Appropriately Enough

As the youngest in my family, I learned very early on how much I need other people. They taught me the importance of community. Today, this afternoon, is day number 89 of 90. Tomorrow morning, Saturday, at 4:30 am local time (Friday, 10:30 pm, Central US), I will be collected by a taxi and head out to London Heathrow.  I have enjoyed my time. I am ready to go home.

Before I do so, however, I want to introduce you to some of the people (and dogs) that have helped keep me healthy and laughing these last three months.

This is Tia Maria.

Tia is the bar dog at the Two Sawyers Pub. Much like my Bailey in St. Louis who is named after the liquor, so too, Tia Maria. When you travel to Canterbury, stop in on Wednesdays for the Cask Ale night.

This is Eddie, Tia’s nephew.



I’ve only met him a few times, but he, much like our Mickey at home, is very affectionate.  

There were, of course, people at the Two Sawyers. Very fine people, in fact. My apologies to them, but after thirteen weeks, they would not be surprised that I herein included only the dogs.

These brilliant folks are my friends from The Forge Bistro (http://forgebistro.co.uk).

 

This fine bistro is just down the street from my flat. Marlene and Derek (left), the owners and she the chef, and Carol (right), the manager, soon realized that I was not one to make it safely on my own. They graciously took me in, introduced me to Pimms, to a nearly nightly glass of “bubbles” (sparkling wine), and offered a laugh or a patient sounding board when I had questions about language and cultural differences, or when I just need to “whinge a bit.” If I was effective at all with my students these weeks, it was because of them. I look forward to renewing our friendship when I return to visit.

Finally, I’ve mentioned Pat Parks several times in these entries. Pat, thank you.

 
From our work co-teaching in the American Literature course, to our many walks intended to simply keep us moving on days when we each, or both, were ready to be home, I am grateful for your patience, generosity, and thoughtfulness. I look forward to catching a Cubs game with you this summer.

Tonight I will meet with My Five for fish and chips and a pint. Later in the evening, I’ve been invited to say goodbye to some of the other American students at their final karaoke night. So far, I’ve steered clear of causing an international incident, and in effort to keep my record clean, I here promise to not sing Springsteen’s “Thunder Road,” as much as I wish I might (or wish I could). A little Vanilla Ice, however, now that’s a different story . . . .

Julia, my bags are packed. Let’s hope the snow holds off.

And, on this, my final day in Canterbury, Kent, UK, appropriately enough, it’s raining. Perfect.

British Humor, Part III

I am quite surprised to have this third entry concerning British humor, but given Missourians' dislike for all things Kansan, I wanted to let my friends in the Sho-Me state know that they are not alone.

From a commentator on a BBC 4 radio "News in Review" program:

"When I took the Eurostar [train] from London to Paris, I guess I thought it was all going to be underground. How sad I was to emerge from the chunnel to find I was in Kansas."

Northern France, is, as you might have guessed, rural and flat. Unlike the drive across Kansas, however, here one is assured of perhaps the most incredible destination imaginable: the incomparable gift of Paris.

Not much rain of late now that it has gotten colder (30-40 Fahrenheit), still quite perfect nonetheless.

An International Thanksgiving Feast

While my family was gathered in Peoria to play in the annual Finan Football game, I was enjoying an American Thanksgiving Feast in Canterbury. In total, about 150 people gathered from as many as 15 nations to share in the festivities. Truly an International night of thanks-giving.

My thanks to the staff at Christ Church University for making this a special night. We enjoyed turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and mushroom bean casserole with crispy onions! For dessert, a laudable attempt at pumpkin pie: same texture, not as much sugar.

My Five (and some balloons)!

Before we sat to eat, the mentors were asked to offer a few words of thanks. You won't be surprised to learn that I took full advantage of the opportunity to speak from a podium draped with an American flag! While I was channeling the energy of my cousin Pete, a bit here, it was nice to have the opportunity to publicly recognize all of you who made this incredible experience possible. Thank you. 

