Happy Christmas!

Dear America, land of hope, freedom, and efficient snow-clearing road crews,
I write to you as one clinging desperately to hope like a character in that Will Smith movie where he is the only human left alive after the rest of the world is turned to zombies. All of my British flatmates have left campus and I am left to wander the quiet flat, huddling for warmth and comfort with the five other Americans in the building. It’s a sad, lonely place America. If you are reading this, please send people who will be able to help Britain realize that three inches of snow is no cause to shut down all airports for three days, and Ranch dressing because I really miss Ranch dressing.
If you’ve read the news recently I’m sure that you’ve seen how badly Britain has managed to embarrass itself in the face of the “snowpocalypse” currently sweeping the country. Everyone who was trying to fly home for the holidays was stuck in London for five days because no flights are coming into or going out from Heathrow. Gatwick, the little airport that could (unless Dublin is involved) sent out just over one hundred flights today and landed about the same number on the second day, but most airports were completely shut down because it’s cold. Even the Tube was shut down. The Tube is underground!!!! How can it be closed because of the weather??? What is this madness? As I was complaining to my flatmate before he left, he said, “Oh, it’s the annual airport shutdown.” I was incensed and yelled, “You mean to tell me that this happens every year????” I am seriously beginning to question how Britain is a modern, civilised country, never mind how it managed to control the largest empire in the nineteenth century. But now, five days later, most Dickinsonians are home or at least in flight, and my parents and brother have arrived in England! Apparently Mr. David Cameron heard me when I threatened to have very strong words with him if they were delayed – I know where he lives.
Okay, rant over. Life is good, and a little (or a lot) of inefficiency will only slow me down temporarily. *deep breath* Anyway, my first semester in Merry Olde England is over! It went so fast, I’m not really sure what happened to it, but I know that it was amazing. Like all semesters, it finished in a flurry of paper-writing and procrastinating. But fear not, I only resorted to listening to Josh Groban Christmas carols on the last night, and all papers were done, revised until the ink positively bled from the pages like Tom Riddle’s diary in The Chamber of Secrets (my New Year’s resolution is to not mention Harry Potter more than once a day, and if I go over I have to pay a two-pence penalty that my flatmates will use to buy a pint at the end of the year. Ha, they underestimate my willpower), and turned in. Huzzah! In the midst of finals, however, there is always time for fun and interesting cultural experiences.
On Tuesday night I attended my first-ever, and hopefully my last-ever, pantomime performance, which is apparently a time-honoured Christmas tradition for English children. For anyone who has not been so lucky as to see a pantomime, it’s a very interactive show, so one of the characters will lose something, like his pet mouse, and ask everyone in the audience to shout “Mousy mousy!” whenever the mouse reappears on stage, which British children will eagerly shout even when said mouse has not actually made an appearance. And whenever the villain comes out, everyone boos, et cetera. You get the idea. We saw Jack and the Bean Stalk, which for some reason involved a circus and many renditions of “Nelly the Elephant.” It was terrifying. Just when I thought that it couldn’t get any more ridiculous, Jack tried to look soulful and broke out into “Hero” by Enrique Iglesias. Yes, this really happened. Then, just to prove that they could, the trolls did the “Thriller” dance. I am still emotionally scarred – I can’t write about it any longer because it’s too painful. I’m sorry.
On a much happier note, we had a lovely Chranksgivemas dinner on Thursday. Trusty flatmate Joe and I braved the cold to head to the grocery store and stock up on Thanksgiving essentials, then we concocted a Thanksgiving dinner to the best of our ability. Have I mentioned that we don’t have ovens in our kitchens? They’re a fire hazard. So we ended up grilling balls of stuffing in the chip pan because the convection oven was taken up by candied yams, but it actually worked surprisingly well. I just told everyone that we always grill stuffing balls in America, and it was totally fine. So Joe and I managed to whip up mashed potatoes, candied yams, stuffing, rolls, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, gravy, and deli turkey without any major catastrophes, and it all tasted good! Definitely a Christmas miracle.
Our celebrations kicked off with a dramatic reading of the Chranksgivemas story, written by Joe especially for the occasion. I don’t have his exact wording, but basically the holiday began as follows:
Santa and the pilgrims were making the brutal crossing from England to the New World, but they ran out of food and had to eat all of the reindeer. Santa was so depressed that he threw himself overboard into the icy sea. Fortunately, Benjamin Franklin (Joe’s American history is a little bit skewed here) saw what Santa did and raised the alarm, so George Washington (because he was also on the Mayflower) dived into the Atlantic and saved him. Sadly for George, he lost his teeth, but he did save Santa. For ever after, when asked if he had saved Christmas, George would reply, “I cannot tell a lie – I did that thing.”
Dinner then began with lots of food, Christmas crackers, and traditional Chranksgivemas carols by Lady Gaga and Cee Lo. We all had a really good time, and it was a great way to just be together and relax after exams and papers. I had told Amy about my family’s Thanksgiving tradition of going around the table and saying what we’re thankful for, and she suggested that we incorporate that into our celebrations. So over our second course of mulled wine and minced pies, we actually had a really meaningful time to say how grateful we all were to be living with so many wonderful people. It was so nice, and it was the perfect way to end the semester. I don’t know how I got so lucky, but my floor is absolutely amazing, and I’m so happy to be living with them. Unfortunately, it was our last flat time before Laura left us for the sunny and wonderful land of Australia, but I cannot think of a better way to say goodbye.

So I’m sending the warmth and love from our Chranksgivemas celebrations to you for Christmas. I hope that you are all well and that you’re able to share the holiday with people you love. I miss you all terribly, but I’m thinking of you and wishing you a very, very happy Christmas!!! (Favourite Christmas memory of the year: talking to my dad on Skype and him exclaiming, “We get to say 'Happy Christmas' this year!!!!”) Love to all!

