Digital_Humanities, Critical Reaction #1: Archiving, Collaboration, and the Future

The text, Digital_Humanities by Anne Burdick, Johanna Drucker, Peter Lunenfeld, Todd Presner, and Jeffrey Schnapp presents a multitude of theories and general ideas of the field of Digital Humanities and its effect on current scholarship. To address each and every idea that the text poses would result in quite a long blog and would take a while to synthesize, but that being said, the very text itself and the collaborative nature of the work demonstrates some of the points that are trying to be made. Digital Humanities, as a discipline, seems to be resulting in larger collaborative works and a greater ability to synthesize large amounts of material using technology that I, admittedly, can barely comprehend. The sheer concept that certain applications can be created to analyze hand-written papyri and the mutli-lingual text it contains (p. 64) is a staggering idea.  As a historian, I immediately think of the ways this kind of technology can benefit my own research and enhance and augment my work (especially for a public history and multimedia format), however the text, as a whole, extends past single disciplines and ultimately affects how we, as a group of academics, complete and compile scholarship. 

Initially, what most struck me about Digital_Humanities (which has actually been a question that I have been mulling over for a while now) is the way it addresses current technology and forms of media as cultural sources to be archived. It is true that tweets and Facebook posts and scholarly blogs and even Reddit RSS feeds will one day be used by historians and other scholars in conducting research and will be primary source material that could contain a valuable amount of information. However, Digital_Humanities poses an interesting implication of this; the internet is a vast, huge space, and the amount of material produced daily is nearly unfathomable. The ability for scholars to sort through these materials to conduct research is extremely daunting and worrisome; there is no possible or feasible way for any scholar to look through every single source, catalogue it, and synthesize it to form a dissertation or larger work, at least not within any reasonable amount of time. 

Further, the idea of archiving this material before it possibly disappears into cyberspace is also a concern. What do we save? What is significant enough to keep for further study? Tweets themselves, in their short character format, usually wouldn't tell much alone; in order to make any large conclusion or interpretation from these sources, you would need to synthesize a mass amount of them first before even attempting to see a pattern or larger picture. This is where Digital Humanities can be useful. While I am still fairly new to the technology mentioned in the text, the concepts and technology it does address can serve to solve these issues. Having digital components aid in research, while it almost seems like cheating, might be the only way for us as scholars to complete research in the future and even could give way to larger projects that analyze, aggregate, and classify a large amount of data that has not been looked into before. In Case Study 1 (p. 62), it is suggested that such technology could continue the de-colonizing attempts of historians and provide a new perspective on how to look at maps from an Indigenous point of view, something that has surely been attempted before, but is not as easy to visualize without the use of certain technology. Essentially, one main aspect that I find most interesting in Digital_Humanities is the implication of the ways in which research can be transformed using these methods and technologies. 

Also, the text seems to make an assertion toward the future collaborative efforts of scholarship. One case study even referenced the use of crowd sourcing to complete a project that would  otherwise be unfathomable for a single person or group to complete (p. 64). As the legitimacy of digital projects become accepted as valid forms of scholarship by academia, so, too, will the ability for collaboration among peers and across disciplines be accepted and even encouraged. Because the kinds of projects academics will be attempting will expand, a larger team will be required to complete the research and work. It will also be enriched by this collaboration. Using Digital Humanities as a starting point, the scale and scope of projects have the opportunity to expand and include interdisciplinary aspects that have not been approached before due to numerous constraints. I find this concept to be very promising for the field and I am definitely looking forward to see what kinds of scholarship will appear in the future as a result of this influence. 

A Wicked Trip to London

The final (!) blog post migration, meaning from now on, after this post, anything that I do put up is new. 

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     My time in London was a bit more easy going than in Ireland. I'm not saying Ireland was strenuous or anything, but I took my time with London, which was needed after doing so much in Ireland. The first day, I woke early and went to Westminister Abbey, which is conveniently located near Big Ben and the London Eye. 

     Westminister was truly brilliant. It was quite beautiful, and the numerous tombs were fascinating to look at. Naturally, my favorite part was Poet's Corner, and I even managed to get a few secret pictures of the tile with Charles Dickens' name on it. The Abbey was just fantastic; the architecture was breathtaking, and to be surrounded by the history of it all was great. I spent several hours in there, and even freaked out when I saw Newton's grave and the grave of Charles Darwin. The tomb of the unknown soldier was also awe-some, and held its own reverence with plastic red poppy flowers outlining the black marble. 

     After that, I took a significant amount of pictures of Big Ben and set off to Trafalgar Square. The Square was quite nice, and I nerded out a bit when I saw the giant fountain, which was where one of the scenes of Dr. Who was shot in the first episode of the first season with the ninth doctor. After that, I met up with a friend, Trew, who goes to my school and was conveniently in London at the same time. We went to Buckingham Palace and then walked to Piccadilly Center, which, as I'm sure most of you have heard, is like a smaller version of Times Square. We also came across a very lovely market and stopped by there. After that we walked back to where Big Ben and the London Eye was to meet up with a few other Uni friends, Meagan and Krista, who also were in London at the time. 

     We walked up and down the road on the Thames River, looking for a place to eat, passing numerous street performers and hip hop dancers. Unfortunately, there wasn't much, so we went to McDonalds, which sounds a bit shameful, but London is ridiculously expensive, and it was honestly nice to have an easy meal that only cost 99p. We sat by the river, watching the sun sink behind the buildings and the city slowly light up. 

     After that, I walked back with Trew until we parted ways at the Tube. I got on and quickly found my way to Victoria Station. Before I go on, I would like to say that, however daunting the Tube may be at first, it is quite useful and convenient after you get used to it. The map is, admittedly, confusing, and it can be pricey without an Oyster Card, but it really is the best way to get around London.

     It's true that you could probably walk from one end to the other and be fine, but there are so many twists and turns, and such are large amount of traffic, that sometimes it's nice to just get on in one area of town and get off in another without worrying about getting run over or moving through the crowd of tourists and actual Londoners who don't always look if someone is in their way. This is actually a very different way of walking as compared to other towns I've been to because, as I suppose every city is, people are focused on different things. No one exactly looks where they're going, and the slower, more cautious rhythm of a smaller city is not there. So, yeah, it is quite easy to get jostled about in London. 

     But, I digress (I apologize for using that term so much in my blogs... it is actually one of my favorite phrases). I went to Victoria's Station and went to go see the musical, Wicked, a play I've been dying to see for years. The building itself was pretty, with a shimmery logo in green that, at night, lit up with matching neon. 

     Inside was just as green, if not more so. I got in and went up to one of the upper sections, passing a green bar that served green-themed drinks. I really did feel as if I was in Oz, which really isn't a horse of a different color, but just an expected peculiarity of going to see a play starring a green-faced soon-to-be witch. I got to my seat, which was pretty far from stage, but it was pretty visible and really didn't take away from the performance at all. The stage was beautiful and I was just excited to be there. 

     In my excitement, I stupidly bought a 7 pound (I might/might not be exaggerating on the price) booklet of the show that night, a purchase I still regret to this day, and then sat down, ready to enjoy the show. It was lovely! The acting and singing was solid, and the choreography was fantastic. I really did love the Dancing Through Life bit, and Elphaba and Fiero were my favorite. 

     We did have what I am presuming was an understudy play Fiero because the guy in the booklet was different than the one on stage, but it didn't detract from the performance in the least. During intermission, I stood in the giant line to the woman's bathroom and listened in on two British girls who were talking about the play. Apparently, one of them had seen it before, and it was quite Americanized. This performance, however, was different, especially looking in how they pronounced 'dancing' in the number of Dancing Through Life. They did not say it with an American accent, as dAn-cing, but dawn-cing through life. 

     The second part was as good as the first, but I did not like the ending. Not because it was badly performed or anything, but the story line. I've read the book, Wicked, before, and, yes, it was graphic in areas and did not really end happily, but I still enjoyed the book. It had a message, an interesting meaning behind it. I knew that this musical would be nothing like the book, but the ending seemed so controversial to the actual character of Elphaba that it couldn't help but irk me. 

