you, you don't actually realize you've walked through customs until you're assaulted by about a hundred taxi drivers shouting out "Taxi!" Our taxi driver, William, was very nice -- as far as I could tell from our limited and strained conversation (I pretend to speak Spanish often on this trip, as you shall see). Jim thought he said $50 when we arrived at our hotel instead of $15, which was amusing. *LAUGH SIGN LIGHTS UP* Our hotel room was a tiny cramped room for three people with a shared bathroom; it was small enough so that Jim could sit on his bed with his back against the wall, stretch out his legs and kick the side of my bed. There was also an ant invasion every night once the sun went down. And as one last thing, there are rarely hot showers in Costa Rica, and the rare hotels with them cost a good deal more.

Liberia is located in Costa Rica's dry and dusty province of Guanacaste; the temperatures hovered in the 90s during our time there. It was rather exhausting just to walk around, as we soon found out when trying to locate the travel agency listed in our guidebook. Funny thing about trying to find stuff, however, is that it is IMPOSSIBLE. Because literally there are no street signs or addresses in Costa Rica. The very address of Hotel Guanacaste, where we stayed, was: 100 metres norte del Burger King. We walked around for a good hour looking for this tourist agency (which seemed clearly labeled in the book), and after asking directions twice, discovered that there is not such thing as a tourist or information bureau in Liberia. Conceding defeat, we ate dinner at a place called Rancho Dulce, which served delicious casados, which is a rather scrumptious dish, and frescas (milky fruit drinks, which are heavenly).

The next day, we decided to head out to the national park Rincón de la Vieja and climb a volcano. We had booked a shuttle the previous evening, which arranged to meet us at our hotel at 7 a.m. And like "airport" means something else in Costa Rica, so does "shuttle". Our "shuttle" was, in fact, a Land Rover with 7 people plus the driver crammed into it, including two Germans and a woman named Caroline. We drove along a painfully long stretch of gravel road, dodging potholes and a herd of cattle (Costa Rica is infamously known for its terrible road conditions), and arrived at the ranger station of the national park. One park fee and a map later, and having stuffed our bags full of food we bought at a supermercado the day before, we set off on our 16km hike.

The first 6-or-so kilometers were in a forest full of white-faced monkeys and birds. An older French couple kept passing and being passed by us; the woman had an intense set of hiking poles and she would always cheerfully greet us. We then came out into a lush oasis of sorts, with green vegetation all around us not unlike one would see on Lost. After a steep climb, the vegetation began to get more and more sparse until it sharply resembled Frodo's trek to Mordor. We should have heeded the sign's statement of "Acceso difícil" because it was quite difficult at times. We were following a path that was poorly marked with orange pebbles and every once in a while an arrow, though several times we had to turn around. Then there was an endless amount of walking up a gradual slope of barren nothingness before we finally reached our goal -- the active volcano crater. There was an amazingly milky-blue liquid inside, not unlike the milk that's left after all the Lucky Charms are gone, due to some kind of chemical reaction of sulfur and water or whatever -- I don't understand. There was also the sulfuric smell of eggs surrounding the area; we had originally planned to rest for a bit and eat, but a sign told us not to stay for more than 15 minutes as the gases "se pueden ser toxicos."


We then had to have a mad dash back to the base, as the "shuttle" was leaving at 4. We stopped to stuff nutella, bread, guava jam and almonds down our gullets before slipping and sliding down the crumbly, rocky path we had come up. Shelly kind-of hurt her ankle in the last part of the trail, but we made it only five minutes late, covered in dirt, sweat and other grime of the outdoors.

On Wednesday, we decided to head to Montezuma, which is reportedly the happenin' beach of Península de Nicoya, as it were. "Happenin'" meaning: surfing, wildlife, waterfalls, hiking, and a lack of evil developers and turtle-murderers. I had cleverly used the guidebook to discover a route that went like this: a bus from Liberia to Puntarenas, a ferry from Puntarenas to Paquera, and another bus from Paquera to Montezuma. The problem was, however, finding where and when the buses came. Long story short, because this post is getting to epic proportions, we managed to find the bus stop, and after asking five people and running into Caroline and the Germans from the "shuttle", we were at the right place.