The Great Blizzard of 2010

'Tis true, I am writing to you from a country paralyzed under a grand total of - are you ready? - half an inch of snow. It's been flurrying on and off since Thanksgiving, and the Brits are going absolutely bonkers. I woke up one morning, looked out my window and thought, "Oh, a layer of frost!" England thought, "AAAAAAH!!!! Close all of the airports! Delay as many trains as possible! Cancel classes! Go into hibernation!!!!" Basically, this is what happened. Now, to be fair, the Brits' fear of inclement winter weather is only crippling whereas their fear of fire is absolutely paralyzing. But you would assume that a country that has been settled and dealing with winter for some three thousand years, give or take, would have learned how to cope with a flurry. This is not the case. There are no snow plows in this country, and shovels seem to be scarce. The great British solution to slippery sidewalks is to dump a ton of salt at the top of the sidewalk and hope that people will walk over it and track it along with them as they go, thus melting more ice. Maybe it's just because I'm a New Englander, but this seems incredibly inefficient and silly, and therefore, British. I love snow, though, and it was lovely to walk around Norwich looking at all of the Chritmas lights as snowflakes drifted gently down from the sky. There's something so quintessentially English about it, which is ironic because it doesn't usually snow here until January or February, and then it's not very much at all.
What else has happened since I last wrote? We had our Dickinson Thanksgiving dinner, which was full of wonderful food, so everyone ate too much. It wasn't like being at home, but it was really nice. I had to correct my flatmates, who believed that Thanksgiving is the day that we celebrate killing all of the Native Americans. Oh dear. Buddy Jesse and I are organizing a "Chranksgiving" dinner for our floor next week, which is basically going to be Thanksgiving dinner (with cold-cut turkey sandwiches because we're poor college students) with Christmas crackers and decorations split between turkeys and Santa Claus. It will be excellent.
The day after Thanksgiving, Buddy Jesse, Laura, Amy, Mel, and I set off on what we believed to be our Dublin adventure, but what actually turned out to be our Gatwick Airport adventure. This was in the midst of the Great Blizzard of 2010, so Dublin Airport just up and closed, which meant that we sat in Gatwick Airport for a very long time instead of frolicking through the streets of Dublin. Sad. Thankfully, the airport did reopen, so we arrived in Dublin exactly as the sun was setting. Again, sad, although sunset over the River Liffey was beautiful. Just a side note: there was hardly any snow as we were coming into Dublin. I think that the airport was just trying to screw us over.
Laura's friend from Belfast met us at our hostel and was nice enough to show us around Temple Bar (cultural center of Dublin, full of restaurants and pubs that all advertise "Live Irish Music"). Fun fact: he is one of two Irish people whom I met in Dublin. The other was our tour guide. I met more Irish people in Scotland. End fun fact. We had a pint at a pub actually called Temple Bar, which was a really fun place.
Later that night, fighting travel-induced grouchiness and sleepiness, we ventured out to a random pub and just happened across an amazing pub band comprised of three moderately attractive and very talented Irish men. They were really good and played a lot of popular music, although I must say that it was slightly surreal to sing "Born in the U.S.A." in a pub in Ireland, surrounded by people who were not in fact born in the U.S.A. In the middle of one song the singer went into "Let it Snow," which is when we realized that big, fat flakes were actually falling outside of the windows. It was really beautiful, and Amy and I got it into our heads that we could get stranded in Dublin for another day. Basically, we had watched too much P.S. I Love You, because in hindsight this would have been expensive and terrible. Basic necessities, such as eating and drinking, are amazingly expensive in Dublin. This might be because Ireland has no money right now, but I didn't either by the time that I left.
The next morning dawned sunny but absolutely freezing, and there was just under an inch of snow on the ground. Dublin is a beautiful city, and Mel and I took advantage of the morning to take pictures and window shop. That afternoon Amy and I shivered our way through a walking tour by the same company who did the amazing Edinburgh tour. We learned a lot, but there are no fun stories like Ninja Scot or Mission Impossible bagpipers to report. Irish history is very bloody and very sad, and the contest over their national identity is still going on, so they haven't reached the point where they can laugh at themselves like the Scots can. When the Irish insult England, they really, really, really mean it. But Dublin does boast some very fascinating history and some famous literary figures such as James Joyce and Oscar Wilde. Oh, I do have a fun fact from the tour, actually. The harp on the Guinness logo (which is not French, Grandma, sorry to break it to you) is the harp of Brian Boru, which dates to the fourteenth century and is one of the few gaelic harps left in existence. It's a very important Irish symbol, and when the Irish Republic was declared in 1947 the new government wanted to use the harp as the national emblem. Well, Guinness had already trademarked it, so the government has to use the mirror image. Random picture: Trinity College.
We left Dublin the next day around noon, so I spent a grand total of 46 hours in that fair city, several of which were inside the airport. Not nearly enough time! There's so much more that I want to see. It was like when I came to Europe with USYE and we did a marathon tour of six countries in nineteen days - taster sessions, all of them. I would really like to see more of Ireland, as well, and I must test my Irish/Hollywood theory. In romantic comedies, whenever a young American woman goes to Ireland, she inevitably gets lost or her mode of transportation fails her somehow, leaving her lost in the gorgeous Irish countryside. Then, suddenly, the most beautiful man in existence comes along with his endearing accent and helps her out, and he plays guitar and is too nice to be real, and they fall in love, experience a little bit of adversity, and then get married and live happily ever after. Amy and I plan on conducting a very thorough and scientific study of this phenomenon in the spring.
Alas, I feel that I can procrastinate no longer - final papers are calling. I must away, back to my analysis of motherhood as a means of bridging social and racial gaps in condition of England novels. Thrilling, isn't it? Good luck with finals to everyone back home! Listen to some Christmas music.

