So, I thought I was telling the truth when I was talking about how I don't mind the DIS computer labs. And I was. But new evidence has arisen, both last night and tonight.
There's an Australian bar immediately below the DIS building. Weird, huh? Most of the time, there's no noise 'cause even though they're open, Monday nights aren't really "party night," and they just go about their business. However, apparently during the second half of the week, they go into rave mode. And despite being about sixty feet below me through four floors, they are loud enough to shake the building.
On the list of issues I anticipated having to deal with due to my hard drive breaking, I failed to list "butt will vibrate while writing papers." Yeah, they're pumping the bass that hard. I guess it's fine, 'cause it's a bar, but it's just not the best work environment for a tired college kid trying to wrap up a paper. And that's all I got to say about that.
thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Aftermaths
In Scotland, I discovered that math is plural throughout the UK. There is not math. There are maths. They take maths tests. I don't know if it's generalized to all words that include math, but I don't really care. I'm here to talk about three aftermaths.
Aftermaths #1: In the aftermaths of the big environmental event last weekend, I ran into someone from Amherst, MA (my hometown). I'd had a class or two with her; we weren't friends, per se, but we were friendly. Turns out she's studying in Sweden with a friend, and they were hanging out for a long weekend in Copenhagen, seeing the sights. She was staying a few blocks away from Rådhuspladsen and happened to notice me hanging out at the event. It was later on when only a handful of people were left, and I had already changed out of my green suit, which probably helped her find me. We chatted for a bit, and made plans to hang out the next day.
The next day was the end of Daylight Savings time, so we both showed up at the meeting point an hour early, but missed each other because she realized she was an hour early right away and left, while I was a few minutes late for our wrong meeting time. An hour later, we met (again), and had a good laugh about it. Then we toured Christiansborg (One of the main government buildings) and the nearby National Museum (it's free!) for the day. I'd seen neither of those things yet, but my guests wanted to do the touristy stuff, and I was happy to show them. I realized that in my effort to not be a tourist, I'd missed out on some cool stuff. I mean, the national museum is free, but I hadn't been there at all. Now that it's colder and walking around outside isn't so much fun, I may go another couple times.
(Jen, Christine and I at Christiansborg. It is mandatory to wear plastic bags over your shoes so as not to scuff the floor)
The other fun thing about it was that we reminisced about Amherst in a way I hadn't for a long time. My close friends from Amherst (Hi, Moss!) make jokes about things from high school occasionally, but it's often the same seven or eight people/things we're making fun of. Joking with someone else brought up a few things I'd completely forgotten about. Plus, she goes to school with someone I haven't spoken to in years who I wouldn't mind getting in touch with again. So, all around, a pretty good sunday.
Aftermaths #2: In the aftermaths of my hard drive breaking at the beginning of last week, I bought a new one online and had it shipped to my dad, who promptly shipped it to me. The cheapest thing I could find in Denmark was about 800kr ($160) and I found one online for $55 through an American company. Even with shipping, buying it online was much cheaper, and it should be arriving any day now. I sometimes wonder about the price inflation here, though. The Danes say it's because of taxes, but sales tax is 25% here, and that's a 200% markup.
I realized after I bought it that I signed an agreement last Spring saying that I wouldn't buy any new electronics until they started being produced without exploiting the Congolese. So, yay for me. I believe in human rights when it's convenient, like the white, middle-class American that I am.
The thing is, I realize now that I didn't even need a new hard drive. It's been, at worst, mildly inconvenient to use the DIS computer lab. And when I get back home, Goucher has several great labs, which I ended up using for homework despite having my own laptop for a chunk of last year. I'm not really sure what my point is, other than that I feel guilty, but I'm trying to stop feeling guilty and start doing something practical about it. Like letting my friends know about coltan mining in the Congo, for starters.
Aftermaths #3: In the aftermaths of the big olympic hubub, a video became extremely popular in Denmark. See, Oprah came to Denmark to push for the 2016 Chicago olympic bid, and while she was here, she shot some footage for her show. The focus of the piece? Visiting a "typical Danish household," and seeing how it's different from a "typical American household. The video is here. Now, you even those of you who haven't lived in Denmark for two months... you can probably guess that this isn't a typical Danish household at all. There's not enough space in Copenhagen for 1.5 million residents to live in a house like this. This is the home of a couple, both of whom are architects. That's important. Also, according to one of my friends, this was a 6,000,000kr home ($1.2m). So, this may indeed be somewhat typical for rich Danish architects, but that's about it. To be fair, the home displays modern Scandinavian design in its architecture, (the straight lines and big windows the woman is talking about) but that's different than saying it's a typical Danish house. Only people with 6,000,000kr homes have the resources to care about fashionable architecture.