We took an unairconditioned, crowded and bumpy bus to Puntarenas, which stopped every two minutes to pick up someone along the road who ended up getting off the next time it stopped. At Puntarenas, we followed Caroline (whose Spanish is far superior to ours) onto a local bus which took us to the ferry, where we were able to sit in an air-conditioned room and eat food. Then we again dumbly followed Caroline onto another bus, having handed our luggage to whom we assumed to be the driver, and drove for another hour. They then made us all get off and move our luggage onto another bus that headed on toward Montezuma. No, I don't know why. I will say, however, that traveling in Costa Rica is a dusty, bumpy and surreal adventure.

Having made it to Montezuma six hours after departing Liberia -- somewhat amazed, as I had highly doubted our actual abilities to navigate our way across the northwest of the country -- we commenced looking for a place to stay. Jim asked at two places, which were far too expensive, so we continued up a very steep hill to the Luna Llena, a German-run hotel full of cabins shrouded in trees and shrill monkey calls. The guy who seemed to be in charge looked to be sixteen and always wandered around without his shirt on. There was also a dog that slept splayed out on the floor like a bear rug -- seriously, he never moved! Once he was in front of the bathroom door, and I had to shove him aside to open the door, and he didn't even budge or otherwise acknowledge me. A brief hike up the stairs led to our rooms, and sitting out on the communal porch and dining area, I would always see monkeys jumping from tree to tree.

We spent the rest of the day's dwindling sun walking along the beach. It was my first time seeing the Pacific Ocean, which is far more powerful than the calm waves of the Atlantic. Shelly collected shells, and a woman nearby beat on some drums.

And so here I shall end it. Have at it, Shooly.

By the way this is off topic but I would like to add that my sister is having a baby girl in August. So you can start calling me uncle Jeff. Hooray.

One funny thing about Vienna is that nobody jaywalks.  There is very little automobile traffic.  It doesn't even come close to Washington, DC levels.  However people are very orderly.  For example there is a major shopping street with two lanes called Mariahilferstraße with nary a car in sight.  Another street - with merely one lane - meets it at a right angle.  Austrians of all shapes and sizes (there is only one color) will crowd each other to line up on either side of the little one-lane street and then when the light turns green they amble across in orderly fashion.  They are very timid.  To paraphrase the words of a friend of mine, you could stick out your tongue and touch the other side of the street.

Handy Viennese phrases:

Grüß Gott! - Hello!

Ihr Land is so schön. - Your land is a beautiful land.

Der Ton von Musik wiederhallt in den Hügeln. - The hills are alive with the sound of music.

Ich liebe Arnold Schwarzenegger! - I love Arnold Schwarzenegger!

Wegen seiner Unterstützung der Todstrafe wird er ja in Hölle brennen. - Of course, he will burn in hell for his support of the death penalty.

Also, eine Ente, ein Fuchs, und Adolf Hitler betreten einen Bar. - So, a duck, a fox, and Adolf Hitler walk into a bar.

Tut mir leid, dass ich Sie beleidigt habe. - I am sorry that I have offended you.

Werden Sie den Rest dieses Wiener Schnitzel essen? - Are you going to eat the rest of that Wiener Schnitzel?

A very warm welcome...

...to Geoffrey of Wien, the newest contributor to our most noble and enticing blog of ghurba. Here's to many posts about the glory of Austria and other exciting travels.

Also, please prepare yourself for the recounting of my and Shelly's voyage to Central America.

Another beautiful day in London, that is, it is raining.

So, I'm sitting in my room and I've come to the realization that I'm pretty much screwed. I have three papers due in the next two weeks and an Arabic exam, for which I have not studied at all . AT ALL. Frack.

More life events. I dont' think I've shared with you all my general week schedule, so I'll do that now so you know how I spend my life, and you can stalk me down if necessary.