Gotta Get Back to Hogwarts

After being in Norwich for less than 48 hours, I decided that it was high time to set off on another U.K. Adventure, this time to the wild hills of Scotland (read: the very civilised city of Edinburgh). So I repacked my trusty rucksack and Travel Buddy Jesse and I set off on the first leg of our mega adventure. The most stressful part turned out to be getting the bus to the city centre in Norwich during rush hour. I realized that I could never be on The Amazing Race because I would probably have a nervous breakdown within the first two days of competition. Our bus got to the centre with ten minutes to spare before our next bus to London left, and I was freaking out bigtime. We made it, though, and entertained all of the other passengers by singing "Teenage Dream" and talking about how much we loved Darren Criss (for all you non-Glee watchers, you just sit there and feel left out of this reference). Before long, no one was sitting in our part of the bus, can't imagine why.
We met World Traveler Extraordinaire Laura in Piccadilly Circus, where we enjoyed the Christmas decorations. London is so much prettier at night. We may also have wandered, as a complete coincidence, to Leicester Square, where the world premiere of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part I may have been taking place. Entirely accidental, of course. By the time we got there everyone was inside watching the film and all of the red carpets were rolled up, but I can still say that I was there!
The Harry Potter Adventure (as it should really be called) quickly moved into its next phase when we caught our overnight bus to Edinburgh. Being an inexperienced (but practising!) traveler as I am, I found the whole thing fascinating. Ninety-seven percent of the passengers were other student travelers, so it was a really cool atmosphere. There were several groups of people who were on weekend trips, but some had been traveling for weeks and weeks. I tried to stay awake to see the sun rise over Scotland, but I got my best sleep between 6 and 7 a.m., so I missed that one.
Our first view of Edinburgh was astonishingly beautiful - the Georgian buildings of the New Town, the Gothic spires of the Sir Walter Scott Memorial, and up on the hill, the Old Town and Edinburgh Castle. We quickly rubbed the sleep from our eyes, dropped our luggage at our hostel, and set off to find breakfast. And Harry Potter. Thankfully, Edinburgh anticipated that two Harry Potter-obsessed American girls would someday come to the city needing breakfast, so they made both of these things available in one place: The Elephant House. This is a delightful restaurant with a warm and cozy atmosphere, mismatched chairs, and an amazing view of Edinburgh Castle. It also happens to be where J.K. Rowling wrote the first two Harry Potter books. Yes, pilgrimmage, whoa. To pay proper hommage to The Boy Who Lived (and to A Very Potter Musical), we decided to try our hand at writing a literary masterpiece on a napkin. Needless to say, I don't think that I'll be making more money than the Queen anytime soon. What I really liked about the Elephant House, after the amazing hot chocolate, was, and this may surprise all of you, that it wasn't completely devoted to Harry Potter. Apart from a sign in the bottom of the window and this awesome toilet (very British, bragging in the bathroom - it makes them seem humble and like they're laughing at themselves because their merits are displayed in the loo, but that's the room that people use the most, so it's sort of a back-handed way of showing off. Thank you, Kate Fox), there was almost no mention of Rowling at all. If that restaurant was in America, every ounce of Harry Pottery goodness would have been exploited, and the menu would have included pumpkin pasties and rockcakes instead of eggs and haggis. And there would have been a gift shop. It's cool, because you have to know where to look here. It's like when you discover a really cool band before they go mainstream, and you feel warm and fuzzy because you know something that other people don't. So, good job Scotland.
After our lovely breakfast, we took a free tour of Edinburgh with this amazing tour company called Sandeman's Tours. They run tours in several European cities, and they're awesome - our guide was a great storyteller, we saw a lot, and I learned so many fun facts! Highlights include:
-All things Harry Potter-related (obviously). Jesse and I had to work really hard to not seem overenthusiastic and embarrass Laura.
-Greyfriar's Bobby, the little dog who sat by his master's grave for fourteen years and inspired a Disney movie (what doesn't inspire a Disney movie? Honestly). People leave tokens by his grave, usually in the form of sticks or used bus tickets, tokens of extreme devotion in other countries, apparently. Our guide's favourite-ever offering was an envelope full of (unused) German bus tickets that said, "Bobby - come to Oktoberfest!"
-Robert the Bruce's capture of Edinburgh Castle: after William the Wallace ran around yelling "Freedom!!!" painting himself blue, and getting himself killed, Robert the Bruce decided that he needed to find the biggest, toughest, most Scottish of men with the best kilts in order to take Edinburgh Castle back from the English, so he sent his scouts into the Highlands. A year later, some thirty buff Highlanders came back, and I imagine that Robert the Bruce said something like, "Really? That's all that you've got?" Maybe they broke into "I'll Make a Man out of You" from Mulan after that, I'm not sure. But it turns out that one of these bad-ass Highlanders used to work in the castle and so knew the secret ins and outs, and it was decided that he would sneak in and then open the doors for the rest of Robert's men. Very Robin Hood, really. As our guide described it, "Ninja Scot climbed up the cliff and snuck into the castle, taking the English by surprise!" Win, Ninja Scot.
-The Stone of Destiny, which is the stone of all that is Scottish and therefore not English. Legend says that wherever the Stone is, there Scotland will rule. Unfortunately this is a blatant lie, because the English stole the Stone when they took over Scotland, and it resided in the coronation chair at Westminster Abbey for hundreds of years. The English finally returned the Stone in the 1990s, and it was marched up to Edinburgh Castle accompanied by bagpipers. And what patriotic Scottish song did the bagpipers play? The Mission Impossible theme. I love Scotland.
Our tour ended at a pub where we gathered up all of our courage and tried haggis, the national dish of Scotland. For anyone unfamiliar with haggis, don't look up what's in it before you eat it! I actually liked it - much better than meatloaf. Because the United Kingdom is ridiculous, it was getting dark by the time that we left the pub (around 3. Let's discuss - not cool), so we made a quick trip up the cliff (not quite like Ninja Scot) to get a closer look at the castle. There was an absolutely amazing view of Edinburgh, which makes the top three in my beautiful cities list.