So, this video has become very popular in Denmark. A lot of Danes have seen it, and many Danes have suggested bringing Oprah back and showing them an ACTUAL typical Danish home, so Oprah's audience doesn't get the wrong impression. One of my friends suggested we make a spoof in the Kollegium, showing how the typical Danish student lives. I'd be "the American" (i.e. Oprah), and he'd show me his room and the shared kitchen. When we got to his fridge, I'd be shocked at how small the fridge was, and he'd explain that he actually only has the bottom two shelves.
He also suggested I paint my face black to look like Oprah, and I had to explain to him why that would be offensive. He saw it the same way as a guy as stuffing balloons into his shirt to portay a female character. I gave him a 30-second history of Black Face, and he got it. Danes are known for having a sense of humor where offensiveness is directly correlated to laughs, and the guy in question does enjoy shock humor, but he understood why that would be "over the line."
We may end up shooting the spoof when I get back from my travel break, with me just tying my hair back and portraying "A Typical American" (which is also funny to me). I might tape a sign that says "Oprah" to my shirt; it remains to be seen. Should be funny, although he's not the only Dane to come up with the idea, I'm sure.
So, that's all the maths I have to talk about today. I'm Eli Cohen, reminding you that Danish children do not typically live in "caves."
Aftermaths #1: In the aftermaths of the big environmental event last weekend, I ran into someone from Amherst, MA (my hometown). I'd had a class or two with her; we weren't friends, per se, but we were friendly. Turns out she's studying in Sweden with a friend, and they were hanging out for a long weekend in Copenhagen, seeing the sights. She was staying a few blocks away from Rådhuspladsen and happened to notice me hanging out at the event. It was later on when only a handful of people were left, and I had already changed out of my green suit, which probably helped her find me. We chatted for a bit, and made plans to hang out the next day.
The next day was the end of Daylight Savings time, so we both showed up at the meeting point an hour early, but missed each other because she realized she was an hour early right away and left, while I was a few minutes late for our wrong meeting time. An hour later, we met (again), and had a good laugh about it. Then we toured Christiansborg (One of the main government buildings) and the nearby National Museum (it's free!) for the day. I'd seen neither of those things yet, but my guests wanted to do the touristy stuff, and I was happy to show them. I realized that in my effort to not be a tourist, I'd missed out on some cool stuff. I mean, the national museum is free, but I hadn't been there at all. Now that it's colder and walking around outside isn't so much fun, I may go another couple times.
(Jen, Christine and I at Christiansborg. It is mandatory to wear plastic bags over your shoes so as not to scuff the floor)
The other fun thing about it was that we reminisced about Amherst in a way I hadn't for a long time. My close friends from Amherst (Hi, Moss!) make jokes about things from high school occasionally, but it's often the same seven or eight people/things we're making fun of. Joking with someone else brought up a few things I'd completely forgotten about. Plus, she goes to school with someone I haven't spoken to in years who I wouldn't mind getting in touch with again. So, all around, a pretty good sunday.
Aftermaths #2: In the aftermaths of my hard drive breaking at the beginning of last week, I bought a new one online and had it shipped to my dad, who promptly shipped it to me. The cheapest thing I could find in Denmark was about 800kr ($160) and I found one online for $55 through an American company. Even with shipping, buying it online was much cheaper, and it should be arriving any day now. I sometimes wonder about the price inflation here, though. The Danes say it's because of taxes, but sales tax is 25% here, and that's a 200% markup.
I realized after I bought it that I signed an agreement last Spring saying that I wouldn't buy any new electronics until they started being produced without exploiting the Congolese. So, yay for me. I believe in human rights when it's convenient, like the white, middle-class American that I am.
The thing is, I realize now that I didn't even need a new hard drive. It's been, at worst, mildly inconvenient to use the DIS computer lab. And when I get back home, Goucher has several great labs, which I ended up using for homework despite having my own laptop for a chunk of last year. I'm not really sure what my point is, other than that I feel guilty, but I'm trying to stop feeling guilty and start doing something practical about it. Like letting my friends know about coltan mining in the Congo, for starters.
Aftermaths #3: In the aftermaths of the big olympic hubub, a video became extremely popular in Denmark. See, Oprah came to Denmark to push for the 2016 Chicago olympic bid, and while she was here, she shot some footage for her show. The focus of the piece? Visiting a "typical Danish household," and seeing how it's different from a "typical American household. The video is here. Now, you even those of you who haven't lived in Denmark for two months... you can probably guess that this isn't a typical Danish household at all. There's not enough space in Copenhagen for 1.5 million residents to live in a house like this. This is the home of a couple, both of whom are architects. That's important. Also, according to one of my friends, this was a 6,000,000kr home ($1.2m). So, this may indeed be somewhat typical for rich Danish architects, but that's about it. To be fair, the home displays modern Scandinavian design in its architecture, (the straight lines and big windows the woman is talking about) but that's different than saying it's a typical Danish house. Only people with 6,000,000kr homes have the resources to care about fashionable architecture.