     *Spoilers* for those of you who haven't seen it, but at the very end, Elphaba basically allows herself to be killed to save Glinda, who then takes the role of the head of Oz. However, it is revealed that, actually, Elphaba didn't die, and instead hid under the floorboards where Fiero, her lover turned scarecrow, was able to retrieve her. After that, they fled Oz, leaving Glinda behind to clean up the mess and handle the issues with the Animals and other problems. Yes, I understand that having a happy ending is important, and being with the one you love is all the happiness someone needs and blah, blah, blah, but this presents Elphaba, a character that, up until a few scenes ago really cared about the Animal rights issue and vowed to never stop fighting for what was right, give up and walk away, leaving her so-called best friend behind, not even bothering to let her know she was alive. Sure, you could say that she could no longer do any good in Oz because of her now bad name, but, from a feminist point of view, this sends the message that, when things get tough, go ahead and give up and run away with some guy, instead of having them both stay behind, redeem their names, and fight for what is right. But that's just my opinion. An opinion that, I feel, is supported by the books of Wicked, where Elphaba actually doesn't get the guy in the end and dies. Happy endings are great, but if Little Shop of Horrors the musical can end worse off than the movie, then I'm sure Wicked could have at least done something to ensure there were at least a little bit of consequences or something like that before the curtains closed. 

     But, anyway, London that day was great. Wicked, albiet the disappointing ending that does not weigh on London at all, but the general play itself, was wonderful, and the day in general was quite nice. After that, I headed back to the hostel where I drank tea, ate whatever food I could find, talked to my family and boyfriend, and fell asleep. 

Ferries, Trains, and the Underground

A blog post migration from a year ago. 

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     On March 22nd, I traveled the Irish Sea, saw a bit of Wales, and walked the streets of London for the first time. I also sat next to a ginger kid with cornrows.

     This day was a day primarily filled with travel. I left Ireland bright and early, catching a cab to the StenaLine Ferry in Dublin. I was quite excited to go on it, picturing a small, open air boat, where the mist of the Irish Sea blows in my face, and the boat rocks so much that I have no choice but to discover if I have the capability to get seasick or not. However, the ferry almost seemed more like a cruise than anything else. 

     I got on it no problem; it was a giant boat, honestly, with multiple stories, several layers filled with a car park, and plenty of places to relax or explore. The inner room where most people stayed was pretty posh; there were several comfy seats and couches, and even a teli playing a daytime program that sort of looked like a British version of Jerry Springer. It honestly looked more like a hotel lobby than the inside of a ferry. I also had internet access and an outlet to charge my ipod. 

     It wasn't long, however, that I decided to explore some. As soon as I stepped outside, the ferry appeared more, well, ferry-like. There were metal doors and hallways, and lifeboats lined the edges of the ship. Beyond the railing, the mass of ocean stretched out beyond the horizon. I walked around a bit there, but soon retired back to my seat indoors. 

     We landed in Holyhead, a small port town in Wales. I had a few hours to kill before I caught the train, so I walked around a bit, exploring the city center. I managed to find my way to a cathedral surrounded by a 4th century Roman stone wall. I then walked along a promenade to a rocky beach, which had ships dotting the harbor. I also found one part of the beach that was covered in green coloured rocks. I'm sure it was because of some algae or other such thing, but it was pretty interesting to look at. After that, I walked back and got on the train which would take me to London. 

     Although I didn't spend any extensive time in Wales, it was still quite a lovely place. The train took us through a good deal of the hilly, beautiful countryside, and we passed the castle in Conwy. There were plenty of sheep and other such creatures, and we went through many wonderful towns that I would like to (hopefully) get a chance to go visit someday. 

     I was sitting in a table seat, which means that I had two seats across from me and a seat beside me, and a table in between. Aside from a businessman who got on the train at a later stop, the only person who sat here was a ginger kid with cornrows. At first, I thought this kid was quite young--possibly just starting secondary school. He had piercings all over his face and a few tattoos covering his freckled skin. I sat across from him for several hours, and he was generally on his computer, or eating some of the several snacks he brought with him. When we were almost in London, his mother called, and then one of his mates. He talked to them for a bit, and went on about how he got a tan (I couldn't help but smile at this) and also how he had been in Wales for work, but now he was coming back home to London for a bit. Needless to say, I was a bit surprised to find out that this kid was most likely around my age. And it was just interesting to sit across from such a character. 

     When I got into London, I had to find my hostel, the Generator. I got off at Euston station, and stepped outside onto the street. Needless to say, I was a bit shocked. London is, by all accounts, huge. It was nothing like the other English towns and cities I had been to, and the overall feel of the city was different. It seemed so much easier to get lost, so much more menacing. The way people walked around was different, as well. They didn't watch where they were going, but instead more or less plowed through, bumping shoulders along the way. Admittedly, I didn't like London when I first got there. It was too much to handle, especially because I was there alone, and, aside from a very useful map that saved me countless hours that would've otherwise been spent getting lost, I had very little sense of where I was in relation to the city. I got to the Hostel as quickly as possible, and checked in. 

     This was also my first hostel experience, and it was overall, better than what I expected, but also worse. They advertised wifi in the room, but that, of course, was a lie, and the whole make up of the place seemed more like a warehouse with steel floors and bare walls. The shower did work, but its only temperature was scalding. The beds, however, were better than I expected, although I did share with twelve other women. Needless to say, I was quite tired after a long day of traveling, so, after contacting my family and boyfriend, I got into bed and went to sleep. 

March 21st, 2012: Dublin Sightseeing

Another blog post from Ireland.

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     The last full day in Dublin started with a walk to a few castles around Sandycove (while England is filled with cathedrals, Ireland is teeming with castles). There was even a castle that was still being used as a school that I will forever refer to as Hogwarts. It was a wonderful day, and Zach and Jenny (being pretty much fantastic and awesome people) offered to take me around Dublin to sight see. 

     Once we arrived, the first thing we passed was the Famine Status next to the River Liffey. They were, in all senses of the word, haunting. The metal they were made out of was meant to look worn and decayed; the blank looks on the emaciated statues faces did not look at onlookers, but past them, and you could almost picture them desperately shuffling along. One of the statues was even carrying a thin child, slung along his back. 

     After that humbling look at the statues, we walked along the street of Dublin along the Liffey. Zach and Jenny took me to a church called St. Michah. When we first walked in, I thought it just must've been a general cathedral with history attached to it (being in the UK has allowed me to see plenty of those). Either way, I was excited. We walked into the building, and were told to wait for our tour guide. So, while we waited, I walked around a bit to take numerous pictures of things, as usual. When our tour guide, Peter, came in, he instructed us to not go further inside the church, but outside.

     We walked around back to a graveyard. However, instead of exploring the grounds, we took a right toward a stone crypt. It's at this point that I started freaking out. We had paid only 3,50 Euro, and we actually could go inside the crypts?! It was at this point that I started to freak out (in a good way!). We walked down these stone steps and walked into a narrow cavern that smelled dank and like dirt. It is pretty much like what you would expect of a crypt in a movie. Cobwebs hung along the ceiling and the light was low and cast an eerie glow along the stones and the dirt. On the left, there were small archways which contained...mummies. 

     These mummies were bodies that had been put in the crypts hundreds of years ago that, due to the limestone and the conditions of the moist air, were preserved. The last arch at the far end of the tunnel displayed these mummies in their decaying coffins. There were three prominent bodies at the forefront. The first was male. It was thought that he could've been a thief of some sort, or other vagabond, which brings to question why he was buried there at all. The second was a nun. Her skin looked as if it were old, ragged clothing, sinking in on her rib cage. If you peeked your head in (we could do that!), you could see her brown and black toenails. The last body was unknown, but his legs had been broken under him to make him fit in the box better. All of these bodies, although a little bit worse for wear, were looking pretty good, considering they happened to be 400-500 years old. Their skeletons were caked with dust and you could see their skulls and the remaining skin. I was quite mesmerized and awestruck by this very sight that I failed to notice a fourth body, in the far back, resting in a coffin against the wall. 