Upon returning to our hostel, we realized that a big group of Dickinsonians had followed us to Edinburgh and were actually staying in the same hostel - small world. We all went on a ghost tour following dinner at a restaurant called Chocolate Soup, which was basically a dream come true. Creative names aren't really a forte over here, so there actually was chocolate soup on the menu. It was delicious. But the ghost tour: I was terrified, not going to lie. I almost had to resort to singing "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog" like I did when I was little and couldn't sleep for fear that the sun was going to become a red giant overnight and swallow the Earth while I slept. True story. Our guide was supposedly a medium but was a great storyteller regardless, and he took us into the vaults underneath the city. This is where all of Edinburgh's truly poor lived, and it has seen an enormous share of unhappiness, whether you believe there are still spirits there or not. Our guide promised us that people who were emotionally open weren't usually affected, so my mantra quickly became, "I'm emotionally open, I promise, please don't hurt me!" Fun fact: Edinburgh is supposedly the most haunted city in Europe.
I was doing fine until our guide took us to a room where there was apparently a Level 4 Haunting: demonic activity. This is of course where someone got sick, so he just up and left all of us in the demonic activity room to bring her back to the street. Excuse me, have you seen Paranormal Activity (I spent most of it hiding underneath a blanket, not going to lie)? I was not happy! I was momentarily relieved when we left this room, but then he took us to another room with a Level 5 Haunting. It just got better and better! The bridge of my nose met Laura's shoulder very forcefully when I tried to use her as a human shield after someone jumped out of the passageway and shouted "Boo!" but we got a free shot at the bar above afterward, and I was slightly mollified. So nothing happened to me personally, which I was happy about, but there was the woman who got sick, and another woman suddenly started crying for no reason whatsoever. It was really interesting to see, and I'm glad that we went. I was also glad to get back onto the street!
Day two in Edinburgh dawned bright and early with my cell phone trying to ruin my life. Just a note: never set your alarm on "vibrate" and then leave it on a metal locker, especially when that locker has a hole in it. I tried to cushion the phone on my hat, but of course it vibrated off of the hat and fell through the hole into the locked locker. Awesome. So my phone was making the entire row of lockers shake, waking everyone in our 14-person room up in the process. Guess who was not the most popular person in Edinburgh at that moment? In an incredible state of half-asleep strength, I managed to wrench the top off the locker and dove headfirst into it to retrieve my phone, alternating between curses and apologies the entire time. Thankfully, people found it amusing and no one tried to kill me.
After this invigorating wake-up, Buddy Jesse, Laura, and I walked to Holyrood Park, where we climbed King Arthur's seat, a volcano overlooking Edinburgh. It looks exactly like the scene in The Fellowship of the Ring when the Fellowship is just setting out and they come over the hill one by one as the music swells into the main theme in a dramatic crescendo. It was so beautiful, but excessively windy! Laura was a champion and climbed in ballet flats, and one actually started to blow away! I was super helpful in retrieving it, as I was laughing so hard that I was incapacitated. We walked down the other side, around Salisbury Craigs. Unfortunately, our plan to fall and twist our ankles, thus attracting three beautiful Scottish men (who would also be the sensitive musician types) to rescue us, did not pan out as it does in movies. Maybe we'll give it another go in Ireland this weekend.
We spent the afternoon in somewhat educational pursuits at the National Museum of Scotland, or, the Museum with the Most Confusing Layout Ever. I saw some really cool Pictish carvings, but I was so frustrated by the layout that I just wound up wandering around until the museum closed. We made dinner at the hostel and talked to some of the other travelers and employees. As this was the first hostel that I had stayed at with other people in it, I was fascinated by the hostel culture. The people who worked there didn't really plan to be in Edinburgh - they just liked it and so started working at the hostel for free room and board. In a few months, they'll move on. It's so...vagrant. I don't know if I could ever live that life, not knowing where I was off to next, or how long I would stay, but it was really interesting. Except for the part where the Canadian made fun of me for being American. What?
The three of us set off for a night on the town, which was still in a rugby frenzy. Scotland had played New Zealand earlier in the day, and so the pubs were packed with people in kilts and warpaint. It was amazing. At the first pub that we went to, we started talking to three Irish boys who were drinking vodka out of children's sandcastle buckets. I couldn't understand most of what they said, except that they thought Buddy Jesse was President Obama's daughter and they were clearly talking to me and Jesse to get to Laura. Sad. So we moved on in search of a club with five stories of amazing adventures to discover, and five stories of weird guys who can't dance, and whom Jesse headbutted when they wouldn't leave.
On the third day I let Jesse's alarm go off instead of mine, and we had a quiet breakfast at the hostel before setting off in the rain to find another, less expensive castle. We got sick of waiting for the bus, however, and indulged in some very touristy shopping in the New Town instead. After lunch we visited St. Giles Cathedral in order to see one of three carvings in the world of an angel playing bagpipes. It was very epic, and very Scottish. So much character in Edinburgh. (Image courtesy of http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3644/3446098858_ce4716f27d.jpg?v=0)
Following this great discovery, Laura set off to be scholarly and tour Holyrood Palace (the Queen's residence in Scotland), while Buddy Jesse and I attempted to visit the Writer's Museum to see exhibits on Sir Walter Scott (I'm reading his Rob Roy now, albeit very slowly), Robert Burns, and Robert Louis Stevenson. It was closed of course, so we headed back to Greyfriar's Kirkyard, where we happened across, after twenty minutes of searching, the grave of one Tom Riddell and his son, Tom Riddell. That's right: Voldemort is buried in Edinburgh. Realizing that we didn't need to temper our Harry Potter obsession for Laura, we may have gone back to the Elephant House, as well, where we made up lives for all of the other patrons over our hot chocolate.
We met Laura and confessed our actions after being stopped by a street performer who shouted, "Oi, tall woman! Stand wherever you want, you'll see everything. You, short friend, down in front - stadium seating!" We had to stay after such a greeting! The rest of the evening was spent whiling away our time in various pubs and coffee shops until we had to catch our overnight bus back to London, and then take a bleary trainride to Norwich. We were the three best travel buddies that anyone could have, but by that time we were also a little bit cranky and just wanted to go to bed. So we actually snuck, Ninja Scot-like, back into our flats.
The adventures didn't stop after my much-needed nap, however, as the Goo Goo Dolls played at UEA that night! So much excitement in one weekend! They put on a great show and we had a really good time.
It was an amazing adventure, and I really loved Scotland. Since this post is so long, I think that I'll save my thoughts on Harry Potter for another time, because I know that you're all dying to hear them. But in the meantime, have a wonderful and safe Thanksgiving! I'll be thinking of you all on Thursday.