British Humor, Part II

Per my friend’s request before I left the states, I promised to share any jokes told to me by Brits. He was convinced I wouldn’t find any funny Brits. I set out to share my humor research when I had collected at least two jokes, hence the delay:

At the beginning of my stay here I went to a football match (soccer game) in Southampton. I asked for walking directions to the stadium. The man giving me directions must have read the confusion on my face as I tried to decipher his accent:

“Don’t worry if you make a wrong turn, mate, you’re on an island. Just keep walking and you’ll end back here before long.”

And now a second collected joke.

During a walk in the woods, I spot what appears to be poison ivy.  Although I fully trusted the rhyme, “leaves of three, let it be,” I wanted to be certain so I ask my British friend: 

“Poison ivy in the states has three leaves. Is it the same here?”

To which the Brit responds:

“Not quite, mate. Ours is metric: 3.2 leaves.”

I promise to keep collecting, but I am not holding out much hope for a British Humor, Part III.

Raining again; still perfect.

The Wisdom of a Father

On my way to campus this morning, I found myself walking behind a father and his son. The boy, high atop his dad's shoulders and safely under his dinausour umbrella, was singing along with his father: "Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipres are calling . . . Oh Danny boy, I love you so."

 

 

 

Granting my apologies for snapping this picture, the start to another perfect day in the rain.

The Wisdom of a British Mother

I apologize for going a bit absent on the blog. As I move safely into the last thirty days of this program, and my life here becomes as normal and, really, as sometimes mundane, as is my life in the states, I sometimes lose track of what an amazing opportunity this is.

Of late I have been working more with my students as they respond to the transition to the British education system. Most have learned that no quizzes, no tests, no required reading, and only two short, research analysis essays does not translate into less work. Most of the Americans have responded to failing their first essay by accepting the challenge to work on their next.

For those who have asked about my travels in Italy with Julia, I am still working on those posts and apologize for my delay. If you've met Julia and ever seen us together, you can imagine how difficult it is for me to revisit those photos alone without simply crying over her absence.

By way of update, though, some photos from the last few trips with students:

Oxford.

Like Jay Gatsby, I can now claim that I read at Oxford.

Bath and the Roman Baths at Bath.

Stonehenge:

I found Stonehenge to be interesting for what it is, certainly, but also for how people have responded to it. Here, with the motorway just over the rise, I am enjoying my students attempt perspective photographs that make it look as if they are holding up the stones. And yes, as the student who took this photo of me noted, I am sunbathing.

The Globe Theatre. An American, Sam Wanamaker, was the force behind the rebirth of the Globe theatre. When he approached the British govermnent under Thatcher for funding, their response: Why would you want to do that? Difficult to imagine England without Shakespeare.

Tower of London. This photo is actually of the Tower Bridge, which is next to the Tower of London, a castle next to the Thames. 

In addition to the Crown Jewels, the museum included equine military and prison history. Yes, they used the rack to stretch prisoners, but this device was actually more inhuman: compression.
 

Separate from the group, my colleague from Illinois, Pat Parks, and I took the train up to the Imperial War Museum at Duxford. (Below are two of the fifty or so photographs I will happily share with my brother Dave over a nice glass of scotch.)

Finally, the other day while walking down High Street in Canterbury, I overheard a mother giving the following advice to her daughter. The child, Lily, about 8 years old had approached a narrow bollard along the sidewalk and had put her hands on the top of it as if about to leap frog over it. The bollard, about three feet tall, was as tall as the little girl. Mom, walking ahead, called back to her daughter:

"Lily, that's a bit big for you, love. Know your limitations."

Rain nearly every day since I last wrote, and yes, save Julia's absence, perfect.

Days One and Two: Canterbury and Folkestone, UK

During Julia's visit, we spent two nights in and around Canterbury, then two nights in the foothill towns north of Turin Italy where my Peraud grandparents are from, followed by two nights on the Meditarian in the town of Vernazza, in the Cinque Terre, Italia. I hope here (and in the next few posts) to simply share a few photos from our week.