     This was the body of an 800 year old Crusader. His thighs were crossed, which was the way that they buried such men to indicate that they fought in the Crusades. His legs, like the unknown body, had been snapped and were tucked under his body because he was unusually tall for a man at that time. And, his fingers on his hands were broken. However, the cause of this was not because of anything he had done in his lifetime. It was considered lucky to shake the hand of a Crusader, and a few people apparently got a bit too rough in their handshake with the deceased. The whole time while our guide was talking, I was trying to peek my head in as far as I could (the crypt was blocked by a small wire fence), to get a better look, even daring to step a bit closer and basically be inside the crypt. Unfortunately, we weren't allowed to go in. Or were we?!

    Just as I was craning my neck as far as it would go (well over the toenails of the mummified nun), Peter suggested that we go inside, and give the Crusader a little handshake, so long as, with whatever money we got from the luck, would be split with the church. I had to ask twice to see that he wasn't joking. We could go inside?! I was legitimately at a loss for words as he removed the fence and moved so I could walk in. I gingerly stepped on the dirt-filled ground, passing the three coffins and moving to the back, where the Crusader lied. For a moment, all I could do was look at him and his black and brown bones. I could not believe I was even allowed to do this! And then, from outside the tomb, Peter mentioned that I was allowed to actually touch the dead body. I thought he had been joking, but it was one hundred percent serious. I reached out my hand and rubbed one of his smooth, bony fingers. Still in awe, I ducked back out, for the rest of the group to get their turn. 

     After that (my fingers were still tingling a bit from the idea that I had just touched a lucky 800 year old mummified Crusader), we went into another crypt which was a bit longer and had a lot more graves. Some of the tombs were still being used by families, so they were not able to display the bodies. The only reason why they could display the mummies in the other room was because their coffins had smashed or been broken. Back before the crypts were outfitted with electricity, often people would have to shuffle into these pitch black crypts--usually at night--and put the newly deceased in its correct tomb. Naturally, being in a dark tunnel smelling of rot and dust and filled to the brim with corpses would freak anyone out, so sometimes they would just pile on the coffin on top of the rest, which caused the bodies below it to occasionally be crushed and their coffins to break. In this second crypt, you could even see a decayed foot protruding from a mass of broken wood and semi-whole coffins. 

     We walked up and down the room, coming back to the tomb at the first right, a tomb that held rebels. The crypt itself was mostly filled with noblemen and people of class, and yet, resting among them were the two bodies of rebels that had fought against the British in their conquest for independence and freedom. Their bodies were horribly mutilated (luckily we couldn't actually see them) and destroyed. Peter did a lovely demonstration of their bodies being hung, even though they were already dead at that point and it was just to further desecrate their bodies. He was actually an excellent guide who got well into telling the stories of these deceased members of the church and occasionally freaking out the people who came to visit. 

     And to think, that was just what happened at the start of my day in Dublin. After that, we walked along the Liffey again and got a bite to eat. We then went into the Winding Stair, a bookshop that was interesting and wonderful. It was teeming with books, and the very backroom had second hand books from all ages. As three writers on the town, naturally we couldn't resist going into the shop and looking around for quite a while. 

     After that, we did a bit of walking, and saw the Stiletto in the Ghetto (or the Dublin Needle) and the Post Office. This Post Office was of a grand size, and had giant pillars that were marked with bullet holes. This is because when the British controlled Ireland, the rebels rushed in and took over the federal building. Today, they still keep these bullet holes as a reminder of how they achieved their freedom. 

     I probably should real quick note a difference of Ireland v. England. The streets are huge! They had wide sidewalks and more than one lane for cars both ways. You could see the sky (in England, buildings are crowded so close together that you can only really see the very top of the sky) and felt extremely open and free. It honestly reminded me of New Mexico. Jenny has this theory that Ireland is kind of like a greener New Mexico. Not only do they have a strong religious and superstitious presence, but the streets are wider and you can see more of the sky. It gets pretty windy, as it does in New Mexico, and instead of coyotes, they have foxes that howl in the night. On the Bray, we felt like we were walking in the foothills, on our way up to the Sandias. There was a bush sprouting yellow flowers that looked similar to that in Albuquerque. There's also a strong presence of nature and flora and fauna around the area, especially in the smaller towns, where your backyard could be the edge where the ocean and land meet, where one day, you could wake up and see seals swimming just outside. On general terms of England v. Ireland, it was also interesting in general to be in a place again where Catholicism is dominant, unlike England, where Catholic churches are few and far between, and whatever religious presence there is (it's not a strong one), it's Anglican. 

     Anyway, we walked back to Trinity, where we went into their museum and saw the Book of Kells! I took some secret photos (they would make you delete them if they caught you) and we went up to the Long Room, which is a giant library with massive arched ceilings and two levels literally filled with books. 

     This library not only smelled fantastic--the smell alone would make any writer or reader swoon--but it contained manuscripts and books from hundreds of years ago. It contained every sort of book of every kind, and Zach and Jenny are lucky enough to have access to it (students used to be able to go up and check out books themselves, but they would get vertigo when they went on the ladders and would fall). It was a dignified and wonderful room, which contained original copies of Shakespearean plays and works of any famous writer you could think of ever.

     After that, we went into a wool shop, where I bought fantastic scarves made from the wool of Irish sheep for myself, my Grandpa, and my brother-in-law. We then tried to get in the library, but it was closed due to some special event that might have had to do with war veterans. Instead, we went into the Natural History Museum. 

     First, I will say that Ireland is quite a lively place and isn't morbid at all. However, a lot of activities that Zach, Jenny, and I happened to do involved death, decay, and corpses. This museum held bog bodies, which are preserved bodies that had been found in the bogs of northern Ireland. All of these bodies had been tortured or mangled and brutally murdered in some way, yet the contents of some of their stomachs was a dish with milk and wheat, typically a meal given to someone about to be sacrificed. 

     Furthermore, these bodies had been eerily preserved because of the bog. On one of the bodies, you could still see the hairs on his chin. Others, you could still make out the expression on their face after they died. 

     One body, in particular, featured very Conan O'Brien hair. 

     Creepy, sure, but these bodies were still very cool. 

     After that, we walked to the house where Oscar Wilde grew up. It is currently a school and, unfortunately, they stopped giving tours. Instead, we walked inside a park where we found the most smug and pimpin' statue of Oscar Wilde that I will ever see. 

     I took some pictures up there (the rock was actually quite difficult to get on top of), and we enjoyed the very bombastic and presumptuous attitude that this statue exuded before setting off. We went to another park, making puns along the way. It was wonderful fun, especially seeing as it had been a while since I had been able to go on a pun rampage. I was quite sheepish at first, and very rusty (it almost seemed as if my pun skills had kicked the bucket), but we still managed to banter and beat back numerous puns, ranging everywhere, from sheep to death and everywhere in between. 

     We rested for a bit on a park bench, talking of general things like work, Neil Patrick Harris, and school, and just catching up and enjoying being in Ireland on a "sunny" day. Keep in mind a sunny day in Ireland (or England) is generally overcast, so long as it's not raining, but it was still a lovely day.

     We went from there to a pub that Zach and Jenny like to frequent. I got an Irish burger (it was quite delicious) and a sampler, which contained three small types of lauger to try and see, on a taste level, what kind of beer I preferred.

     I would like to quickly note why, in Ireland, you shouldn't drink Guinness. Zach and Jenny are big advocates on craft beer, and for a good reason. Guinness is actually killing that industry. Because they are such a big company, when a pub wants to have them on their taps, Guinness makes it so that, if they want them on their tap, they must also take their other sister breweries, which knocks out any opportunity for craft beers to have a slot. Furthermore, the Guinness factory in Dublin primarily ships and exports, so the beer drunk on the actual island is probably from another country. 

     But I digress. We sat there, ate, and talked. After a while, we were joined by a few students who were in the same program as Zach and Jenny. They all had a drink and caught up, and it was really very nice. I actually prefer the way the Irish drink as opposed to the English. Perhaps it's because I've been primarily exposed to the English college setting of drinking, but the focus in England is not so much on enjoying your time, but on getting as smashed as you possibly can. It's not too uncommon for them to not remember the night before, or at least it's not frowned at, and, in general, when students go out (present writer excluded), they either bar hop, drink and then hit the clubs, or they pre-drink and then go to the clubs, where they drink even more. The Irish, on the other hand, don't seem to go as crazy. Instead of partying every night and getting smashed, they sit in the pub for hours and simply talk. They socialize. They spend time with each other and enjoy the company they are with. I much prefer that kind of setting to anything else. 