So, this video has become very popular in Denmark. A lot of Danes have seen it, and many Danes have suggested bringing Oprah back and showing them an ACTUAL typical Danish home, so Oprah's audience doesn't get the wrong impression. One of my friends suggested we make a spoof in the Kollegium, showing how the typical Danish student lives. I'd be "the American" (i.e. Oprah), and he'd show me his room and the shared kitchen. When we got to his fridge, I'd be shocked at how small the fridge was, and he'd explain that he actually only has the bottom two shelves.
He also suggested I paint my face black to look like Oprah, and I had to explain to him why that would be offensive. He saw it the same way as a guy as stuffing balloons into his shirt to portay a female character. I gave him a 30-second history of Black Face, and he got it. Danes are known for having a sense of humor where offensiveness is directly correlated to laughs, and the guy in question does enjoy shock humor, but he understood why that would be "over the line."
We may end up shooting the spoof when I get back from my travel break, with me just tying my hair back and portraying "A Typical American" (which is also funny to me). I might tape a sign that says "Oprah" to my shirt; it remains to be seen. Should be funny, although he's not the only Dane to come up with the idea, I'm sure.
So, that's all the maths I have to talk about today. I'm Eli Cohen, reminding you that Danish children do not typically live in "caves."
Friday, October 23, 2009
Green Suits, Green Islands
Admittedly, the last two posts have been a bit less upbeat than my typical clown-and-kitten parade, but all that changes now. Two awesome things are happening that you all ought to know about.
First, I will be participating tomorrow in the World's Largest Environmental Action Ever. Yes, ever. At the latest count, there were over 4500 events happening across 177 countries (that's almost all of them) and I'm going to be at the one at Rådhuspladsen (City Hall Square) in Copenhagen. Not only will I be participating, but I will be going along with these folks. By the time many of you read this post, I will have edited it to add photos of me in a ridiculous green suit.
The second thing is that I've finished planning my travel break. We have a two-week vacation to do whatever we want from Nov. 1-15, and I'm going to be traveling to Spain and Ireland.
My original plan was to fly down to Barcelona for some pre-COP15 talks, and slowly take a train back north, seeing parts of France and Germany along the way. It turns out that it wasn't as great of a plan as I thought. I'd be doing it alone, not just in terms of traveling companions, but also in terms of knowing anyone along the way. While I liked the idea of being a vagrant and finding my own way and all that, I realized that having someone to show you around is really nice. I could see some things, but I wouldn't know what I was looking at. Now, I realize that's unecesarily negative, and I think the trip would have been awesome if I did it. But I realized that there are other things I'd like to do more. So, I got in touch with a few people.
Now my plan is still to start out in Barcelona. I'll be staying with a friend of my mother's. I recognize the privilege present in that. Among other things, I'm getting free lodging for five days of a potentially very expensive trip. The craziest part of it is that my mother is going to take a vacation to visit the aforementioned friend, and she coordinated it to be at the same time so we can see each other in Barcelona. So, that's cool, to say the least.
As far as the second half of my break goes, I thought about people I knew who were studying abroad in Europe this semester. I realized that I actually have three friends in Ireland right now. More specifically, they are friends who are enthusiastic, fun, and like showing me places. So, I'll be spending the middle weekend of the break with my long-time friend Scott in Cork. Monday afternoon I'll be taking a bus north to Galway to see my friends and Orientation Committee comrades, Annie and EC. Expect photos and good stories. Annie, EC and I may spend the last weekend in Belfast, actually. I've left much of the planning to them so that I end up doing some things I wouldn't think to do on my own. Can't wait. I leave in nine days!
First, I will be participating tomorrow in the World's Largest Environmental Action Ever. Yes, ever. At the latest count, there were over 4500 events happening across 177 countries (that's almost all of them) and I'm going to be at the one at Rådhuspladsen (City Hall Square) in Copenhagen. Not only will I be participating, but I will be going along with these folks. By the time many of you read this post, I will have edited it to add photos of me in a ridiculous green suit.
The second thing is that I've finished planning my travel break. We have a two-week vacation to do whatever we want from Nov. 1-15, and I'm going to be traveling to Spain and Ireland.
My original plan was to fly down to Barcelona for some pre-COP15 talks, and slowly take a train back north, seeing parts of France and Germany along the way. It turns out that it wasn't as great of a plan as I thought. I'd be doing it alone, not just in terms of traveling companions, but also in terms of knowing anyone along the way. While I liked the idea of being a vagrant and finding my own way and all that, I realized that having someone to show you around is really nice. I could see some things, but I wouldn't know what I was looking at. Now, I realize that's unecesarily negative, and I think the trip would have been awesome if I did it. But I realized that there are other things I'd like to do more. So, I got in touch with a few people.