"WE GO to Nottingham!"

Traveling all over the United Kingdom can make one forget that one has other responsibilities, such as essays, reading, and communicating with the wonderful people at home. But don't worry Mom and Dad, I got all of my essays in and finished all of my reading, and now I'm getting around to the communicating business. Just a quick aside about turning in essays in this country: the English impracticality strikes again! Handing in work should be easy, yes? You print it out and hand it to your professor. Apparently this efficient and easy method hasn't reached British shores yet, even though their civilization has been around over one thousand years longer than America. But who's counting? Here you have to take your essay, without your name, because everything has to be anonymous since British professors apparently can't achieve the same levels of objectivity that American professors can, to the school office where you have to fill out a cover sheet with gazillions of numbers, punch it through a date machine, staple it all, take the yellow form for your personal records (like when you bring your car in for repairs), and put it in your professor's pigeon hole (mailbox, in American). So unnecessarily complicated! Okay, rant over. I love this country, I promise, but really! Our family trait of doing things the hard way clearly passed through the English lineage.
On to happier things! The Friday after I returned from Durham was Guy Fawkes Day (also known as Bonfire Night), when English people all over the country put aside their paralyzing fear of fire (there are twelve fire doors in my flat. Have I mentioned that? Twelve. And one opens to the mop closet.) and light huge bonfires to burn Guy Fawkes in effigy. For anyone who is unfamiliar with this fairly barbaric and un-English concept, Guy Fawkes was part of the Gunpowder Plot. He and his cronies wanted to assassinate King James I and replace him with a Catholic monarch, so they planned to blow up Parliament on November 5, 1605. Fortunately, they were caught and Fawkes was sentenced to be hung, drawn, and quartered, but Wikipedia tells me that he jumped from the scaffolding and broke his neck, thus avoiding this lovely fate. Anyway, he is one of the most hated figures in British history, and he even got himself a fun little rhyme:
Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason, and plot
I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
Should ever be forgot
Not the best poetry to come out of England, but that's alright. In Norwich this holiday was basically an excuse to set off fireworks for three nights straight, including one public display in Earlham Park, which was fun. I didn't see the bonfire, though, because you had to pay to get into the carnival, and I didn't feel like paying to see some burning wood, no matter what it symbolized. Apologies for my failure at investigative reporting.
The next night, however, Jess and I set off on an epic adventure to search out Robin Hood and his gang in Nottingham. Our train came in late enough that the bus to our hostel in Sherwood Forest was no longer running. In Robin's day, Sherwood Forest stretched over twenty miles northward from Nottingham, but now most of that has fallen prey to deforestation and is farmland. Sad. In an alternate universe, we would have ridden horses up the Great North Road, been stopped by Robin and his gang for our money, explained that we were poor students, and joined the gang to frolick about Sherwood forever. But this being unrealistic, we opted for a taxi instead. Now, you would think Nottingham - Sherwood Forest - a logical association! Apparently not, because our taxi driver had never heard of Sherwood Forest. A good start! Fear not, however, for we made it to our hostel, where we were delighted to discover that all of the rooms were named after Robin Hood characters. There was some jumping up and down and silent screaming (which turned out to be unnecessary since we were the only people in the hostel) in the hallway when we realized that we were staying in the Robin Hood room.
It was a lovely hostel, and we were thrilled to find a) pillows that weren't flattened to within an inch of their functionality, and b) a television in the common room. Apparently the past ten years haven't reached the tiny, quaint village of Edwinstowe, however, because the most recent version of Robin Hood that was available for our viewing was Kevin Costner's ridiculous turn in Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. Jonas Armstrong he is not...
The next day, when we were due to explore Sherwood Forest searching for the gang (image courtesy of http://www.odvdo.com/index.php?gOo=goods_details.dwt&goodsid=856), dawned cold and rainy. Many times in England you'll wake up to rain, but the sun will start shining an hour later. This was not one of those days! We refused to be deterred, however, so we bundled up to face the elements (miserable) and set off for the forest. The visitor's centre contains a silly gift shop and an exhibit on Robin Hood that Lonely Planet (which is my travel Bible) described as "deeply naff." Although we weren't quite sure what naff meant, Jess and I avoided this exhibit, a good decision. But we did find St. Mary's in Edwinstowe, the church where there are marriage records for Robin and Marian (hear that, BBC? They were married in England! Not Acre!), which is pretty cool. And we found the Major Oak, which is where Robin supposedly had his hideout (even though we know that his hideout was actually a cool house in the ground built by the talented and wonderful Will Scarlet, carpenter extraordinaire). Really, it's just one of the oldest and largest of the Sherwood Oaks, which used to be quite famous and useful for builiding. Sir Christopher Wren used Sherwood oak in the buiding of St. Paul's Cathedral in London. Anyway, the Major Oak is impressive today, but would have been a sapling when Robin was stealing from the rich and giving to the poor in 1192ish.
After seeing this lovely tree, we decided to concede to the wind and the rain and go back inside. We were also a bit disappointed at the state of Sherwood - there are really wide gravel paths around the major sites, so it's really hard to imagine what it would have been like hundreds of years ago. And all of the information on Robin Hood is really childish and silly. Maybe my new life goal should be redoing the exhibits at Sherwood Forest to offer an in-depth exploration of the legend of Robin Hood and its many incarnations, especially the one starring Jonas Armstrong. I'm not being funny, but they could have done so much more. Anyway, we were able to see all of the important places, and we bought a picnic lunch, got back into our pajamas, and curled up in front of the television for the day, where we discovered some delightful British programmes and jumped up and down (we knew we were the only people in the hostel by this point) whenever we saw a Harry Potter trailer. It could have been a completely miserable day, but it was actually really fun. Travel buddies make all the difference in the world!
The next day was still grey and cold, but the rain held off. Jess and I said goodbye to our lovely hostel and to the cute little village of Edwinstowe and caught a bus back to Nottingham. We met a delightful sir on said bus - a music student from the University of Nottingham. He started talking to us because we were the only three people on the bus without grey hair, and I think that Jess and I both fell in love a little bit. He assured us that Robin Hood was real. What an excellent busride!
We set off for Nottingham Castle when we got into the city, although we were quickly distracted by the statues of Robin Hood along the route. There were plaques that gave different pieces of the legend and I of course happened to find the one relating to Will Scarlet, who apparently won this name because of his scarlet tights. Jess has since informed me that most of the gang probably would have been wearing red tights (or leggings?), although I'm not sure why. Perhaps there were a lot of severely colour-blind people in Nottingham in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, so red seemed like good camouflage in the forest? I don't know, it's a mystery. Anyway, Nottingham Castle itself is a little bit sad. A lot bit sad, actually. The medieval castle that was home to the Sheriff and Guy of Gisborne was demolished during the English Civil War because the Royalists were idiots. Nottingham was the only town in the area that supported Oliver Cromwell, so the Royalists from the surrounding towns decided that destroying the castle would show those rebellious Nottinghammites. Gah! Now I'll never know if there were actually dozens of doors with little squares cut out of them from all of those times that the gang broke in. Sorry, I digress.
The castle was rebuilt by a duke in the Georgian era, and now it's a modern art museum. In the very bottom, and very difficult to find, is an exhibit about the history of Nottingham. I am convinced that this particular exhibit is haunted, because I felt someone tug my backpack while I was reading a text panel only to discover that no one was behind me, and I swear that someone said my name, but Jess, the only person in the entire castle who knew my name, was on the other side of the multi-room exhibit. Clearly it was the spirit of Robin Hood trying to contact me. Speaking of Mr. Hood, you would think that this exhibit would have been an excellent place to investigate the legend and its importance to Nottingham, but it seemed as if the curators were desperately trying to prove that their town did not need legends of Merry Men in order to be cool. There was no mention of Robin Hood until we got to the fire exit and were trying to sneak out. Jess opened the door and immediately a cheery voice yelled, "Welcome, stranger!" She and I both screamed and backed up to the wall, only to realize that the recording was supposed to be Robin Hood welcoming guests to his exhibit. You know, the one that completely ignores him and fails to present interesting educational material about a legend that has become such an important part of British folklore. *sigh*
After our castle adventures, we stopped for a late lunch at a pub called Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem. As if the cool name is not enough, this claims to be the oldest inn in England. It was founded in 1189, so I think that it has a pretty good claim. Incidentally, 1189 is also the year that Richard the Lionheart assumed the throne of England, and the pub is built into the cliff that the castle sits on, so maybe Robin Hood ate there! (Shh, I can dream.) Regardless of whether or not it was patronized by any outlaws doing good social work, I loved this pub. The atmosphere was warm and comfortable, just like a good pub should be, and the food was amazing. I got a Yorkshire pudding wrap that was insanely good, and we stayed a long time just enjoying the place.
We checked out the Brewhouse Yard Museum after lunch, which is a fun museum that depicts life in Nottingham from the eighteenth century onward. There was a recreation Victorian street, store and home interiors, and a playroom, so we had fun acting like children and playing with the old cash register in the apothecary's shop. We also met a delightful woman who told us about growing up during World War II and her memories of her Victorian grandparents. She kept bumping into us (it was a small museum) and would tell us to go look at something then proceed to chatter at us until we were out of earshot, and then we found her still talking to us as we came back. She was wonderful! Overall people in Nottingham proved to be much more open and friendly than people in Norwich (not that people in Norwich aren't friendly, it's just much more difficult to engage them).
So even though we didn't find Robin Hood, we had a really great time and I'm glad that I got to see all that I did. That's another thing off my bucket list! There's a Robin Hood festival in August that I really want to go to, however, because I think that it would be hilarious. And this trip inspired me to write my final paper on the legend of the Green Man, a figure that has been passed down from ancient Celtic folklore in many incarnations, including Robin Hood. And I'm serious about redoing the deeply naff exhibits. So much potential.
That's all that I have time for right now - more to follow soon! Remember: "We are Robin Hood!" *cue theme music*

To the End of the Empire!