     It might be just because I had wonderful and very kind hosts, but I really did love my time in Ireland. I actually wouldn't mind going back there again some day, to visit more areas and explore more of what I saw. It was a country that I feel I prefer to England, and enjoyed being there the moment I stepped off the plane. I'm sure it has its own quirks and downfalls, but from what I saw and experienced, Ireland is altogether a lovely place. Not to mention, where else can you find an Oscar Wilde Statue as smug as this:

March 20th, 2012: The Hill of Tara and Newgrange

Another post from a year ago when I was abroad. 

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     My day started off in front of a Pizza Hut in the city centre of Dublin. Thanks to wonderful advice from Zach and Jenny, I managed to find a tour that went to the Boyne Valley, making stops at the Hill of Tara and the Bru na Boinne. 

     The Hill of Tara is an ancient royal sight of the Irish High Kings, where 142 kings were crowned. It lasted up until Saint Patrick came and converted Ireland in 432. This is one of the highest points in Ireland, and, because of that, you can see 23 of 32 Irish counties. Although very little remains in terms of ruins, the spot itself still has a lingering regal air. 

     Newgrange is a 5000 Neolithic Ritual Centre and Passage Tomb that dates back before Stonehenge and the Pyramids of Gaza. The early farmers that built this place were astronomers who added a light box and solar calendar into the passage, which, on the Winter Solstice each year, illuminates the cremated bones of the dead in the inner chamber which (it is hypothesized) was a symbolic technique to celebrate rebirth in the afterlife and the dawning of a new year. 

     Getting there was pretty easygoing. I will say that it is actually bizarre being with tourists, specifically American ones. Although yes, I know, I am not technically a resident of the UK, after living there for three months, you suddenly see a separation for the people here on vacation. Mind you, it's worse in London, but it was a bit shocking, then, being with tourists and Americans who were complaining about the size of things here or other minute things. 

     Our tour guide, Mary Gibbons, was, quite frankly, brilliant. She was quite knowledgeable and firmly believed that you should actually learn something while out seeing the world. For the entirety of the trip, she was talking to us about history and trivia of Ireland and made the experience a lot greater through her information. At the very start, she went over general details, even telling the story of an Irish writer who was convicted of treason by the British and was asked to come to his trial to determine his fate. Of course, he didn't go, but they tried him guilty anyway. After that, they sent him a letter notifying him that he had been tried and sentenced to execution. Being the brilliant and witty writer that he is, he wrote back to them that, seeing that they both tried and convicted him in lieu of his presence, they should executed him in the same way. 

     The Hill of Tara was our first destination of the tour. We walked up to the ground, passing a statue of Saint Patrick and a Catholic church, complete with gravestones. The actual site, however, was almost completely bare. Rolling green hills marked the site that had once been the home and focal point of Irish kings and ancient legends. I walked up to a hill which had a giant stone in the middle of the site. From that point, on all sets of the horizon, you could see, well, Ireland. It was breathtaking; in between little section of towns and clusters of homes, the very land rolled in and out of view. Green pastures were everywhere, and the little dots of sheep could be seen, grazing and tending to the lambs that were recently born. 

     I walked to the very edge of the site, near a bare tree adorned with ribbons and ornaments. Little trinkets littered the ground, such as shells or beads. Beyond that, there was a stone cross. Beyond that, the church loomed above the green hills that made up Tara. Although it was ominous, it still provided an interesting parallel between a pagan world and Christian one. 

     Back on the bus, we traveled through the Boyne valley. We passed sheep and lambs (it was the lambing season) and even saw a pig farm. Two pigs had escaped there, once, and it became a national news story, where people talked of their pig love and their attempts to run away to be together forever. Eventually, after months of searching, they were found, but a company bought them and kept them alive and well for the rest of their happy days. Apparently, they managed to escape capture for so long because they had the sense to travel only at night. 

     We also went through several towns, all of which contained a church and, of course, a pub. We saw castles and abandoned monasteries and were able to view the wonderful land of Ireland in general. By the time we got to Newgrange, it was midday. 

     As soon as we got there, we had a bit of extra time to eat and explore the museum. It was a fairly nice place. We saw a video about the actual site and its history and I found out that we were actually arriving there, not on the Winter Solstice, but on the Spring Solstice, which was amusing to me, at least. The museum itself was quite nice, but nothing compared to the actual place itself. 

     We had to take a shuttle up to the site, passing smaller hills which, as I was told later, were actually other burial sites where cremated bodies most likely lie. But, these were nothing compared to the magnificence of Newgrange itself. 

     The rocks that went into constructing this giant structure came from all over Ireland, some having to travel hundreds of kilometers. Similar to Stonehenge, some giant monoliths were probably transported using a roller system (forgive me for not using the correct, scientific term).

     There are many theories as to why this structure was built. There is a light box at the top of the entrance that does let the light in at the Winter Solstice, a phenomena that lights up the cavern and illuminates the cremated bodies that were sent to rest there. However, there are also very round rocks that are wedged between the white face, which could signify its connection to life and death (life being fertility; the rocks are often described as egg shaped. There were also some penis shaped artifacts that were found at this site). The entrance itself was guarded by a massive entrance stone, which was decorated with intricate Stone Age art (generally geometric shapes or swirls), and, before modern stairs were put in to allow visitors to go through, people had to climb above the rock to get in. 

     The Mary Gibbons tour was particularly fantastic in that, unlike a lot of other tours, we actually got to go inside. Because it was a fragile structure (and had faced considerable defacing before the 1970s), only a few people were allowed inside at a time, and our tour actually had a specific time slot allotted for us to go in. 

     After you pass the entrance, the cavern becomes a lot smaller than what you would expect. I had to duck my head down several times as I passed layers of rock. Sometimes, swirls and decorations were marked on the rocks, similar to those on the entrance stone. Other times, marks of graffiti could be seen, dating back to the middle 1800s. 

     Inside the cave, there were four smaller caverns that formed a cross shape. That is, including the passage, there were three small shrines, one in front, one to my right, and one to my left. Above, rocks were piled in an extremely high ceiling in a layered fashion. This was done in such a way to divert rain from getting in. The people who built this obviously wanted it to last. Unlike the front of Newgrange, which had been reconstructed after it had been discovered, this cavern had not been tampered with; the place that I was now standing was the work of people who had lived 5000 years ago. 

     Each shrine held a special reverence, but the right one had the most decorations surrounding it. This might be due to the significance held to the right side of different objects. In spite of the fact that the remains of the bodies that had been cremated were gone (perhaps the work of vandals), the giant, flat stones that once held their ashes still remained. 

     After looking a bit around the cavern (it was quite crowded), our tour guide (not Mary Gibbons, but a specialist who actually worked at the site), simulated what the cavern might look like when the sun rose from the horizon on the day of the Winter Solstice. The cavern became completely black; the smell of rock and old dust lingered in the air as the group looked to the ground to see a slight beam of light break through the darkness. Slowly, the light grew and expanded, moving out to the shrines and illuminating the swirling decorations that adorned the rocks around us. And then, with the same quiet way that it creeped into the cavern, the light faded. 

     When we exited the cavern, we were given a bit of time to walk around the site and see the outside of Newgrange. There were several giant stones with patterns on them that made up the base of the hill, and in the distance, other hills, other burial sites, could be seen, although none could compare to the presence or stature of Newgrange. 

     We took a shuttle back and crossed the Boyne river back to the museum. The Boyne river, which snaked through Newgrange and lead up to the town, could actually tie into the reason why Newgrange was built where it was. It separated the land, providing a border for Newgrange to rest on. Furthermore, a lot of spirituality was attributed to rivers, and this river was no exception. 

     After a bus ride back, I met up with Jenny and we waited for Zach, who was in class at Trinity. His creative writing lecture was held in the birthplace of Oscar Wilde, which is pretty much the most brilliant thing ever. We headed back to Sandycove and went to a pub that paid tribute to James Joyce. Many of the decorations dealt with his work, Ulysses. 

     I was schooled in the importance of craft beer, and I gained knowledge in a field that I never thought I would. There was actually an art to it, and to drink any generic, base level drink would seem almost a crime when there are other drinks that are actually made for their taste. 