Monday:
10am: Arab-Israeli conflict lecture. Hit or miss on the boringness. I usually don't leave my room until 15 minutes before this lecture, so I end up being 10 minutes late, sneak in and sit behind a pillar so my teacher doesn't notice. It works well. I also reacently did amazingly on a paper for this class, like wow. Which is good as I got a C on the last one.

11am: Since I will not have finished my reading for the day, I head over to Cafe Amici, which used to be on the corner of school but is moving locations two doors down, for breakfast. It is generally empty and the Italian man gets me by tea very quickly and refers to as 'babe' which was awkward for like 5 months, but apparently now I'm ok with it. N.B; I used to get cappuccino, but i gave it up for lent, and he is confused on occasion as to why i get tea.

On a side note, Brits use 'cheers' for thank you, you are welcome, good bye, and a bunch of other random crap. I recently said it as a natural response and I was very proud of my enculteration and I wanted to share this fact with you deux.

12:05pm: Kinship sex and Gender class. Here I actually participate, and I probably did some of the reading for this class when I was sitting in Amici drinking my tea, milk one sugar. Most of my colleges will have done one reading, I try to do 2-3 but I've been slacking as of late. I have an American friend in this class, Anita, so that makes group conversation good and most of the other Anthro students are pleasant and friendly. Oddly, there is like a strong French contingent in the department with at least 6 French girls. Maybe this isn't strange, it could just be me.

1:05 Economic Anthropology Lecture: This term my teacher is German, and the most intense person in the world. She really knows her stuff, but she is a little intimidating. I generally sit in the back of this lecture so that I can charge my computer which I lug to campus on Mondays as I have so many classes. This leads to awkwardness as I am the only person in the back of a very large room, but this is the ONLY place there is a plug (socket) in the whole room. Seriously, my reoccurring cultural observations of Britain is that they are afraid of fire, hence a ton of fire doors which make walking awkward, and no plugs.

2:05 Lunch. I will be very hungry as I ususally forget to eat breakfast/i have no time. I will meet Anita in front of one of our dining halls, which is more of a cafe that is filled with students and teachers. Last week we went to Pret A Manger, which is this sandwich chain in London and then took our sandwiches back to Garrick, the dining hall.

3:05: Philsophy Lecture. Mostly these are really good lectures dealing with interesting topics and the material I think is really important to understand. I sit in the front so that I actually pay attention, however, I tend to sit near the window so I can stare outside if necessary...or if the sky is blue, which is an event that should not be missed.

4:05 Econ Anthro Class. I have this with my very intense German prof. She doesn't let us get away with not doing all of the reading and just stares at you until you speak. Overall, she engages a lot with the material and presents very good points about how the way we think in our own society as related to economic perspectives on life, so i've been blown away at times by the conncetions that I just didn't see.

5:05 Now, I should go home at this time, but recently I've been going to a lecture series on Philosophy and Public Policy which runs from 5-6:30. I've enjoyed these as they give me an opportunity, like with Econ anthro, to apply stuff to the real world and not live in the abstract realm of academia.

Afterwards, I will go home, scrounge for some food or go to the grocery store and then do my reading for Philosophy class the next day.

Tuesday:
Morning-12:05: I will do my arabic homework and then wander over to school. I also attempt to eat lunch, but sometimes I forget, which leads to me walking into a pub at 4pm and getting soup, which is amazing.

12:05: Kinship lecture. Again, hit or miss. I have one lecturer for this class, the head of department, who is very good generally, but we also have another professor who while being generally pertinent to the topic of discussion, has bad delivery and i think gets two pensive for anyone to take him seriously. I usually finish my arabic homework if he is lecturing while at the same time taking notes.

1:05 Philosophy: I love this class. My prof. is French and really smart and helpful in getting across some complex ideas. The only way that this would be better is if more people actually did the reading so that we could discuss deeper implications of the material than a few people getting very set on a few points of contention and their irreconcilability with their own life ideas that would be clear if they had read.