Good news: I successfully navigated public transportation to get from Norwich to Durham, and I didn't get lost once! I'm getting better at this. Before I go into my travel adventures, however, I have to tell you about the Ale Festival! Such an exciting week.
On Thursday the lovely Anna came to visit from Finland, where she is spending the semester. This is one of the things that I love about Dickinson - my friends are all over the globe now and it makes us sound so worldly and impressive to say, "Oh, my friend from Finland is popping in for the night..." Anna was en route from Edinburgh to London, and since half of our class is in Norwich, she stopped off here. It was so good to see her! To show her some true Norwich culture, we headed to the Ale Festival that was running all last week.
It was held in what used to be a church, which seems kind of sacreligious, but a lot of medieval breweries were actually run by monks, so I guess that it wasn't that bad. And there were signs everywhere saying that throwing up was strictly prohibited. Very practical, these British. There were over two hundred different types of ale, and that was only in the first room. I didn't make it to the room with all of the local brews. Anna and I favoured the cider corner, which was significantly smaller, but there were helpful little charts that explained the differences in various ciders. The ales, not so much. We basically went by which brews had the coolest names - Beowulf, Titanic, and Dark Side of the Moon were winners in that category. I didn't actually like any of them, but that's okay because the people-watching was excellent. There was even a full orchestra to serenade the ale-drinkers. For the truly romantic and devoted, there's a Valentine's Day ale fest coming up in February.
This was also Halloween weekend, and I must admit that I really missed New England. I love October at home - the beautiful fall colours (I have to practise British spelling, otherwise I get points taken off on my essays. Everything is supposed to be anonymous, and nothing screams "AMERICAN!" like forgetting the extra u. Also, chicken wings), the crunchy leaves (they're just soggy here), the brisk air, and the smell of fall - woodsmoke, spices, pumpkin, and a crispness that I can't quite describe. Also, Halloween here isn't really a big deal. The cut-off for trick-or-treating is around ten years old, and it's hardly commercialized at all. People here also don't put a lot of thought into costumes. I saw countless people wearing ripped t-shirts and jeans with red paint streaking their faces and slapped in handprints on their clothing. It was budget-conscious, I suppose, but it also made it seem like an army of zombies had taken over UEA from Thursday night on.
BUT that is not important. What is important is that I journeyed into The North (this is literally what the road signs say: North - this way. Thank you?)to the fair city of Durham to visit the wonderful and amazing Sarah and Caitlin!!! It was such an amazing weekend, and looking back it was kind of surreal. I'm in England, and I traveled to another part of England to visit two of my best friends, and it was completely normal. Dear life, you are amazing! So I set off bright and early with my backpack, feeling a bit like Frodo Baggins setting off from Bag End (minus the corruptive jewelry), to catch the 5:45 bus into town. I traveled through some beautiful country - East Anglia is really flat and green, but driving through the edge of the Peak District and Yorkshire I saw postcard shots of rolling hills with bubbling rivers, framed by autumn foliage. It was absolutely stunning, and Durham is a really pretty town nestled in the hills of the North Scotch Corner. It's coal-mining country, the site of the miner's strikes during the Thatcher Era, so it's Billy Elliot country. Also, the Geordie accents are so cool.
Sarah and Caitlin met me at the bus station, and it felt so normal to be with them again! They took me out to Klute, which is supposedly the worst nightclub in Europe (so says Wikipedia). I didn't think that it was that bad, although they played really cheesy music - the Hansens, Grease, you name it. If it was ridiculous and popular in the nineties, they played it. We had a lot of fun, though!

The next day was our great adventure to Hadrian's Wall, which you would think would be easy to find. It's not. The British have this thing about signs - they can't be helpful for some reason. We took a train to Haltwhistle, a little town in the middle of nowhere, and hiked two miles or so to a nature path that should have led us to the wall. There were plenty of signs in the town, but once they led us into the wildnerness they disappeared. Awesome. So we wandered around sheep pastures for a long time!
They were very beautiful sheep pastures - it was exactly what I imagined hiking through the English countryside would be - but we were still lost in sheep pastures, which is sort of an odd feeling. Finally we found an elderly gentleman smoking his pipe in one of the fields, and he gave us directions. Fun fact: not only are English signs terrifically unhelpful, there is an astounding number of walls in the countryside. Trying to find one ancient-looking wall is like trying to find Waldo in a room full of people wearing red and white stripes. Oh my goodness. Finally, after about 802 fakeout walls, we found Hadrian's Wall. It was across from the pub, obviously. It's just that the pub was in the middle of nowhere.

But yes, we made it, and it was so cool. We were literally standing on the edge of the Roman Empire at its height.
Emperor Hadrian ordered the wall built between A.D. 122 and 128, supposedly to separate Roman Britain from the heathen Scots and Picts in the North (who were actually native Britons pushed out by the Romans, but that's okay). Really, it's more of a status symbol for the Romans - it displayed the power and breadth of their empire. The wall is 73 miles long and once stretched all of the way across the neck of England, from Carlisle to Newcastle. Every Roman mile there was a border crossing called a milecastle, and the Romans actually issued passports (the first in history) to their citizens in Britain. This way the wall also helped to establish greater control over Britons under Roman rule. Even though not much of the wall is standing, the visible remains are still impressive, rising up from the rocky outcroppings and hills. It was a great trip, and the countryside was so beautiful. Very Middle Earth. What I really loved was the complete lack of tourism. For such an incredible historical landmark, there was hardly any marketing, and we could actually stand on the wall. It's just become part of the environment - another piece of the rugged northern countryside.


I also got to see Durham Cathedral, where the Venerable Bede, Saint Cuthbert, and Saint Aidan are buried.
It's a beautiful cathedral, and the cloisters were used as one of the corridors in the sixth Harry Potter film. Quite exciting! Most of all, though, it was just so wonderful to see Sarah and Caitlin, because no matter how many new friends you make, nothing can measure up to being with the people who really know you, especially when you're in another country! Although when I got back to my flat, I found all of my flatmates up waiting for me - Jesse even brought her pillow and duvet into the hallway to camp outside my door, so that was an excellent welcome home. I felt so loved this weekend!
I actually had to go back to doing work after that, but the travelbug has taken hold. November is the month of many travels: I'm off to Nottingham and Sherwood Forest in search of Robin Hood this coming weekend, then I'm back for a few days before heading to Edinburgh for the rest of reading week. Then I think that I'll actually be here for more than a week before going to Dublin. It's completely surreal - when did my life become this amazing? I was skyping with my best friend today, and she said, "You're actually living your dream!" And I realized that she's absolutely right. I'm doing things that I've always wanted to do, like hiking along Hadrian's Wall. And it's a complete whirlwind and I know that I'll be exhausted come December, but I want to see everything that I can, and I may never have this opportunity again. It's so incredible, and I'm determined to take advantage of as much as I can, to suck the marrow out of life, as it were. As John Keating tells his students in Dead Poets Society, "Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary."
Even while I'm wandering all over England, I still miss all of you! Happy Bonfire Day!

Adventures and Absurdities (and alliteration)