 

Berfore a fabulous dinner at RockSalt (www.rocksaltfolkestone.co.uk/)  in Folkestone (just east of Dover), we rode a water powered tram down from the town centre to the sea. The best part of this trip was that we were joined by some locals, an older couple, probably grandparents, with their seven year old or so grandchildren who were making their way back to their parents in the parking lot below. "Wave to Mummy." With Julia here, it was fun to rediscover the accents.

 

 

Public art, of sorts. Quite fun.

Just outside of our restaurant, the docks and traps from which and with which our meal was gathered. No fake, Red Lobster decorations, here. Much like the locals in one of the pubs we visited, this is the real deal: a right proper Britsh fishing village.

As a well-adjusted midwestener who was raised on Gordon's fish sticks (and honey) during Lent, I've never been one to enjoy fish that when served, looks like it did when it was alive. I have, admittedly, missed out on what I am told were some very good meals because of this aversion. Julia knows this, of course (and loves me anyway) but even she couldn't resist teasing me when our prawns were served. While I am not sure I will change my aversion to "fresh" seafood in St. Louis, these big little guys were amazing! (Wait until you see the pizza we had in Vernazza.) 

 

After dinner and my being scared at the table by a tricker-treater who had made his way past the hostess and into the restaurant (no really, I jumped, quite to the amusement of the reserved Brits at the next table), we took the city bus back up to Canterbury.

Before turing in we had a drink at one of my locals (www.forgebistro.co.uk) where we were greeted by a group of five drunkish thirtysomething males who were down from London to have a bit of fun with their mate who had never seen a cow. The beauty of technology allowed us to watch the video they made of their friend running in fright from the unamused cattle.

Upon learning we were from the States, one of the guys, a high school English literature teacher, talked about his frustration with the way poor students in the UK are being excluded from equal opportunity. He had hoped to become an administrator so he could help remedy this discrepency. He also wanted to teach in the U.S. where, as he thought, we don't have these problems. I was surprised by how much his (mis)perception of education in the States matched mine of the UK. Our conversation was cut short, however, once they realized there were free coupons to be had for the strip club down the street.

And, even if it hadn't rained, with Julia here, it was a perfect day.

Julia's Arrived!

How much I miss you all. How very much I miss my Julia! 

On Friday she arrived in London. A day in Canterbury and dinner in Folkestone on the English Channel. Today, Sunday, we head to Turin, Italy and then to Vernazza in the Cinque Terre on the Mediterranean for the rest of the week. Hopefully we will get out of London before the severe storm Jude hits late on Sunday. 

No rain yet, but certainly another perfect day. 

Walk in the Woods

Enjoyed a Saturday in the woods. Another perfect day with rain. 

The Unfolding Countryside

Brompton Dock is a self-serve bicycle hire that uses folding bikes stored in dedicated lockers at several train stations throughout England (www.bromptondock.co.uk). Join, reserve, unfold, and ride!

 

 

My Brompton folded . . .

. . . and thirty seconds later!

I made it across town, remembered to stay on the left, and easily found the dedicated trails and national bicycle routes. The ride on this three-speed was surprisingly stable, comfortable, and fast.

Best of all, the bicycle opened up the countryside for me. I captured this photo of the Stour river only 2.5 miles from Canterbury--and only 100 yards from a pub!

Yes, a little rain this morning, adding to another perfect day.

"I just fell in love with her right there."

If you ever find yourself missing those you love, might I suggest. . .

Oh Sweet Lorraine:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KDi4hBWsvkY

At Last:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZhRTUbv5J_Q

There are others, to be sure.

Day 30 of 90

After four weeks and a few days, things I am beginning to no longer notice:

Crisps are chips.

Chips are fries.

Biscuits are cookies.

Cookies aren't sweet.

Four skinless chicken breasts, 6 £ (about $9.50).

Baked beans, tomatoes, and mushrooms for breakfast.

British accents.

German, French, and Italian tourists.

No one makes eye contact.

No decaf anything.