     We played a game called Pig, which was, admittedly, a bit odd, but turned out to be very fun (especially since I won). Think of it as playing dice. Except, instead of dice, you have two small figures of pigs that you must roll. You get a certain amount of points depending on how they land. If it is on one of their sides, one point. If it is on their back or legs, five. If they land on their snout, it is ten points, and if it is on their snout, but leaning to the side on their ear as well, it is fifteen. If you roll and both pigs are doing the same, you double your score. If you roll and one pig is on one side (they are marked by dots) and the other is on the opposite, then your turn is over.

     After I completely creamed Zach and Jenny at their own game, we headed back to their house, where they made wonderful burritos, enough to remind me of home, but not miss it too much. Then, we shared a cup of tea and it was time for bed. 

March 19th, 2012: Ireland

Below is another thrilling account of my adventures while in England last year, featuring homophobic cab drivers, commercialized airlines, Joyce's Tower, a hike along the Bray, and an accidental trip to the town of Kilcoole.    

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    I happily present to you, day one of my Ireland/UK adventure: Dublin, the Bray, and the unintended destination of Kilcoole (pronounced kill-cool-ey).

     The day started early enough; woke up at a lovely 3 a.m. (a bit earlier than what I had to get up, but I was too paranoid of sleeping through my alarm to keep on trying to get sleep) and was picked up by an Amber Car cab at 4:45 to get to the airport. Now, taxi drivers in Leeds generally come in two types: silent or cheery. This particular driver was the cheery type (or so it seemed). He started off by chatting about how it doesn't make sense to be miserable because, seeing as he was a man of numbers and calculations, it is just a waste of time. To be tired? Sure. Stressed? Of course. But being miserable is just a waste, even at 4 in the morning, a sentimentality I groggily agreed with.

     At this point, he started to talk about how he somehow has a way to upset people that he drives around. He first talked about how he criticizes religious people, calling them non-religious if they do not study their books or know their own doctrine. That I can understand. It is, I suppose, better to be a good atheist with a full understanding of what you believe in than a bad Catholic who prescribes to a religion mindlessly, perhaps following the faith without ever really believing in or knowing about what the faith implies. Alright. An odd philosophical chat for 4 a.m., but still doable. But that's when I found out that this particular taxi driver was extremely homophobic.

     I try to be pretty understanding when it comes to other people's views on particular, more touchy, issues. I do not, however, agree with what the driver was saying, but seeing as he was driving me to the airport, which lies a bit out of Leeds, I pretty much sat through his entire rant, lest I say something and he drop me off at the wrong stop, or take a huge detour that would have hiked up the total cost to the airport.

     But I digress. The cab driver talks of how he also upsets gay people. In his view, he saw them as thieves. Not human. Not homosexual. Thieves. Unlike a heterosexual couple, who gets married, has kids, and spends money on the kids, homosexuals grow up, "groom" others to be like them (suggesting that being gay is a choice, something to train for), live lavishly without the worry of spending money on raising a kid, and when they get old, they expect money and care from someone else's kid, thus making them thieves. I did try to bring up instances of homosexuality in nature, such as rams who choose male partners over female (his counter argument was that they had too much testosterone, so they obviously just shag everything in sight). I tried to talk about heterosexual couples who married, but did not have kids. I mentioned homosexual couples who got married, but then adopted. All of these counter arguments hit deaf ears, and were quickly refuted, so by the end, I was just politely nodding my head. At one point, I even said how I can understand his view and possibly where he was coming from (not that I agree with it). He also decided to combat that and said it was not a view, but truth, because he was such a calculating man of numbers, who understands the system. By the time we pulled up to the airport, he had shifted his topic a bit to complain about money in general and the deficit in America, and he might have ranted about Obama, while also tying it all back to the problem of the gays and their thievery.

     So that was my fifteen minute cab drive at 4 a.m. from Bodington Hall to the airport.

     The flight to Dublin was, luckily, devoid of any twinge of homophobia. I used Ryanair, which is a popular flight service in Europe to get around for cheap (the flight cost 15 pounds. Compared to flights from ABQ to Denver, which is the same distance, for about 100 dollars, it's a real bargain). The flight itself did contain a good deal of advertisements, including on the overhead announcements, but that's probably the reason why it was so cheap. So, after 45 minutes, I was in Dubliin, and could now claim I had been to three different countries (not including my layover in Amsterdam).

     After that, I caught a bus to Sandy Cove, where some dear friends, Jenny (my old boss from the Honors Program) and her partner, Zach, are living. Zach and Jenny were kind enough to let me stay with them and use their couch for the days while I was in Dublin, something that I am still very grateful for, especially after having to stay in a hostel for a few days in London.

     The bus dropped me off at a lovely church (I actually almost got off on the wrong stop and fell asleep several times while on the journey from Dublin airport to Sandy Cove) where I met Zach and Jenny. After a brief hello, Zach set off to school (both he and Jenny are attending Trinity University in Dublin for their postgraduate). Jenny then proceeded to walk me to where they lived, where I set my stuff down and got settled a bit. After that, we set off. Keep in mind that, in spite of the length of this blog, it was only about 12 or 11 at this time.

     Jenny took me around Sandy Cove, first. It really is a beautiful place. Situated right next to the ocean, it was barely a few minute walk to get to the edge, where you could see the waves crashing against the rocks. The sun was out, the sky was blue, and you could see the far stretch of sea and, in the distance, an Irish landmass shrouded in green. There was a tower sort of thing (the name of it escapes me. Think a castle tower or an oval guard tower), which was apparently built by the British during World War I. Several of these were built around Ireland and were equipped with cannons, as a way to defend the land from German invaders, in case they chose to attack Ireland to get to England. Inside of this tower is a small room, which, apparently, a few famous writers (including James Joyce) decided to stay for a bit. Picture it. A bunch of brooding, gray writers, set in their own seclusion and retreat from the world, boxed in a small,clammy, stone room with little light and less space. It's no surprise that, by the end of the week, they were literally to the point ofshooting at each other. Needless to say, Joyce left in a huff, never to return to Dublin. However, in spite of this, the tower is named after him.

     We continued along the edge of the land and the ocean, and saw some swimmers. Yes. Swimmers. In roughly 50 degree weather. In what must have been 20 degree waters. Along the way, there was even a building in slight ruin where people go to swim in this ocean (I guess it is also a traditional thing to do on the 25th of December). Finally, we got to the Dart (the train that connects the cities near Dublin) and set off to Bray, which was a bit south from where we were.

     I'm not sure how familiar people are with the Cliffs of Bray, but it is essentially a giant hike/walk on an almost mountainous area (the most mountain anyone in the UK or Ireland will probably have). It was extremely beautiful. After walking along the beach to the cliff, where Jenny and I looked at a few stones and shells and Jenny looked for beach glass, and after we passed some small amusement park rides (for the tail end of the St. Patrick's Day celebrations), we started on the hike. It was quite easy at first, but, not too far into the journey, we chose the path less traveled by and went off path into some brush that suggested a different way up. After crouching and climbing a bit of the way, we were in what can honestly be described as the Albuquerque Foothills or the base of the Sandia Mountains (Jenny claims, and I very much agree, that Ireland is basically like a greener New Mexico, to be explained some time later). We could no longer see the ocean, which had been next to us moments before. Trees were everywhere, and roots trailed the ground, making very useful natural steps, seeing as the path up had become quite steep. There still was the hint of brush, which had beautiful yellow flowers blooming and enveloping the greenish twigs, but, after a bit of traveling, I could honestly believe that we were in some mountains and were going along some trail to the peak.

     By the time we broke through the trees, were were a good deal of the way up, and could see a lot of Irish countryside. It was, in all senses of the word, breath-taking. Especially considering all of the hiking we had just done. We entered into a beautiful brush clearing, where the yellow-flowered plants covered the land, sans for a small trail that we went up. When we got further on, we stopped at a log to have a quick rest and snack, and looked out at our surroundings. In front of us was a golf course (Jenny was quite tempted to yell out just before one of them teed off, but they left before we could), to the right were hills of green and horses and sheep in the distance, to the left was further trail, and behind us, up on the very top of the cliff, was a cross that a bunch of people were gathered around.