2-4 Arabic. Ewe. It isn't that bad, but not anything like my Gtown language courses. I do need to study for my exam though. Because I dont' need to study for class really, i've let a lot of stuff not get the proper attention and now i'm in trouble.

I have to go clean my room as Mer is coming tomorrow so I need to sort myself out as they say over here.

Ali-I'm sorry I left you alone with a strange girl in Paris. But that post was amaizng and made my day as it were, since I have to sit here and do so much work.

Where the bloody hell is Zhao, is she alive wtf. I want some news on her if you can.

Much love to you both,

elle

Paris, je t'aime -- quand je suis pas fauchée

I am guarding the library right now. This in and of itself should be so exciting I have no room for anything else, but I have decided that -- in addition to my careful screening of students and strangers coming into our ugly monstrosity of a library (in case you've forgotten what it looks like, Eleanor) -- I shall also update my dear friends on my current ghurba status.

Washington, D.C. continues to exist. I am sure you all will be happy to hear this. Today I went to Vienna -- the Vienna that is connected via the orange metro line in Virginia, that is. I think I prefer the Wien of Austria, however. I interviewed an Indian woman about her dialect Telugu and phonetically transcribed some words she gave me and asked intelligent, pertinent questions about agglutination. What else have I done this weekend? Yesterday Shelly, Jim and I drank champagne and played Super Nintendo games. Well -- I watched and played some Tetris. Exciting. But anyway, as I sit here going over cover letters, writing a paper abstract and reading about rats dying in Camus' La Peste, I thought it would be about time to talk about my trip to Paris. I apologize in advance for the ridiculous length of this post.

As I'm sure both Shelly and Eleanor know, the latter abandoned me by deciding not to go to Paris for a weekend as originally planned. It's okay -- I've made my peace. Sob. Thus, with a 70-euro train ticket I refused to let go to waste, I set off to Paris alone. I left on Friday, and almost missed my train because I am stupid. I won't bore you with the details, but it does involve the longest train I've ever seen. Someone was sitting in my seat, so I told her to leave. Politely. It was ridiculously crowded because the SNCF is run by the devil -- didn't know that, did you? People had to stand in the aisles if they weren't lucky enough to get a seat. At one point the train came to a halt in the middle of a fog-shrouded, empty countryside, where the announcer told us that they didn't know when we would be continuing onwards. I wrote my linguistics paper during this time, about a wonderful advertising slogan. I can send it to you if you want to read some fascinating observations of mine. Thirty minutes later, we finally continued.

I arrived in Paris a little before six o'clock, or maybe it was five -- I can't remember, as this was over two months ago now. Anyway, I did not have a hostel, and there is one thing that I can definitely recommend to anyone traveling, ever: DO NOT NEGLECT TO BOOK A HOSTEL IF YOU ARE TRAVELING ALONE IN A CITY WHERE YOU KNOW NO ONE. I will emphasize further: ESPECIALLY NOT PARIS, WHERE HOSTELS ARE TERRIBLE. If you have friends with you, as was my case in Switzerland, it's fine -- you can always take turns as a sentry if you have to sleep in a park. If you know someone in the city, even remotely, it's fine -- you can crash on their floor because seriously, who's going to leave you to rot outside in a city alone? In my case, just about everyone I had contacted before was gone for the weekend. Or I suppose if you're a man, it's fine -- because the world sucks and traveling alone is fine for you.

Anyway, I went to a hostel that had 13-euro beds, hoping for a room, but they were full for the night. The woman very kindly recommended another hostel. I got lost, asked for directions from a very helpful shopkeeper, and after a few sketchy streets and a race against the dwindling sun, arrived at the second hostel. A bed was available and, once I had payed for the mandatory sheets, it was a little over 20 euro for the night. Frack. I went upstairs to the room, planning to grab dinner but not do much else since I didn't want to wander the city alone at night. In my room was the weirdest girl ever; at first, my guard was lowered because I thought we could make conversation and she could give me some tips about things to do. After an hour, however, I wanted to switch rooms because I was scared to sleep in the same building as she. (As an aside, I really need to use the bathroom, but I have to wait for who knows how much longer until a rover comes to relieve me).