Coca Cola made with real sugar.

Opening hours end (stores close) at 6 pm.

Fresh bread.

Recognizable ingredients (no additives) in processed food.

“Bits" or "pieces” for “stuff” or “things.”

"Bits and pieces" for underwear.

Earrings, facial piercings, brightly-colored neon hair, and visible tattoos, especially full “tattoo sleeves” on men and women of all ages.

When someone asks for my name, they mean my last name.

Open liquor and public intoxication.

Dogs off leashes; kids on.

Strollers used for kids up to and seemingly older than 5 years old.

People using canes and one-arm crutches.

Pockets full of change: 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, 50 pence, and 1 and 2 £ coins.

Bills get larger with denomination. A 50 £ note is about 8 x 5 inches.

Distances and speed are marked in miles; everything else is in metric.

24 hour clock.

CCTV (security cameras) everywhere. Everywhere.

Cask Ale served at room temperature. A pint is about a beer and half. Two pints is more than plenty.

Rolled cigarettes.

Litter, especially empty beer and wine bottles.

Buskers.

ALDI pound for cart, not a quarter.

Very little local news and almost no local interest stories.

Few to no commercials, and little to no violence on the telly.

Adult language, nudity after 9 pm on the telly.

Discussion of Scottish independence.

Dressing in layers.

Tile roofs.

No screens on windows.

No long “a” vowel sounds. Rochester is pronounced, raw-chester.

Southampton is one word and is not the same as my neighborhood, South Hampton, but is pronounced, Suv-empton. The “th” becomes “v” and the “am” becomes “em.”Heathrow airport is pronounced Heave-row.

Canterbury is pronounced, Can-eh-bree.

Lester Square is spelled Leicester.

No waitresses. Food ordered at the bar or counter.

Being asked if I have a gun.

“Cheers” for thank you.

Roman ruins.

People knowing I am an American before I speak.

Rain.

My New Best Mate

So about 1:30 last night I hear someone knocking, then banging on my door. Upstairs, having been sound asleep for a few hours, I wait to make sure I am not still dreaming. More banging, then I hear what seems to be the door opening. "Security?" I think, my heart slow to catch up to the adrenaline that just shot through my body. I am living in campus housing, so security has come in unannounced a few times to check a silent alarm, to replace batteries in smoke detectors, etc. But then the lights go on, the stair lights—which are on a motion detector. Oh, shit.

I head down stairs as quickly as I can, not even thinking about what I might encounter. There, standing, in my living room, wobbling a bit, looking as scared as I was, to be sure, is a drunk, 5' 6"", 150 pound, college kid with short dark hair and dark eyes. He sees me and keeps repeating, “Sorry, mate, wrong house. Sorry, mate, wrong house. Sorry, mate, . . . .”  “It’s okay, mate,” I say and I shake his hand. Why, I don’t know, but there I am at 1:30 in the morning trying to show this intruder the door as politely as I can. His eyes are glazed, he’s swaying, and he reeks of liquor. When I open the door to let him out, I can hear that my neighbors a few doors to the south are hosting a party. I walk him out onto the sidewalk and point him in that direction. “Down there,” I say.

Back inside, I double check that I lock the door, and go back upstairs to my room. Two minutes later I hear him pounding at my neighbor’s door, my neighbour to the north. He’s gone the wrong way. Only now, he’s pissed. He’s kicking the door, and yelling. “Open the f’ing door, mate. C’mon Jimmy G, it’s me. Open the f’ing door. Damn it, Jimmy, open the bloody door.” My neighbors name is Pat, by the way.

I opened my upstairs window and yell down to him, “James doesn’t live there. You are at the wrong house. Go the other way.” He’s clearly not getting any of it. Like he did at mine, he tries the door handle but finds, unlike at mine, that he can’t open it. He continues pounding and kicking the door. I can hear Pat’s voice yelling back at him through the door. Luckily, Pat’s door has a window in it, so I know he can tell what is going on and that he isn’t going to open it. I go back to bed.