     We went the other way (towards the further trail) to walk to Graystone, which was, apparently, at the end of the trail. We walked quite a bit, talking of many things, such as the evilness of the Guiness corporation, female heroines as portrayed today, and How I Met Your Mother, and, after at least 45 minutes of walking, decided we were lost. We continued along the path regardless, going through a fence and climbing a few gates, and eventually got to a road. We were in Graystone. Sure. But, what the trail guide map failed to tell us was that, although we would be in Graystone, we would not be anywhere close to a business or the city centre or a form of transportation to get back to the Dart, but were on the very outskirts on it.

     So we walked. And walked. And walked. We saw a few straw thatch'd roofs and several cars passing by. By the time we did find someone to talk to to ask for directions, we have been walking quite a bit. She directed us along the way, and we followed most of her directions, stopping in a supermarket where we got water and instructions on what bus to take to get to the Dart which would take us back to Sandy Cove (we originally planned to eat in Graystone, but it was far too late by this point). After waiting for the bus, we got on. Jenny asked the bus driver to let us know when the stop to the Dart came up, so we could get off in time. And that should have been it.

     Unfortunately, the bus took us a bit further than what we intended. And by a bit further, I mean we were in a completely different town by the time we asked the bus driver if the stop to the Dart was close. He had forgotten about us, but was luckily pretty nice about the situation. He tried to give us directions to walk back (and got in a slight argument with an old lady who was sitting on the bus about how close it was to walk to Graystone) and then left. From the sounds of the argument, walking back would be way too far, and our feet were aching as is. So, we went to the stop across the road and waited. And waited. And waited. We were next to two teenagers, one of them who happened to be blowing smoke our way. There were birds across the road, magpies, that were jumping through the trees and singing.

     After about 45 minutes, a bus finally came up. The bus driver was the same one who had got us there in the first place, meaning that he had taken an entire circuit through the town and Kilcoole and was on the way back. Luckily this also meant that he let us on without fair, and, finally, we were able to get off at the right stop, get on the Dart, and go back to Sandy Cove, where we sat in a tea shop, had a much needed cup, and talked of things that were probably of more importance than the first four seasons of How I Met Your Mother.

     Zach met up with us after a bit, and we went to a supermarket where I had to buy some shower toiletries (airport security threw out the ones I had brought) and where they got some food. After that, they cooked some very delicious tortellini, we had another cup of tea, and I went to bed on a couch that seemed to be more comfortable than my bed back at Bodington.

     And that was my first day in Ireland

Nosh to Eat Ya

This is another post from an old blog that I am transferring to this one. 

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     Naturally, one of the main reasons why I chose to go to England was because of their reputation regarding food. Coming from a food background immersed in New Mexican chile, variety, and taste, I knew that, since I'll be staying in the catered student accommodation, I would be exposed to some of the best English cooking available. Now, I don't mean to brag, but their food is definitely (mostly) edible.

     I will say that there might be a bit of exaggeration in how much people complain about the food here. Yes, it can be tasteless, and yes, while eating in the dining hall, half the time I'm not even sure what I'm consuming, but there is at least one thing that the British can do right: breakfast (and puddings).

     A stereotypical English breakfast consists of a multitude of things: eggs, bacon, pork flavored beans, mushrooms, toast/some kind of bread, sausage (a.k.a. bangers), tomato (I think grilled or fried), chips, and hash browns (there's a proper name for this, I just forget it). The entire meal is huge! Although my flat serves a condensed version of this, I've yet to finish a plate before becoming too full. Special dishes that can be served are things like toad in the hole (bangers in a sort of Yorkshire pudding bread) and bangers and mash (sausage and mash potatoes). It all can taste pretty good, although the meat tastes very robust, if that makes sense. It seems that, above all, the most important meal of the day really is breakfast.

     Now, I've yet to go to a good fish and chips place here. I've had it a few times at my dining hall, but, considering it is flat food, I'm convinced there is something better out there... somewhere. Really, the fish that I had tried was more or less tasteless (good with lemon juice, though), and was what you could expect from student accommodation food. *I will note that, since I've written this blog, I did try some fish and chips at the Lake District, which wasn't a good experience, mostly due to the lack of taste. 

     There is one thing that I am really growing to love here: their puddings. First off, let me clear something up: all desserts are pudding. That is, if you eat a main course meal, the dessert you have after will be called a pudding. Even if it is cake. Or scones. Or biscuits. Or actual custard. If you are eating a dessert just in the middle of the day, NOT after a meal, it is usually called a pudding if it has custard or creme in it, such as a pie. Otherwise, other sweets have their own name to it, but do have the capability to be referred to as pudding if it is part of a dinner. I learned this yesterday, actually, when I went to an event near campus called Jazz and Pudding. There was jazz. And they did have pudding. Just not the pudding I was expecting. I did try my first tart and scone though, on top of several other little goodies.

     Anyway, their puddings are great. Seeing as one of the few things I can ever really justify spending money on is food (it's apparently my weakness in terms of vice and guilty pleasures), I'm excited to be here simple because there are so many small cafes around that are easy to just pop in and see what they have to offer, for a relatively cheap price.

     Another type of food that the English apparently love and hail as being quite tasty is curry. There is a very high Indian and Middle Eastern population here, and as a result, there is a pretty strong market for Middle Eastern foods. Small Take Away places are positioned all around campus that advertise hamburgers, kabobs, fried chicken, and curry-related foods all in one shop. I've yet to really explore the Take Away shops, but it is on my to-do list.

     It is also surprisingly hard to find a good tea place near Uni. Most cafes serve multiple types of coffee, with a generic tea on the menu. An interesting part of this is that tea is stated as simply tea, as in the U.S., where coffee is just coffee, and if you want it specially made, you have to order it that way or find a place that has more selections. But, perhaps this is mostly because I am looking near the University, where caffeine needs are high, but locating a tea shop has proved to be difficult.

     Aside from that, the English cuisine is not too hard to tackle. Yes, dorm food leaves it open for me to say it is better than what I generally eat, but I will stand by the fact that a lot of the more traditional foods are heavier than what I am used to. For example, they serve some form of potatoes (usually fried) at every meal here. At dinner, they have two kinds of prepared potatoes available. Their most well known foods (fish and chips, bangers and mash, etc.) involve fried food of some sort. Luckily, there are plenty of other international food available. I've actually become quite attached to a small Italian Take Away place called Miro that serves warm paninis. And, even if other alternatives weren't available, I can safely say that, at the very least, they make some damned good puddings.

     On a quick side note, the word 'nosh' in the title means food. All food is nosh. And through that, the title of this piece is actually a double loaded pun.

Cheers,

Gianna

These Boots Are Made for Walking

This is another post transfer from an old blog that I used to have. It's about walking and the structure of cities in America v. England. It's essentially a brief discussion of the formation of cities, public and urban space, and how you can "read" the landscape to see what the space is primarily used for and how it was influenced by particular things, such as cars.

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     If you've ever lived or spent any significant amount of time in Albuquerque, New Mexico, I'm sure you'd agree that, in order to really go anywhere there, you need a car. The city itself is far too spaced out and the types of areas (i.e. Residential, Business, Retail, etc.) don't always overlap, making it difficult to even consider walking to the store to pick up some milk. And, even if you did choose to find alternative transportation, such as public bus or biking, the use of it is not always reliable.

     There is a reason for this.

     A class that I took a while back, City in America, focused on this reason and really looked into how the development and growth of cities in America really influenced how people interacted, and vice versa. For example, after the Revolutionary War and during the time of Jacksonian democracy, the layout of cities and spaces changed. They became more egalitarian. Government buildings now began being built with more grandeur (as a statement to the permanence of America) and with more equalized spaces. In the blueprints of these buildings, the rooms were numbered rather than labeled, to suggest that these spaces were interchangeable and (although it implied that man was interchangeable as well), it meant that no man was better than the other in terms of space and work. This is even evident in the trains of America, an industry that took off around 1850. If you've ever seen the Harry Potter films (or, more recently, the new Sherlock Holmes film), you'd know that the older trains of England were composed of different cars with separate rooms. There is even a first class for more wealthy patrons. However, trains in the U.S., if you've ever ridden one, do not have these separate cars, and are instead intermixed and open, suggesting that no person was better or worse than the other, they were equal and not based on an aristocracy. I could go on and on about this, but I digress.