Now my plan is still to start out in Barcelona. I'll be staying with a friend of my mother's. I recognize the privilege present in that. Among other things, I'm getting free lodging for five days of a potentially very expensive trip. The craziest part of it is that my mother is going to take a vacation to visit the aforementioned friend, and she coordinated it to be at the same time so we can see each other in Barcelona. So, that's cool, to say the least.
As far as the second half of my break goes, I thought about people I knew who were studying abroad in Europe this semester. I realized that I actually have three friends in Ireland right now. More specifically, they are friends who are enthusiastic, fun, and like showing me places. So, I'll be spending the middle weekend of the break with my long-time friend Scott in Cork. Monday afternoon I'll be taking a bus north to Galway to see my friends and Orientation Committee comrades, Annie and EC. Expect photos and good stories. Annie, EC and I may spend the last weekend in Belfast, actually. I've left much of the planning to them so that I end up doing some things I wouldn't think to do on my own. Can't wait. I leave in nine days!
Screw You, Mr. Borg, and Your Photoshopped Hair Too
As of a few days ago, there ads at every bus stop in Copenhagen with a picture of a very happy-looking guy in a blue-and-yellow speedo (Sweden's colors). The words "spread the spirit" are written in the corner. I tried to find a picture to post here, but I was unable. However this is apparently part of some underwear campaign by some underwear company called Björn Borg, which I proceeded to look up. They're also part of a fashion group of some kind called "Swedish Exports." The joke being that the chief export of Sweden is beautiful people (it's made clear by the site. The people refer to themselves, not their clothes, as being "Swedish exports.") Anyway, site is here. Don't click that if you're at work, in a library, or have self-respect.*
I could go on at length about the body image issues present in the ad itself, but I feel like the more frustrating business is the way their image is presented on the site. They have a photo contest wherein you post a picture of yourself wearing their underwear, and people vote on the best photo. My original thought was that this was going to be a bunch of bodybuilders, but was surprised to find a few people who looked like me on the site. Then I dug a little further and noticed that those photos were meant as comedy spots, or stereotypically "alternative" in some way. Now, I'm not really saying anything that hasn't been said a million times before, but what the hell, let's hear it again. You can be pretty, or you can be funny. And if you're funny, you're probably joking about how you're not pretty (there are two photos of average-looking guys striking manly poses).
My first thought when I saw the bus-stop ad was, "I'll stop complaining when there's an ad with someone who looks like me, or anyone I know." So let's pretend that the website, at least, had photos representative of the body types of the population-at-large (which it didn't, but we're pretending). The photo they chose to print at every bus stop in the city is still the one of the ripped guy. So, thank you Mr. Borg, for making one tiny, arbitrary step on your website towards diversity in advertising. When the overweight guy makes it onto a mainstream ad, and it's *not* intended as a comedy spot, I'll stop complaining.
*I sold mine to the devil for awesome guitar skills
I could go on at length about the body image issues present in the ad itself, but I feel like the more frustrating business is the way their image is presented on the site. They have a photo contest wherein you post a picture of yourself wearing their underwear, and people vote on the best photo. My original thought was that this was going to be a bunch of bodybuilders, but was surprised to find a few people who looked like me on the site. Then I dug a little further and noticed that those photos were meant as comedy spots, or stereotypically "alternative" in some way. Now, I'm not really saying anything that hasn't been said a million times before, but what the hell, let's hear it again. You can be pretty, or you can be funny. And if you're funny, you're probably joking about how you're not pretty (there are two photos of average-looking guys striking manly poses).
My first thought when I saw the bus-stop ad was, "I'll stop complaining when there's an ad with someone who looks like me, or anyone I know." So let's pretend that the website, at least, had photos representative of the body types of the population-at-large (which it didn't, but we're pretending). The photo they chose to print at every bus stop in the city is still the one of the ripped guy. So, thank you Mr. Borg, for making one tiny, arbitrary step on your website towards diversity in advertising. When the overweight guy makes it onto a mainstream ad, and it's *not* intended as a comedy spot, I'll stop complaining.
*I sold mine to the devil for awesome guitar skills
Friday, October 16, 2009
An Offering to Those who Love me
For some unknown reason, I'm feeling brave enough to share a piece of writing with you, my loving friends. I've only shared one poem in a public sphere before, in the sense that a high school literary magazine is public. I assumed nobody really read it except the editors, but I found out a year later that I had a fan. An acquaintance's girlfriend had read my poem, and had declared it her new favorite poem. Knowing that someone I'd never met had read and liked my poem was certainly an eye-opening experience. It was humbling. I wanted to meet her, not for the sake of saying, "Hey, I wrote that poem you liked, aren't I cool?" but simply to ask her what she liked about it. It had never even occurred to me that someone would have connected to my poem, but I'm glad I found out about it. It was a wonderful feeling.