I really don't feel like doing work right now, so I'll blog instead. I was going to remark on how quiet this week has been, but then I remembered that I would be lying. It's been an interesting week! It all started with Monday, which was the most absurd day of my life. Stephenie and I decided to head down to Ipswich, which is the capital of Suffolk. It is not as cool as Norwich. Bottom line: when Lonely Planet tells you that a town is not worth a detour, listen! We made it to Ipswich without a problem, but we quickly realized that we were the only two Americans in the entire city, and later we extended this to include the entire county. We were super subtle and had a book of city walks in East Anglia, and we got a lot of strange looks. I mean a lot. We stopped counting around 35, and we'd only been there for two hours. That was enough time to realize that Ipswich is actually really boring and completely depressed (maybe because it was so dependent on the docks that are no longer used? Norwich has been able to develop a pretty good tourist trade to make up for its loss of industry; Ipswich not so much), and we got bored of walking around.
So we decided to move on to Sutton Hoo, which we thought was just a short bus ride away. We were sitting there at the bus stop, waiting for the 71 bus, when what I can only describe as an Australian bush van came careening to a halt in front of us. I didn't even realize that it was a legitimate bus until I saw the numbers on the back - 71. I just burst out laughing so hard that I started crying, boarded the bus with tears streaming down my face, and then held on for dear life because I thought that I was going to die. It was ridiculous. Steph and I were keeping an eager eye out for Sutton Hoo, and as we flew past it I pressed the stop button. Now, on most buses the driver waits for the next legitimate stop and then lets you off the bus. Not the 71 - the driver screeched to a halt and left us on the side of the road, so we had to wade through waist-high grass to get to Sutton Hoo. Oh dear. Then we had to take silly pictures by the sign, of course, so all of the motorists stared at us. We were those tourists.
We finally made it to the actual site of Sutton Hoo (had to walk by a farm first), which was interesting even though there wasn't a whole lot to see. Archeologists still don't really know why Sutton Hoo was used as a burial ground, because there wasn't a settlement on the site. But it was clearly a very honored burial ground for either the Angles or the Saxons (archeologists aren't sure about this either, although the text at Sutton Hoo buys into the idea that it was Anglian. The scholarly debate is between two kings - the Anglian king Raedwald and the Saxon king Sigehberht, whom I refer to as Redwall and Sherbert, respectively). Because East Anglia changed leadership between the Angles and the Saxons so many times, it's difficult to determine who was in power at the time that Sutton Hoo was created. Regardless, it dates from the seventh century, right around the time that Christianity was spreading throughout England. Sutton Hoo is famous because it contains two huge ship burials, one of which still contained a vast treasure, including the Sutton Hoo helmet now on display in the British Museum. This find was monumental because it demonstrated that the early East Anglians were much more sophisticated than archeologists believed, namely because of the influence of other cultures on the burials. Coins from Merovingian France were found in the burial, and the very idea of the ship burial came from Danish culture, so there must have been trade between those two regions and East Anglia (no similar burials have been found elsewhere in the country). The find also legitimized Beowulf as a sort of anthropoligical record of Anglo-Saxon culture. Today you can see the burial mounds, which have been reconstructed following extensive excavations in the late 1930s. Not much to look at, I'm afraid, but the historical significance is huge.

Following our adventures at Sutton Hoo, Steph and I got back on the bushwhacker van to return to the center of Woodbridge and catch another bus back to Ipswich. Well, we got on the right number, but it was going the wrong way. We only realized this after we got out of the city and saw a lot of fields, so I swallowed my pride and my panic and went up to the busdriver. The conversation went kind of like this:
me: "So, we were trying to get back to Ipswich, and we obviously got on the wrong bus. What do we do?"
busdriver: *blinks*...silence... "You wanted to go to Ipswich?" *bursts into laughter*
I was not encouraged, espcially when he pulled the bus over because he was laughing so hard. True story. It turns out, however, that he was very nice and that he got me to find the humour in the situation. His was the last bus of the day, so even if we'd gotten off to wait for the bus going the other way, it would just be him on his way back to Ipswich (finally), so he told us to just stay on the bus and keep warm. To make a long story short, we made it all the way to the North Sea, saw quite a bit of scenic Suffolk countryside, and then saw it all again! During our 3.5 hour adventure on the bus I got a lot of reading done for class, and the driver would frequently glance into his rearview mirror and say something witty such as, "Any of this look familiar?" or, "So you were 40 minutes away from Ipswich, but now you're an hour and 40 minutes away!" and my personal favourite, "Oh, I can't believe you did that - you made my day!" He seemed to take quite a liking to our misadventure, so he actually dropped us off right in front of the station, a special trip, with a warning to us to get on the correct train. Oh, wonderful busdriver, I am forever indebted to you!
I never thought that I would be so happy to see Norwich as I was after that trip. Steph and I treated ourselves to a wonderful Italian dinner at a restaurant in city centre, including an enormous ice cream sundae drenched in amaretto. Completely necessary. I didn't make it back to my flat until 11:30, when I did some reading and then fell into bed, only to be woken an hour later by screaming outside. Normally I can sleep through such outbursts, but this time someone was screaming my name. It took a few miinutes for my groggy brain to comprehend that Amy was under my window yelling for me, and that it was Alessio yelling, "She's ignoring you!" before breaking into Lady Gaga. There was no going back to sleep after that, especially when Alessio proceeded to run up and down the hallway shrieking, "Fire hazard! Fire hazard!" while throwing toilet paper everywhere. Oh flatmates, I love you.
On Tuesday I decided to get lost more locally, so I took my Norwich A to Z (pronounced zed here) and a walking route that I had gotten from the city website and wandered downtown Norwich. It was much more successful than the previous day's adventures!
The rest of the week was pretty quiet. Four of my flatmates went home for the weekend, and it was on the cold and rainy side. On Saturday morning we had our last walking tour as a giant, obnoxious group of 27 Dickinson humanities students. Professor Qualls assigned each of us a site in Norwich, so we had a lovely four-hour tour in the raw, wet weather. Huzzah! But I do love the city, and we did see some cool spots, including a street that was used in the movie Stardust. After our epic tour we all went back to Professor Qualls's house to have a wonderful lunch, and I ended up playing Apples to Apples with his son. It was an excellent way to spend a rainy Saturday afternoon!
So whereas it's been relatively quiet for me, it has been a fairly dramatic week in European politics. The coalition government in the UK announced huge budget cuts this week, combined with higher tuition fees and a rise in the pension age. As with all budget cuts, there's a lot of debate over who the cuts will affect the most. There haven't been the outward reactions in Britain that there have been in France (BBC News had an interesting editorial on the French strikes and the American way - ) because the Brits don't really seem to get riled up by much. They grumble and then carry on, although Nick Clegg, the Lib-Dem deputy prime minister, has spoken out over unlimited increases in tuition fees and welfare cuts, both of which are part of the budget cuts. What I don't understand is the inefficient way that the wellfare state is set up - it's not dependent on economics. As far as I can muddle it out, all families, no matter how wealthy they are, get money from the government for their children. Similarly, all people over a certain age receive a larger heating allowance than younger groups. This sounds nice, but it means that millionaires are receiving government support when they are perfectly capable of paying for their own heating. This makes no sense to me - I feel that it would make more sense to base services on income. I don't claim to have anywhere near a perfect understanding of the situation, however. We'll see what happens.
November has turned into travel month, so I should have many exciting adventures to report to you soon! And Happy Halloween!