Why was this French girl so crazy, you ask? Well, first of all, she told me all about her life troubles -- she dropped out of school, studying rocks or something like that. She's been trying to get work in a jewelery store but since she's, y'know, crazy she's had some difficulty keeping a job, though she chalks it up to mean bosses. So she goes from hostel to hostel, a nomad lifestyle, looking for employment. That's right -- she lives in hostels. The bathroom of our room had a robe, her coats, and an entire suitcase worth of toiletries. I will repeat this: SHE LIVES IN HOSTELS. Once she found out I was American, she then switched to really terrible English, "for practice." I was too polite to tell her I didn't understand anything that she said to me; I simply spoke to her in French in the hope that she would pick up the hint and reply in French. She never did. (Once, the next night when I returned, and started my homework, she turned to me and said, "Tell me what I need to start my life in America." She then asked me whether she could find work in California. Yeah, good luck with that.)

Continuing onwards, on Saturday I started the day by taking a walking tour in my guidebook that took me past, among other things, the Pont Neuf, the Ile de la Cité (Notre Dame, etcetera), and awesome little streets on the Left Bank. I learned all sorts of clever facts, browsed many open-air markets, and gazed longingly at antique bookstore windows. Then, in the early afternoon, I met up with a French girl, Lola, whom I contacted through strange connections (okay, so don't laugh because this saved me from a very lonely weekend -- she's the friend of this girl on Livejournal I've known for a while. Honestly, she could have been a crazy murderer, but I'm still here and now we're Facebook friends, hurrah. Alright, you can laugh now). We met at les Buttes Chaumont pour se balader un peu -- which, by the way, is an utterly gorgeous park completely unlike the typical (and boring, in my opinion) geometrical gardens of Luxembourg or Versailles. The view of Paris from atop one of its high hills was incredible.

After that, I had another rendez-vous with someone from Atlanta I knew was studying in Paris. I'd only met him once before, however, so it was semi-awkward and I ended up having to pay 5 euro for a café. I'm still bitter about that. He did direct me to the best viewing platform for the Tour Eiffel, however, so I went there to see the sparkling lights of the engineering marvel. (By the way, the other day I saw a chocolate contest on the Food Network where contestants had to make architectural marvels out of chocolate. The Eiffel Tower was, of course, included, but I must say that it looked a little rickety.)

Sunday, however, was a dramatic change in my otherwise pleasant weekend in the City of Light -- to be more direct, it was miserable. I had to leave the hostel by ten in the morning, which meant that I had to carry my backpack loaded with books and clothes all day. Furthermore, the weather was a drizzly, rainy mess. I walked to the Musée d'Orsay, which had free admission, and -- taking frequent breaks to prevent a back break -- I admired impressionists. And then when I was walking across the bridge from the museum to go look at the holiday windows at les Galléries Lafayette (completely awesome), the crazy Parisian wind BROKE MY UMBRELLA. This was a draining experience for me, emotionally. My umbrella was kind of my only ally against the elements, only to be destroyed. But anyway, I then took random stops alone throughout the city, rather enjoying my time in the cranky old métro because it kept me out of the rain, and sat in a café to do homework for a while. And then as I was wondering around looking at boutiques and generally feeling sorry for my sodden state, I was talked into buying a 105-euro dress. Yes, one-hundred-and-five euro. For a dress I will probably never wear. Aiya. I still maintain that I was not in my right mind.

By five o'clock, I was freezing, and wet (as were all my books), and my weekend consumption of paninis was starting to wear on me. I decided to go to the train station and do homework until my train left (which, by the way, wasn't until nine thirty, and it cost nearly as much as my original ticket did to switch to an earlier time). So I then sat in the Gare de Lyon, with pigeons for company, switching seats every thirty minutes or so to ease my aching back and still-soggy feet. I sat on the floor for a while until the pure filth of it disgusted me too much. I also consumed about five one-euro machine-dispenser cafés -- if nothing else, the French are simply masters of machine coffee -- and shook off a strange man who, when he found out that I wasn't leaving until after nine, wanted to "talk" with me until then. There wasn't anywhere open for food, and though I contemplated eating a pigeon, I settled on munching on some chips.