Back to the present, though. I wrote this at the end of the first week of classes when it was still warm and I was still spending hours walking around the city at night. Now it's cold, and I no longer enjoy that quite as much, but some great realizations came out of those walks, including this writing. I don't know whether you'd call this poetry or prose. I feel like it falls in between. Prosetry?
I had started to write a preface, further explaining what I meant and what I was thinking during the writing process, but I need to get away from that. I always over-explain; I'm ready to leave well enough alone and let you form your own opinions on the piece.
-----
Thoughts from Copenhagen
9/2/09, 1:30AM
I.
It was a warm Monday night
I was walking down the street in a part of Copenhagen
Where the sidewalks are too narrow
And the buildings are too old
And yet at the same time not old enough to mask
The 7-11s
The Burger Kings
The Mannequins in the shop windows
Not old enough to maintain the feel of a thousand-year-old city.
And I think about how much of a travesty it is that they’re allowed to sell crap like Coca Cola in a building that King Christian the Fourth frequently visited.
Then I remember that King Christian the Fourth invaded Sweden
So I re-evaluate the relative weight of the two sins.
II.
As I was walking down this very old street, I began to think about my own inability to truly make friends in the first week in Copenhagen
Sure, I had met people, but
How many names could I remember?
How many group dinners had I eaten?
How many board games had I played?
How many philosophical conversations had I started?
How many phone numbers had I collected?
So few.
So few.
And knowing the reason why, I started to walk a little faster.
I thought about how afraid I’ve been my whole life.
That I couldn’t ask a girl for her number for fear that she might think I’m just trying to get her in bed, when all I really want is to make some friends. My self-defeating mindset stands in stark opposition to my preference for the company of women. A preference which has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with loving, nurturing, caring, and all the other important things I almost had socialized out of me in the third grade.
But then again…
Would I turn down sex if the girl made the first move?
Are my reasons for preferring the company of women really so pure and innocent?
Am I a little bit pompous for pouring all of my energy into my disdain for “those guys?”
In the end, am I not just another man with unrealistic expectations and socially imposed heteronormative values?
Maybe I’m not really any better than the misogynist frat boys and abusive fathers and high school boys who use the “nice guy” routine to get into a girl’s pants, and maybe that’s what I’m doing anyway.
What gives me the right to claim the moral high ground, when all I’m doing is sitting around and waiting for her to make the first move so that I can feel less sexist about every sexual encounter
Christ, I’m an asshole.
III.
I’m three kilometers into my five kilometer walk to the bus stop, and a beautiful young woman spills a bag of groceries.
I stop to help her pick them up, all the while wondering if I’m being sexist.
Would I have helped her if she were a man?
Would I have helped her if she seemed less friendly?
Would I have helped her if she weren’t beautiful?
I am so lost in my own thoughts, that I fail to notice when she smiles at me
Or the genuine way she says “thank you.”
And when we go our separate ways, I fail to notice that she looks back at me not once, but twice.
Another opportunity for companionship, lost to fear.
IV.
As I continue towards the bus stop, I make a vow to stop worrying about what other people think.
From now on, I will do what feels right to me, and be honest with myself in the process.
I will respect my needs.
As my professor says, “You have to help yourself before you can help others,”
And as my mother says, “You have to add yourself to the list of people who matter.”
Tomorrow, I will start mattering.
Tomorrow, I will ask a girl for her phone number.
If she thinks I’m just trying to get her in bed and refuses to trade numbers, then that is her loss, not mine.
Tomorrow I will be the friendly, caring, cheerful, funny, charming, level-headed boy I always have been, minus the insecurity.
I get on the bus, ready for tomorrow.
V.
I spend the next day in my room, alone.
There is a substantial difference between the thoughts one has at 11PM in the city versus those at 9AM in the suburbs.
The city is a whole bus ride away, and I am very groggy.
So, music will be my companion for the day.
Besides, Leonard Cohen never rejects me.
In fact, he loves me all the more for my faults.
Once during a family visit, he told me to throw my insecurities aside.
“Ring the bells that still can ring,” he said. “Forget your perfect offering.”
“Easy for you to say,” I responded. “You’re 73 years old and still kicking.”
Leonard says his life hasn’t been all roses; he was robbed by his manager a few years ago, left with only a few thousand dollars in the bank.
I explained to him that he still lived a privileged lifestyle.
“You’ll never truly be poor,” I said. “Just book one show at the largest concert hall in Europe and charge $200 per ticket. You’ll have your millions back in two hours flat.”
“They’d never pay that much to see me,” Leonard said. “I can barely sing anymore, and my voice cracks.”
“There’s a crack in everything,” I reply, punching him playfully in the shoulder. “That’s how the light gets in.”