"I'm Very Fond of Walking": Finding My Inner Elizabeth Bennet

We've been on two treks into the greater Norfolk area since the last time that I blogged, AND I've learned a lot more about the history of said area! Huzzah! I'll just orient you a bit: this area has been settled at least since the Bronze Age. During the Iron Age (ca. 800 B.C. to A.D. 43) it was inhabited by the Iceni tribe. When the Romans took over Britain in A.D. 43 (See? You knew that from my earlier blogs!), they pillaged Iceni lands, killed the Iceni chief, and tortured his queen and raped his daughters, so said queen, Boudicca, led an attack on Colchester and London. She was eventually executed, but not before kicking some serious ass. This tangent is brought to you by the letter B and the fact that archeologists think that the Iceni headquarters may have been where Norwich Castle is now.
Anyway, there was never actually a Roman settlement in Norwich, although there were people here. Then in 870 the Danes conquered East Anglia, but in 917 they were defeated by Edward the Elder (good title) and the area passed into West Saxon hands. Norfolk comes from the Saxon term meaning "North Folk" (ergo Suffolk = "South Folk"). Norwich began to grow as a city out of several smaller Saxon settlements, and it was becoming increasingly important for trade with the Low Countries. Norwich is kind of like Hartford - it was the farthest point inland that ships from the North Sea could sail, therefore it was a thriving hub of a place. The Danes, who were angry at losing East Anglia, conducted lots and lots of raids during this time, and their influence can be seen in the ship-burial at Sutton Hoo (where I'm going tomorrow!). They got their revenge in 1013 when the Danish king Sweyn conquered England from the Saxons, but he died immediately afterward. Sucks for him. His son Cnut took over, though, and England was under Danish rule until 1066 when the Normans came, invaded, and built lots of castles and churches, many of which are in Norwich! Norwich was actually really important during Norman and medieval times, and was the largest city in England after London. It was famous for its agriculture (lots and lots of rich wetlands) and its sheep, hence there was a thriving wool trade with the Low Countries. Eventually a number of Dutch weavers moved here, and Norwich became famous for textiles, a position that it held until textile production was mechanized and moved out of East Anglia during the Industrial Revolution. There are still a lot of sheep here, though. So there you are, your mini Norwich history lesson.
Besides reading about Norwich until my contacts fell out (you think I'm kidding - I'm not), I've also been frolicking about the countryside. And by frolicking I mean walking at a fairly leisurely pace, stopping to smell the proverbial roses frequently. Last weekend the Dickinson humanities group, under the fearless (and sometimes wayward) leadership of Karl Qualls, took a train to Sheringham, an adorable little town full to the brim with chocolate shops. It was once a popular Victorian beachside destination, although I can't really imagine the Victorians letting their hair down and frolicking in the waves, especially in the North Sea. That water is COLD!
But we enjoyed Sheringham, and several of us want to go back to eat at the Robin Hood pub (we think that it's named this because Sheringham = Sherwood + Nottingham. Yes, this is what we think about sometimes).
So we commenced our hike at the coast in Sheringham and walked through some beautiful countryside. I'm pretty sure that we passed throug Elf counry, and I found where I want to live someday (hint: little stone house with ivy crawling on it). We ended our country jaunt in Cromer, another coastal town, where I spent the afternoon exploring a used book store and dipped my hand into the North Sea. While eating ice cream. Not the best plan that I've ever had! It was a really great day, though.
This past weekend's destination was Ely, a small town in Cambridgeshire (I think). It's name literally means Island of the Eels, and before the Fens were drained it was an island in the wetlands, with lots of eels. They were used as currency for a time! Ely has a gorgeous Norman cathedral, as well as Oliver Cromwell's home, and it's a quintessential British town.
We were lucky enough to catch the apple festival while we were there, so we got to eat delicious apple goods on the town green in the shadow of the cathedral. There was hot cider, homemade apple turnovers, apple and pork burgers, homemade honey and applesauce, pies, everything apple you could imagine or want, plus flowers, crafts, and other festival-type things. Including a Renaissance band! Everytime there was music, I looked and saw a group of adorable elderly folk dancing and playing various instruments! It was the kind of day that I wish that I could have packaged up and sent home to share with everyone there, because it was so wonderful. There isn't really a way to describe it (also, I think that reading Wordsworth and Tennyson is getting to me.) But the real reason we were there: the Oliver Cromwell homestead was a bit silly, but the cathedral was beautiful.
It was founded as a monastery in 673 by the Saxon princess St. Etheldreda, but the current building was constructed in the 1080s as part of the Norman castle-cathedral building craze. It's gorgeous inside, and apparently it's one of the country's best examples of Norman architecture. My favorite part was the Prior's Door, which has maintained its original Norman carvings from 1135. Can we discuss how amazingly old this is?

After engaging in much apple-y deliciousness, we set out for Wicken Fen. I mentioned the Fens last time, but now I've a much better idea of what they are! Basically, they were marshlands and peatfields that stretched more or less throughout the whole of East Anglia. Peat was used for building and for heating, but after it started to run out the Fens were drained for agricultural purposes about three hundred years ago. Now they're full of reeds and sedge, which is harvested and used for thatch roofs. The wind blowing through all of the sedge sounds like the soundtrack to a horror film, so Sarah and I decided that it must be where Harry and Ginny were chased by Deatheaters behind the Burrow in the sixth Harry Potter movie. This obviously means that we were close to the Burrow, which was probably enchanted to look like a windmill. Yeah. We were able to climb up into an eighteenth-century sentry tower to get a view over Wicken Fen, which was beautiful.
I overuse that word, as well, but I don't use it insincerely.

I came to this country determined to find everything beautiful - I wanted that romantic, Masterpiece Theatre image of England. Little villages, rolling hills and fields, the whole nine yards. And I've gotten that, to some extent, but I've also learned to look beyond that. Because the truth is that that particular England doesn't really exist anymore. The villages are still there, and there are apple festivals with Renaissance bands playing by medieval churches, but the churches aren't used nearly as much anymore, and the little Tudor storefronts open to mobile phone stores and boutique shops rather than butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers. There has been at least one Starbucks everywhere that I've gone (except Stonehenge). England has changed - it has to, since it's a cosmpolitan, modern country. What I do like is that the romantic view that I was searching for can still be found - it can coexist with motorways and even with Starbucks. I think that this is possible because the Brits are clever enough to realize that this is what tourists want to see, but also because they really value their heritage, as well. Preserving historical sites is very important here, and I for one am glad.
So even though London wasn't what I expected, for instance, I am still managing to have the time of my life. I worked so hard to get here, and I am going to enjoy myself come hell or high water (this being the more likely of the two, as it rains all of the time). This means that I'm going to try to do as much as possible, and I am going to accept whatever comes my way and make the best of it. Since coming to England, I've changed, not just my view of the country. I've learned to be more patient with people and that a little bit of reaching out goes a long way. And I've also learned to always look on the bright side of life (or at least ninety percent of the time) and to have fun in unexpected places.
I came across a quote from E.M. Forster while reading Howard's End that I really liked: "Life is indeed dangerous, but not in the way morality would have us believe. It is indeed unmanageable, but the essence of it is not a battle. It is unmanageable because it is a romance, and its essence is romantic beauty."
I'm done being soul-searching now, and I won't try to give you any more history during this blog, I promise! (I switched from my introverted, thinking music to Journey, just to make sure.) To make up for it, here are some excellent British insults that I've picked up:
Chav – stands for “council-house associated vermin,” and describes someone whom we in the States would call trashy. Basically the cast of Jersey Shore. In Britain this means someone, usually a girl apparently, of the lower class, who wears track suits in public (a huge fashion faux pax over here), fake designer brands especially of the Ugg or Burberry variety, and bling, and who talks in “common” language, which means that they’re loud and say “like” a lot. (Don't worry, there's a separate stereotype for Americans who do this.)
Wanker – This is probably my favourite word, just because it’s fun to say. A wanker is an inconsiderate, sexist, really egotistical boy. A lot of football (soccer) players are considered wankers here. You can also use wank an adjective, as in, "That guy was totally wank." So go try those on your friends (or not-friends, which would make more sense...).