I finally arrived back to Strasbourg around midnight, more than happy to be back and warm in my room. But despite the miserable second day (Paris is only as charming as the weather permits. Or as one's hotel accommodations permit.), I had quite a lovely time exploring gay Par-ee.

I still really have to go to the bathroom. That is all.

Why there are no pictures

I dont' have the proper cord to connect my camera to my computer so that is why this is a very bland contribution. Aren't my words enough to set the scene for you? I thought I was just that talented. Regards, Eleanor

A Remeberance of Things Past

Dear Friends,

I have become obsessed with Text Twist. Thanks a freaking a lot Alison. I mean, really unhealthy amounts of text twist, three hours the other day. I already do no work, but this is really cutting into my staring out the window time. I also enjoy internet chess against the computer, which I always lose and BBCiPLayer which lets me watch BBC shows. My current favorites are Lark Rise to Candleford, which is about a girl from a small hamlet in Oxfordshire circa 1890 who moves to the larger town of Candleford to work in the post office and all the intrigue of small town life. It is ridiculously amazing. There is a sub plot where the post mistress, yes-that is right, I’m pretty sure the writes took some licence with the original book, is basically in love with the local squire who has a very pretty but reserved wife who is unable to adjust from London to the small town charm of Candleford. Larua, that central character also divides her affections between the said squire’s grounds keeper, who is really cute!, and a farm boy from her home hamlet. Ah, such is life. The other show I watch is called EastEnders, which is this British soap that has been on for like 20 years. The plots are ridicucles, but it is ever so diverting and it is on four times a week so it keeps me occucpied. Also, last night I watched a new show called ‘The Last Enemy’ which is set a few years in the future when Britian is on the verge of becoming a police state because of all its CCTV cameras and extensive knowledge of people’s lives. It is like 1984 on crack. Also, the protagonist is a reclusive mathematician. Ergo, he is awkward and therefore I would of course need to watch it.

My birthday: As you know, I am old. And the day that I become older officially for book keeping purposes was this past Tuesday. Thank you for my phone call Alison, it made me very happy. To celebrate, in a country that doesn’t give a damn about such things as age limits for alcohol consumption, I went to a pub with people from Georgetown and USC that I am friends with here and I ate a hamburger because it was on sale for five pounds and came with a beer. I had a Stella. There was merriment and singing and discussions of a trip most of them had been on to Belgium the previous weekend, followed by complaining about the British academic system for awhile. Afterwards, I went with Anita, who is from USC but originally from Cleveland (woot woot), Vinod and Teddy to get drinks at the Waldorf, and by drinks I mean drink. I had a Manhattan, it was very strong, but I think a good first drink choice. Then I went home called my parents and went to sleep. Perhaps I would have done crazier things had I not been forced to awaken at 5:30 to write a paper on Kant that same morning. Upon reflection, this seems rather far fetched. I wish you both had been here with me to celebrate, it was really just not the same. What did you all do for Mer’s birthday?

In other news...about three weeks ago, I went to Rye, in Sussex for the day with fellow Georgetownian Sarah. We boarded the train at London Bridge which is conveniently near my abode and having purchased a liter of orange juice and four pain au chocolate traveled for an hour to Ashofr international, where we changed trains and then arrived in Rye around 11 in the morning. Rye is utterly charming. It is a small town, around 6000 inhabitants and has perhaps a dozen streets in the town center. The houses are all small, with low doors and tiny windows. It is near the sea so people will have model ships in front of their curtains so as you walk along the alleys there will be these small houses with shutters framing the windows and model boats sitting in front of lace. While we were there, we visited their church which lets you climb up into the bell tower and then go outside to see the country vistas. Now, as you are aware, I really freaking hate heights, but the ascent was entirely worth it as you could see the ocean and the surrounding fields and boats sitting in the river from the top. Also, to get up, you had to go through some really really narrow passages. Really narrow, they seemed almost to be hewn out of the stonework, like 800 years of water damage had carved them from the masonry. I do enjoy old churches a great deal, learning about which parts were build when. It is strange to think that people living such a long time ago were in the same building, saw the same things you are seeing, or rather aspects of what you are seeing. So I wonder, which part of this was here at which time. What did these people think about the stonework, when did this glass get put in. Etc.