Four minutes later, and my new mate apparently finds the party he was looking for because I can hear him with two or three others out in the street on the cellphone ordering pizza—as loudly as you can when you are drunk and hungry and in college and it’s a Monday and you are 18.

About three hours later I fell back asleep. This morning I checked with security and found that I might not have been setting the dead bolt correctly on my door. I also put campus police on speed dial. Lesson learned and one new drunk mate gained.

It wasn’t raining last night, but it was a perfect night.

 

Getting Around with Stevie Ray Vaughn

I haven’t ventured onto a bicycle yet because I was again, just earlier today, almost hit by a car when I was walking across the street: I looked the wrong way. I am pretty sure pedestrians do not have the right away at small streets or driveways, and certainly not when crossing outside of the zebra crossings.

Streets are narrow; shoulders nonexistent. Cars a plenty; congestion problematic. SUV's here as uncommon as a Fiat 500 at home; Fiat 500's as common here as an SUV at home.

For the most part, street names, if posted, are incorporated into the buildings on the intersections and not consistently on signs. Also, Hill Ave is not the same as Hill Lane, Hill Road, Hill Way, or Hill Street. Ask for directions to Hill Lane, which the magic app on your phone insists is directly under your feet, when you mean Hill Street, and locals seem to not be able to help you close the gap: “Sorry, mate. Never heard of Hill Lane.”  

At least in the older parts of town, house numbers are also not synchronized to the opposite side of the street. So, from an intersection, walking on the left side of the street I was up to 120 Hill Street, but the residence across the street was only number 75 Hill Street. Odds and evens are consistently on their own side of the street, but numbers seem to increase based on the number of structures on their side of the street from the last intersection. I imagine the fire department just knows these things.

Expressways, or carriageways, mostly follow the original roads laid out by the Romans. When travelling by bus, one’s view of the countryside is mostly blocked by hedgerows and trees. There are no billboards or advertisements on the expressways, and exits are free of competing gas stations. Rail lines, especially the high speed ones, are in trenches so a cross wind won't make them unstable.

In town, there are no red light cameras because there are no red lights. Since most intersections are roundabouts there are few to no stop lights anywhere. With this, since there is no intersection, per se, drivers aren’t sitting at intersections and therefore don’t have the time to get distracted by their phones. There is also less pollution from idling cars. Congestion and delays, sure, but seemingly caused by volume and not inattentive drivers.

Stop lights are used, however, to stop vehicle traffic for pedestrians. At these crossings, they use the yellow light between green to red, like we do, but they also include the yellow when going from red to green, as if to say, get ready, because it is going green. Traffic, it seems, gets off more quickly.

So, while there are no red light cameras because there are no red lights, there are speed cameras nearly everywhere on the expressways. Motorists tend to obey the speed limit. Motor cycles can also white line between slowly  moving traffic. Expressways, however, have little to no shoulder, so any accident blocks traffic. Variable speed limits seem to be more common than at home. 

Finally, no matter, the continent or traffic system, as we found out when returing from our last field trip, when stuck in a long queue, a little Stevie Ray Vaughn is “well good.”

 

 

The White Cliffs of Dover and Vera Lynne’s Hope

A few weeks ago (I can hardly believe I have been here for four weeks already!) I took the city bus to Dover, about 14 miles south of Canterbury. The cliffs are protected by the National Trust, think National Park, and are free unless you arrive by car (not a bad idea). The sky cleared enough that I could see France some 22 miles across the Channel. It is no wonder these have inspired so many artists. At the cliffs, I was fortunate to become absorbed for a few hours in the majesty of a hovering kestrel and the knowledge that I was merely enjoying a place that marked epochs without regard for my presence.

From the cliffs just north of Dover and its port to Calasis, I walked down a well-worn path into town, which like most ports cities in England, was terribly bombed during the Second World War, and then back up other hills to Dover Castle. Most invasions—those successful, Normans, Saxons, and those unsuccessful, Napoleon, Germany—have targeted Dover, so the castle and its tunnel fortifications hold an active history of conflict that easily magnifies the sobriety of our Gettysburg or Arlington.