     Anyway, the basic purpose of this class was to study how cities were formed and what spaces imply of an area. Since the 1920s and boom of the automobile industry (largely thanks to Henry Ford and his Mobile T), all of America has been formed and ruled by cars; spaces are rarely built with people in mind, but instead built with the car in mind. This is especially true in Albuquerque, which, while it was once more community-centered, has transformed into a sprawling city with a suburbs to decentralize people and communities.

     As I stated before, it is impossible to get anywhere in Albuquerque without a car. If you look at any modern house, the main feature of it is not the front porch or window, but a giant, slack-jawed garage. Instead of having buildings built to look pretty and appealing to the eye (to attract the casual strollers), they are surrounded by a sea of black asphalt and shiny beetle-backed cars.

     Yet, as some may have noticed, Central (around Nob Hill) is not like this. You can see shop windows and crazy displays and the sidewalks are perfect to just stroll on and look at all there is to see.

     Being in Leeds is like being on Central all the time (minus the prostitutes and bums, of course). Everyone walks here; gas is expensive and, as explained in my previous blog, the roads aren't exactly suited for large amounts of traffic (keep in mind that Leeds is about the size of Albuquerque). The bus transportation is great, but that's if you have to go far (like me, when I have to go from my flat to campus, a distance which is approximately five miles). Other than that, people walk.

     Because of this, you can imagine how the place looks. This might be partially because of the development of the city before the time of cars (as in, the  buildings were built before the roads, and so there was not as much space to leave for car-friendly areas), but, either way, people here are suited to this lifestyle.

     And, in short, I love it. I can walk to the City Centre in around fifteen minutes and do my shopping as I go. The streets are fairly well populated and lit (though not to the point of being crowded), so there's no real danger of the city (minus, perhaps, pickpockets). Houses here do not have garages, but lush hedges and beautiful doors with archways, providing a picturesque welcome. Car Parks do exist, but they don't blot out the shops or consume much needed space with their presence.

     Just by looking at the structure of the city (i.e., small lanes for cars, shop windows, large sidewalks), you can tell that it was built for walking, and not driving. Of course, shop windows are a bit different than in the U.S. just in that they are not as flashy (I've only seen one neon light since I arrived), but more quaint and open for business. Of course, some stores are more hidden and harder to find, but that's the fun of walking.

     I've been to the City Centre several times since I got here two weeks ago. I have discovered a very posh building called the Corn Exchange, which contains equally posh and refined shops, a flea market-esq shopping area where they sell fresh produce and goods at stands, as well as numerous other goods for a fairly cheap price, a shopping area devoted entirely to video games, and a strip of shops along several roads where only pedestrians can go.

     I could go on and on about the city and the buildings I have seen. First and foremost, it must be said that this place is a college town. Two universities, Leeds Metropolitan and Leeds Uni (my school), reside in the city, and there are several Unis that are close by. If you don't believe me, look at the buildings. There are (at least) two bars on every street corner (there are two bars also in my Student Union Building... and three nightclubs). There are also several nightclubs that dot all around the area one of which is actually an ancient refurbished cathedral that is now a club called Halo (not entirely happy about this one,but there it is, for you). Shops, in general, dot all over the main roads, as well as cheap supermarkets. While here, I've seen around five different costume stores, which cater to all of the college kids who do the Otley Run (it's a pub thing where you dress up in costumes and walk along this long strip of bars on Otley road and, well, drink). If that doesn't prove that this is a college town, I don't know what would.

Cheers,

Gianna

P.S.: I think I should make a quick disclaimer that I've never actually been on the Otley run. I have seen several people in Halloween costumes, though, ranging from Ghosts to Super Mario and beyond.

Tombstone Hold 'Em and Graveyards (Again)

So, I'm currently taking a class about video games...

and how they can change the world for the better, as "Games for Change." These are games that, aside from just their entertainment value, also contain another purpose, such as one in education, recovery, or community. I'll probably expound more on the material of the class later and how I'm planning on applying it to a museum or history setting, but for now, I would like to comment on a section I just read in one of our books, Reality is Broken, by Jane McGonigal.

This book, on top of containing interesting information about video games and how they can facilitate change in the world, has become my own personal motivational book on how to achieve and create more happiness in life. The current section I have just finished reading discussed "alternative reality games," or games played in real life (and not *just* a virtual environment) in order to enjoy it more. The main chapters are titled "Leveling Up In Life" (Making Difficult Activities More Rewarding), "Fun with Strangers" (Creating New Real-World Communities), and "Happiness Hacking" (Helping Us Adopt the Daily Habits of the World's Happiest People). I will probably go into more detail about these later, but for now, I would just like to comment on the last chapter, "Happiness Hacking," mostly because it contains a section that related to a previous blog post of mine on English graveyards versus American ones.

In "Happiness Hacking," McGonigal talks about how thinking about death once in a while actually makes you happier. She quotes Eric Weiner and his report on global happiness when he writes that "death is a subject that, oddly, comes up an awful lot in my search for happiness. Maybe we can't really by happy without first coming to terms with our mortality." McGonigal's solution to this was to create Tombstone Hold 'Em, which is essentially poker played in graveyards. Instead of using a full deck, however, tombstones act as cards, and after three normal cards have been set down, players have to find the best hand by using tombstones. The trick to this is that it is played in pairs, and to get two "cards," players must touch these tombstones while still be touching each other, so the tombstones must be relatively close together. The ultimate aim of this game is to, first off, get people into graveyards which, as McGonigal mentioned, are being visited less and less and are rapidly becoming a single-use, empty space that hardly ever get any one in them, which results in decreased funding for upkeep. Further, graves generally get cleaned up after these games. Finally, the ultimate goal is to get people thinking about death and being more comfortable with its presence, as opposed to just pushing it out of mind.

While this is an interesting idea, I can't help but be a bit skeptical and wary of it. For one thing, most New Mexican graveyards only have two kinds of tombstones: cross or inlaid in the ground. In this game, however, the suit of your card is determined by the shape of the grave. Further, in the more rural graveyards, there are no writing on certain markers, which, in the game, would normally determine the number your card is. So, I'm really not sure how well this can played in any New Mexican (or western in general) graveyard. Also, there's a certain amount of superstition that is going into this. I've actually gone to a graveyard in La Joya, New Mexico on a yearly basis as a kid and one of the things I was taught to never do was to step on a grave. It is considered disrespectful and, even though there are just bodies in the ground, there is that sense that the place you are stepping on belongs to this specific person.

In spite of these worries, McGonigal brings up an interesting point about thinking about death. I couldn't help but apply it to the idea of the end of the world which, as I'm sure many know, has been a hot topic from 2000 on, to the point where you can expect some sort of end of the world prophecy at least once a year. Would this mean that we are more used to the idea of death? Perhaps not, but there are plenty of films and media out there that look into the very idea of the end of the world and what you would do if the world was ending. Two of my favorite end of the world pieces of media are the "End of the World" episode of Parks and Recreation, an NBC comedy and Forever's Not So Long, a short film by Shawn Morrison and Garrett Murray. Both of these address the idea of what would you do if the world was ending, when there isn't really any time to do anything significant, and it lends itself to an almost selfish, but limited scope, in doing something that you most enjoy or being with someone that you most value. Forever's Not So Long, especially, recognizes the moment of contemplation that would result from an announcement of the end of the world, when there is nothing you can do to survive, and any long term goals or dreams you might have had are unreachable, and all you really have left are the simple day-to-day activities of life, the small actions that you can do in a day or a few hours, and the potential of people you can spend them with. This is what Tombstone Hold 'Em is trying to achieve. It is attempting to get people to look at death and really contemplate what makes them happiest. The game is meant to not only make people become more comfortable with the idea of dying, but also of thinking about their own mortality, which spurs contemplation of life and if they were to die, would they have any regrets. This is similar to many stories of people who found out they only had so long to live, and so they dump whatever job they have and then choose to live life instead, doing things they never thought (but hoped) they would, spending time with people that they really feel are important.