We also visited Rye castle, which is about the size of Dalghern chapel. It may actually be smaller. You get to see two stories and the basement, but it is mainly one large room on each floor and the three small, really small, you can’t lay down in them small, tower rooms, while the fourth houses the stair case. I learned that stairs in castles wind clock wise so that it is easier to defend them if you are on the second floor because there is a disadvantage for right handed people when they climb that way. Also, all of the steps are uneven so that in the dark, if you are unfamiliar with the stairs, you will trip while trying to climb them. I thought this was pretty cool.

After the town adventures of Rye, which consisted of some wandering, the purchase of batteries and a visit to a yarn shop, we headed out to walk to the sea, because I less than three the ocean a lot. It was allegedly 2 miles away. But there is no way that this is possibly that close. We found some trail that wandered along a canal for a bit, say a man fishing and then for 20 minutes no one, until a couple came a long walking their dog (Very English). We chose this particular path because it walked alongside Cumberland castle which is the ruins of a building built by Henry VIII to defend England from France. We could see it for our entire journey and it was very large and was probably very nice but it is really just ruins now. Unfortunately being winter, it was closed so we just circled it, peering in through the window openings and pretending to scale the walls. We then proceeded on our journey to the sea…

Only we couldn’t find it. We walked for about 20 more minutes till we came to some houses and then took the way we thought was to the sea, but it was very muddy, and there were horse tracks, and we opened fences, and I’m not sure we were supposed to be there…So we turned around and tried to find another path. As we walked, be passed Teddy and Patches: Rescue Ponies, we are not sure if they rescue people, or are rescued as the sign was only adamant about not feeding them. We then, after asking a British woman who was climbing over a fence to take her dog for a walk, found a road to take us to the sea. This took us at least 20 minutes to walk down and then finally we arrived at the English Channel, only to find it closed. Yes, it was closed. There is a mulit-mile fence lining the water. We then turned around and headed to Winchealsea, which is the smallest town in England to finish our day.

On our walk back we went through Dimmsdale, a la Scarlet Letter, which has about three houses and a man with a power drill who said ‘hello’ to us, we walked a bit faster after this. However, by this time, it was 4 pm, and near as we were to Winchelsea, we decided that instead of climing the giant hill to get to it, it really is a rather large ascent, we should walk back to Rye and get some food as we had only had orange juice and pain au chocolate all day.

So we walked along the road until we say 1066 Heritage trail which according to our map was a path back to Rye and proceeded on our way as the sun neared its setting behind us. However, after about five minutes of a legitimate trail with many tracks of human and dog, there ceased to be any trail and we found ourselves in the middle of a field. So we kept walking through fields, avoiding sheep, finding a bridge now and then to carry us over the irrigation ditchces, but on one occasion having to back track until the water level was low enough for us to jump safely over. Oh, I also slipped and became slightly muddy previously to this, it was rather unpleasant, but highly amusing. So we walked across fields, walking fast so that we wouldn’t loose all the light and be stuck in the middle of field in the dark. Also, we may have been trespassing as there were definitely sheep near us at points during our sojourn. We arrived at the outskirts of Rye just as the sun had set and then having checked the train schedule, got a bite to eat a local fish and chips place before training back to London.

I also did no reading this weekend. You would both be so proud. Tomorrow I go to Wales to go horseback riding and I shall write you of that when I return. Love to you both, Eleanor

HA HA

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by A. Goodrich

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by S. Zhao