 

 

In addition to the castle, whose keep was built 1181, the site contains thousands of meters of tunnels, including an underground WWII hospital. These tunnels ushered the 300,000 British and French soldiers that were rescued during the Dunkirk Evacuation in June 1940, many of whom would later go on to retake Normandy four years later. While there was no photography allowed in the tunnels, the tour recreated a scenario using flickering lights, sounds, and odors, in which we followed a wounded pilot into surgery. I was the youngest in my tour group by about 30 years, and the only American. When finished, our guide asked what we thought of the experience: an elderly British gentleman said the air was neither stagnate nor damp enough. A second, even older, added that it would have smelled of rotting flesh. With that, we exited quietly to the sound of Vera Lynn’s “There’ll be Bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover.”

 

I then made my way back down into town and unto what turned out to be a most hopeful end to an unexpected history lesson: a city bus full of teenagers making their way home from school.

 

And, while it didn't rain, it was a perfect day.

Distance

There is a separateness that comes with being this far away from home. A sadness, really, made more aware to me this evening by a quietly embracing fog that is breaching the Roman wall that surrounds the town centre. Somehow I know this fog as my own as it follows me into my empty flat.

This morning I learned that my Uncle Carl passed away earlier in the week. He was always good to me and my siblings, my family. Immediately I recall and miss his humor.

Tonight I will open my windows and invite the fog into this space, trusting that it extends as a mourning blanket to my Aunt, my cousin, and the rest of my family gathering in Lockport.

May his soul and the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

British Humor

Before I left for Canterbury, a friend of mine back home asked me to see if I could find any Brits with a sense of humor. Most, he found, weren't very funny. Most, I find, neither make eye contact nor smile at strangers, but sit down and have a pint, or ask for help, and they are more than patient and hospitable. As far as jokes, one I've heard from a few people:

An American is admiring a Brit's lawn. "How do you get it to look so good?" asks the American. The Brit says, "Well, it's quite easy. You till the soil, plant the seed, watch the rain fall on it, and then wait 300 years!" So maybe not that funny, but it's an encouraging start.

The other bit they find funny is my response when asked what I studied at university. To say, simply English seems a bit ambitious here, so I say, American Literature, to which they respond: "A short course, i'n't, mate?"

One final note about language. The students seem to be very similar to our students. I overheard a conversation between two women who discovered that a boy had lied to them. "He's well dodgy that one," which I think roughly translates to "He's very sketch" in American English, or simply "He's a liar" if you remember when velcro was a crazy new addition to the original Skechers.

A Proper Blog

My collegue from Illinois, Pat Parks, is keeping a more thourough blog of our time in Canterbury. If you wonder what else is going on--between the photographs on my blog--you will enjoy Doug's Weekly Dispatches from Canterbury.

http://canterburydispatches.blogspot.co.uk/

Walk on the Left

On Monday, Pat, my fellow mentor from Chicago, and I visited London. Transit is as easy as advertised; remembering to walk on the left in heavy pedestrian traffic was not as easy. Arrived in time to enjoy Big Ben tolling 12 noon. 

We also were lucky to catch a rehearsal at Buckingham Palace. 

I resisted wondering how many holes it takes to fill (Royal) Albert Hall.

I hope to return to Hyde Park before the end of the month to have a swim in the Serpentine Lido. 

Our return  train from London was delayed because a WWII bomb was found by construction crews near the station just past ours. No worries, just interesting.

http://www.kentonline.co.uk/thanet_extra/news/unexploded-bomb-6389/

Another perfect day, even though there was no rain.

Broccoli Cheese Soup with My Five

One of my students hosted us in her family's home for some comfort food. A British student, Mike, joined us. He took me for a ride in his Ford Focus. When everyone drives on the other side, it doesn't seem odd to be a passenger in the front left. 

I am off to catch the last football (soccer) match and then on to find the NFL. So far, another perfect, even though it hasn't rained--yet.