Back to the present, though. I wrote this at the end of the first week of classes when it was still warm and I was still spending hours walking around the city at night. Now it's cold, and I no longer enjoy that quite as much, but some great realizations came out of those walks, including this writing. I don't know whether you'd call this poetry or prose. I feel like it falls in between. Prosetry?
I had started to write a preface, further explaining what I meant and what I was thinking during the writing process, but I need to get away from that. I always over-explain; I'm ready to leave well enough alone and let you form your own opinions on the piece.
-----
Thoughts from Copenhagen
9/2/09, 1:30AM
I.
It was a warm Monday night
I was walking down the street in a part of Copenhagen
Where the sidewalks are too narrow
And the buildings are too old
And yet at the same time not old enough to mask
The 7-11s
The Burger Kings
The Mannequins in the shop windows
Not old enough to maintain the feel of a thousand-year-old city.
And I think about how much of a travesty it is that they’re allowed to sell crap like Coca Cola in a building that King Christian the Fourth frequently visited.
Then I remember that King Christian the Fourth invaded Sweden
So I re-evaluate the relative weight of the two sins.
II.
As I was walking down this very old street, I began to think about my own inability to truly make friends in the first week in Copenhagen
Sure, I had met people, but
How many names could I remember?
How many group dinners had I eaten?
How many board games had I played?
How many philosophical conversations had I started?
How many phone numbers had I collected?
So few.
So few.
And knowing the reason why, I started to walk a little faster.
I thought about how afraid I’ve been my whole life.
That I couldn’t ask a girl for her number for fear that she might think I’m just trying to get her in bed, when all I really want is to make some friends. My self-defeating mindset stands in stark opposition to my preference for the company of women. A preference which has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with loving, nurturing, caring, and all the other important things I almost had socialized out of me in the third grade.
But then again…
Would I turn down sex if the girl made the first move?
Are my reasons for preferring the company of women really so pure and innocent?
Am I a little bit pompous for pouring all of my energy into my disdain for “those guys?”
In the end, am I not just another man with unrealistic expectations and socially imposed heteronormative values?
Maybe I’m not really any better than the misogynist frat boys and abusive fathers and high school boys who use the “nice guy” routine to get into a girl’s pants, and maybe that’s what I’m doing anyway.
What gives me the right to claim the moral high ground, when all I’m doing is sitting around and waiting for her to make the first move so that I can feel less sexist about every sexual encounter
Christ, I’m an asshole.
III.
I’m three kilometers into my five kilometer walk to the bus stop, and a beautiful young woman spills a bag of groceries.
I stop to help her pick them up, all the while wondering if I’m being sexist.
Would I have helped her if she were a man?
Would I have helped her if she seemed less friendly?
Would I have helped her if she weren’t beautiful?
I am so lost in my own thoughts, that I fail to notice when she smiles at me
Or the genuine way she says “thank you.”
And when we go our separate ways, I fail to notice that she looks back at me not once, but twice.
Another opportunity for companionship, lost to fear.
IV.
As I continue towards the bus stop, I make a vow to stop worrying about what other people think.
From now on, I will do what feels right to me, and be honest with myself in the process.
I will respect my needs.
As my professor says, “You have to help yourself before you can help others,”
And as my mother says, “You have to add yourself to the list of people who matter.”
Tomorrow, I will start mattering.
Tomorrow, I will ask a girl for her phone number.
If she thinks I’m just trying to get her in bed and refuses to trade numbers, then that is her loss, not mine.
Tomorrow I will be the friendly, caring, cheerful, funny, charming, level-headed boy I always have been, minus the insecurity.
I get on the bus, ready for tomorrow.
V.
I spend the next day in my room, alone.
There is a substantial difference between the thoughts one has at 11PM in the city versus those at 9AM in the suburbs.
The city is a whole bus ride away, and I am very groggy.
So, music will be my companion for the day.
Besides, Leonard Cohen never rejects me.
In fact, he loves me all the more for my faults.
Once during a family visit, he told me to throw my insecurities aside.
“Ring the bells that still can ring,” he said. “Forget your perfect offering.”
“Easy for you to say,” I responded. “You’re 73 years old and still kicking.”
Leonard says his life hasn’t been all roses; he was robbed by his manager a few years ago, left with only a few thousand dollars in the bank.
I explained to him that he still lived a privileged lifestyle.
“You’ll never truly be poor,” I said. “Just book one show at the largest concert hall in Europe and charge $200 per ticket. You’ll have your millions back in two hours flat.”
“They’d never pay that much to see me,” Leonard said. “I can barely sing anymore, and my voice cracks.”
“There’s a crack in everything,” I reply, punching him playfully in the shoulder. “That’s how the light gets in.”
