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.