In terms of games that talk about death and mortality, Tombstone Hold 'Em is an excellent alternative reality game that brings these ideas into play. While I might never play it, it brings up good points and issues that should be thought of and considered. Overall, it really comes down to one question: If the world were ending, what would you do with your last day, and why?

Contents Smaller Than They Appear

     One of the first things I noticed when I first went to England was the differences in size as compared to the United States. The following is a post I wrote about it last year.

     First: the roads are a lot smaller than what I am used to; I actually have yet to see a double-lane road. The road leading to my accommodation, a main road, so I've been told, is one lane that handles multitudes of traffic and buses. 
     Second: people drive a lot closer than what we are used to in the U.S. In driving school, most of us are taught to give the other driver room to go about their business, to stay a certain amount of feet back, depending on how fast you're going, and to not make any sudden lane changes or to dart between cars. 
     It's different here. People drive fairly close to each other, and it can be quite alarming at first. They also don't waste time in changing lanes or moving past someone if they can. It seems precarious and dangerous, and it may just be, but it also may simply be because people here don't waste time waiting on the other person or assume that they will understand what they're doing and do not protest or freak out at their attempt to pass or move along. 
    In the U.K., a general small drink is about the size of the drink on McDonald's kids' menu. In general, portions with drinks and places to get a quick bit of food are vastly different than what you come to expect in the U.S.
     A final note on size is the trash cans. Of course, my own experience with trash cans has been a bit iffy considering I stay in a dorm with about 15 other girls, so we have a pretty large trash can, but, at the hotel I stayed at with my parents before moving in, the trash can there was tiny.
    And I know it could just be because hotels here are different and (to be discussed later), the service sector is viewed differently here than it is in America, but, if you've ever been to a hotel, I'm sure that the trash cans inside the room are at least moderately sized.
     Here, however, the trashcan was barely enough to hold more than a few pieces of garbage. Same with the trash can I had to buy for my room (as nice as the trash can may be in my dorm, it is located in the kitchen). Although it is too soon to say, it can be seen as a comment on America and how wasteful we can be sometimes, or at least a comment on how much we throw away and how much we buy to consume in relation to how much we really consume in the end.

      Conclusion: things are smaller in England. I could make assumptions and accusations over how wasteful Americans can be and how we really throw anything and everything away and really just waste food and what not, but I'm not. Not now anyway.

     However, I will say that, unlike a good deal of America, people are far more "green" here. The outlets all have switches that you have to turn on first before you get electricity. A lot of institutions that I've walked in contain information on how to be more green and conserve energy (I'm not saying America doesn't have this, they just have less of it). Global Warming isn't a word here that would spark outraged arguments. My current university holds a new initiative each year to reduce some kind of waste or pollution, such as individuals' "carbon footprints."

     Again, America does have these things. But not as much. And not all Americans are wasteful. But some can be. And that much is evident in the size proportions we have at fast food places.

     Perhaps things aren't so bad in miniature.

A Grave Observation

     The following is a post that used to exist on an old blog I had that I am moving here. I went to school in England from January to June in 2012, and wrote a bit on my experiences. The following is an observation mostly on graveyards in England and partially on the urban landscape of the whole area, as opposed to the United States, which was primarily formed around the idea of cars, thus creating a more separated, expanding environment, versus England, whose areas were created in a walking environment, one where the transportation of cars was not yet available, and many buildings and areas had to be built close together for ease of access. 

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     So one of the first things I noticed when I came here were graveyards. It sounds odd to say, but it's true. It isn't like I went out and sought these places, but rather, they can be found everywhere around the UK. Go to the back of Leeds Uni, there's a "secret" park, which also happens to have a mausoleum and tombstones dotted all over it. Nearly every single cathedral or church that still is used for religious purposes has a grave site on the grounds. I was on a bus to London the other day, and, whilst passing a playground, which contained numerous children playing with their parents, happily laughing and enjoying their time, I saw that, hidden behind some shrubbery and flowers, were more tombstones. 

     Why is it that this interests me so much?

     For one, it's different than any kind of graveyard I've ever been to. Granted, I haven't gone to too many burial places, and I've never gone to a graveyard on the East coast, but, in general, there is a specific kind of format you can expect from graves. If it is a more formal one, naturally, there will be a lot of grass. All of the tombstones are arranged in a row. Groundskeepers do well to make sure it stays in good condition, and there is a certain reverence granted to these spaces. Even in more rural graveyards, this attitude remains. In La Joya, New Mexico, the graveyard is dirt. Some of the tombstones are made of wood. There are fake flowers that have been bleached by the sun and are either off white or a washed out version of the bright color they originally were. Yet, people still take care to make sure that this space is its own. People take care of the space, as well, by watering the little vegetation that is around. In a town close to Wichita, Kansas, there is a church with a graveyard in the back. Some of these tombstones are so old, they're written in German. There's even a section where they once buried the babies that died before they could be baptized, back when it was believed that if someone died before this, they would go to purgatory and had to be buried in unconsecrated ground (the ground has, since then, been consecrated). 

     So why is it that these graveyards in England are so different? The answer is in space and time, and it may reflect the view that people here have on the use of it and possibly death in general. 

     There are more contemporary graveyards around Leeds that appear to be of a nicer kind than the other graveyards I have seen. Although I haven't walked through one, there is one fairly close to Bodington that I occasionally pass by when going to Asda. The grass is green and kept. It looks quite nice, really. But, the spaces are still different. In the U.S., as I explained in one of my previous blogs, we are all about space. It is a private thing, a personal thing, and to invade it is just considered odd and invasive. For example, town homes in the U.S. are seen to be a bit below that of a general home, one where you don't have a neighbor attached to your own house. In England, most homes generally have a partner to it; it's divided down the middle and it almost looks like two people sharing one home, but, of course, they both have their separate lives to attend to, and they are no more than neighbors. Just look at Privet Drive in Harry Potter. Granted, the homes are made to look a bit more well off, but they are all connected, despite the fact that the Dursleys are living in a Suburb type area with the well to do. 

     In suburbs in the U.S., homes are quite divided. It is all about my space. My land. The separation is quite apparent. It almost appears isolated. 

     Graveyards reflect this idea, as well. In the U.S., each burial site is allotted a specific amount of space between other graves. Granted, there are smaller spaces and smaller graves, but, the same kind of ideal is applied. As in life, the dead rest in their own space. Furthermore, everything is generally very orderly and in rows. Disorder and graveyard do not really coincide. 

     I'm not trying to say English graveyards aren't orderly or don't respect the dead. However, the less contemporary ones, the tombstones that have been around for hundreds of years, do suggest an interesting use of space. 

     In general, the first thing you notice about the graves are that they are all in stone. It is England, though, so everything is stone. It's not different here. Yet, many of the older tombstones are in disrepair and are cracked in several places. What's more, the tombstones just seem to be pushed aside, more scenery than a marker of the dead. Perhaps this is coming from a superstitious part of myself where it is considered bad luck to walk on people's graves, but it always really struck me when a graveyard can be put alongside a path or a park and nothing is thought of it. 

     The use of space isn't the same. As you can see in the picture above, the tombs are quite close together, often overlapping. It makes for a spooky walk along the park to Leeds Uni, which is just beyond the path, but no thought is really given to the grave sites or the bodies that might be resting below them. 

     Again, I feel this reflects how the English view space and property. Also, this makes me think of the plagues and diseases that ravaged the land, where so many died, that there were barely enough graves to put the bodies in. Spaces for further development might've grown scarce if the grave sites were left to themselves. The idea of single-use spaces is a very American ideal (and is, honestly, a huge waste, too), and so why shouldn't graves be allowed to have other uses? After all, it can be supposed that most of these graves aren't visited or mourned. Most of the wording on them has been worn away, so you can't always tell who is buried underneath, anyway. But what does this say about how people in the UK view the afterlife?

     I'm not trying to imply anything, but the differences in graveyards does raise a lot of questions. It could do with a bit more research and observation, but a lot can be investigated just by a few visits to different sites. Also, a good deal of the differences might also be due to religion, considering my personal view of death and personal experience with graveyards has been Catholic, and most of England does not share this religion. In fact, the presence of religion is extremely toned down in England compared to the U.S. or New Mexico in general. But that's a blog for another day.