Specificity is key (Scotland Post 4)
The first night in Glasgow, four of us went out to a comedy club where there were four female comedians each doing a short set (the title of the show was "Wicked Wenches." Don't think too hard about that). They were actually a pretty diverse group. One native Glaswegian (best adjective ever), one Irish, and two Americans. I was initially disappointed by the presence of American comedians, but they were funny, so I got over it.
The four of us took a lot of shit from the comedians, mostly for being American, but also for being happy, which was sort of confusing at a comedy club. For a moment, I was thinking, "Are we laughing too loud? Should we be laughing less? Do people not laugh at comedy clubs here?" Turns out, people laugh at comedy clubs in Scotland too. So, I got over it.
(Three of my friends standing on a comedy club stage. We showed up VERY early, and they didn't mind us hanging around and taking pictures like the tourists we are. By the way, yes, the mural is of a cowboy child holding a gun to his head in front of an audience.)
I watched a *lot* of stand-up comedy in high school. My Carlin-inspired attitude was that there is no topic that is off-limits to the comedian, and when dealing with a touchy subject, the difference between horribly offensive and hilarious is how well the joke is constructed. I don't feel that way anymore, and it may be the reason I watch less stand-up than I used to. When comedians comment on culture, they often try to pretend that they're not part of the culture because they're the lowly starving artists who are too poor or off-beat to have an agenda. But that stereotype is also part of the culture, as are all the stereotypes they base their jokes on. There are always comedians who will question stereotypes and find a funny way to throw them back at the audience, and I love that. But so many comedians fall back on the same old jokes. Three unique punchlines, then we're back to "men are assholes and women are confusing and why do Muslims have so many phlegm-inducing sounds in their names, am I right?" I can't watch that anymore. It's been done. Even the so-called rebels, the counter-culture comedians, the Kinisons and Pryors and Carlins of the world, they all do it too, albeit less often.
Where I'm going with this is that I really enjoyed the comedy show in Scotland. They did relatively little of that, and when it did pop up, I let slide. In retrospect, I came to the show determined to laugh, and that made me unable to get annoyed at the material I would have perhaps otherwise disapproved of. We got made fun of, but it was mostly in the context of "you Americans did XYZ" and I understood that they were talking on a societal level, not that I was personally responsible for ruining everything. I particularly got a lot of flak for wearing one of my human rights shirts. My favorite part was when one comedian was being self-referential when making fun of me. She was basically saying, "Damn you American kids and your optimism and hope and caring about the world. Don't you know you're supposed to be miserable like us?" Most of the audience went "hah hah, yeah, we're such pessimists, that's pretty funny," except for the guy at the table next to us, who came to be known as "the scary man." His attitude seemed to be, "Yeah! Damn hippies!" which I've certainly heard before, but it was funnier coming from a gruff Glaswegian. He later got made fun of too, and everyone was laughing, even if for different reasons.
One lesson I learned that evening is that I need to get used to being a Peace Studies student in a public sphere. I anticipate the "damn hippie!" reaction, or even worse, the "great, the world needs people like you!" reaction, and I change my response accordingly. I downplay my own aspirations. When people ask me what I want to do with my life, I say, "Eh, change the world. Help people. You know." Or I say that I'm just in it to learn stuff, and may end up in an IT job in the end. Those are all accurate, but are also kind of wishy-washy. When the comedian asked me that very question during the show (looking for comedy fodder, of course), I said "Improve people's well-being." I'm a bit ashamed to admit to the world (or at least my friends who read this blog) that I gave that answer. It's not *false*, it's just *meaningless*. I was wearing the United Workers shirt. It was the perfect opportunity to say, "Secure a living wage for everyone," or "Improve schools" or even "Steal from the rich and give to the poor." All those would have been better answers. And of course, the comedian picked up on the lameness of my answer. She said, "doesn't that sound like it should be in inverted commas and said in a sarcastic tone?" And it does. In retrospect, the funniest answer I could have given would have been to say "Stand-up comedy." But I didn't think of it in time.
They say that specificity is key in comedy. Most of the time, "He hit the other guy with something silly" would be funnier if it was "He hit the other guy with a large fish," and even funnier if it was "He smacked the other guy upside the head with an eight-pound speckled sea bass." Well, specificity is also key in my self-description. I know what I want to see in the world, and I just need to get comfortable saying it. I guess I'm afraid that I'd be pidgeonholing myself if I said I wanted to stay in Baltimore and do United Workers stuff forever (which I don't). But if I say that, and I later do other things, who cares? That's my goal right now. Goals can change, and I needn't be afraid of it.
One more light-hearted moment: Out of the folks in the audience who got made fun of, the four of us got the most attention from the comedians, and I definitely got more than everyone else. One of them was mock-flirting me throughout her act (did I need to specify that it was mock-flirting? Probably not). And of course, there was the exchange I already mentioned. By the end, I was pretty popular with the crowd, and I actually felt like I added something to the success of the show. I was certainly expecting to be entertained, but I wasn't expecting to leave the show feeling that I had somehow contributed. Before the last comedian, there was a raffle, and the audience voted by applause for which previously heckled audience member should draw the ticket. There was the scary man, the Americans, and two couples (one had been married for years, the other were on their second date; the expected jokes were made about "this is your future," etc.). The four of us Americans were more or less the only people to cheer for the scary guy, which cracked me up. I won by a landslide, got to draw the ticket, get made fun of a bit more, then present the prize. I was also instructed to give the winner a kiss, which I did (with her permission, 'cause that's the kind of guy I am). Life throws unexpected twists. I certainly couldn't have told you a few weeks ago that I'd be adding "back row of a Glasgow comedy club" to the list of places I've gotten to kiss a pretty girl. Not that I have such a list. Well, it's certainly not on my computer. And the file is definitely not called "elismooches.doc"
-----
For today's Random Pictures Unrelated to the Post, here's some from when we climbed a mountain/hill near Loch Katrine.
(On the way up. The peak on the left was our peak)
(The view from just below the summit, facing Eastish)
(Me on the true peak. There was a small, flat summit, but this rock was the one that jutted up the highest. Also, I look like I'm either meditating, or asking for a hug)
(The view facing... Westish? Maybe Northwestish?)
(View facing Southish)
The four of us took a lot of shit from the comedians, mostly for being American, but also for being happy, which was sort of confusing at a comedy club. For a moment, I was thinking, "Are we laughing too loud? Should we be laughing less? Do people not laugh at comedy clubs here?" Turns out, people laugh at comedy clubs in Scotland too. So, I got over it.
(Three of my friends standing on a comedy club stage. We showed up VERY early, and they didn't mind us hanging around and taking pictures like the tourists we are. By the way, yes, the mural is of a cowboy child holding a gun to his head in front of an audience.)
I watched a *lot* of stand-up comedy in high school. My Carlin-inspired attitude was that there is no topic that is off-limits to the comedian, and when dealing with a touchy subject, the difference between horribly offensive and hilarious is how well the joke is constructed. I don't feel that way anymore, and it may be the reason I watch less stand-up than I used to. When comedians comment on culture, they often try to pretend that they're not part of the culture because they're the lowly starving artists who are too poor or off-beat to have an agenda. But that stereotype is also part of the culture, as are all the stereotypes they base their jokes on. There are always comedians who will question stereotypes and find a funny way to throw them back at the audience, and I love that. But so many comedians fall back on the same old jokes. Three unique punchlines, then we're back to "men are assholes and women are confusing and why do Muslims have so many phlegm-inducing sounds in their names, am I right?" I can't watch that anymore. It's been done. Even the so-called rebels, the counter-culture comedians, the Kinisons and Pryors and Carlins of the world, they all do it too, albeit less often.
Where I'm going with this is that I really enjoyed the comedy show in Scotland. They did relatively little of that, and when it did pop up, I let slide. In retrospect, I came to the show determined to laugh, and that made me unable to get annoyed at the material I would have perhaps otherwise disapproved of. We got made fun of, but it was mostly in the context of "you Americans did XYZ" and I understood that they were talking on a societal level, not that I was personally responsible for ruining everything. I particularly got a lot of flak for wearing one of my human rights shirts. My favorite part was when one comedian was being self-referential when making fun of me. She was basically saying, "Damn you American kids and your optimism and hope and caring about the world. Don't you know you're supposed to be miserable like us?" Most of the audience went "hah hah, yeah, we're such pessimists, that's pretty funny," except for the guy at the table next to us, who came to be known as "the scary man." His attitude seemed to be, "Yeah! Damn hippies!" which I've certainly heard before, but it was funnier coming from a gruff Glaswegian. He later got made fun of too, and everyone was laughing, even if for different reasons.
One lesson I learned that evening is that I need to get used to being a Peace Studies student in a public sphere. I anticipate the "damn hippie!" reaction, or even worse, the "great, the world needs people like you!" reaction, and I change my response accordingly. I downplay my own aspirations. When people ask me what I want to do with my life, I say, "Eh, change the world. Help people. You know." Or I say that I'm just in it to learn stuff, and may end up in an IT job in the end. Those are all accurate, but are also kind of wishy-washy. When the comedian asked me that very question during the show (looking for comedy fodder, of course), I said "Improve people's well-being." I'm a bit ashamed to admit to the world (or at least my friends who read this blog) that I gave that answer. It's not *false*, it's just *meaningless*. I was wearing the United Workers shirt. It was the perfect opportunity to say, "Secure a living wage for everyone," or "Improve schools" or even "Steal from the rich and give to the poor." All those would have been better answers. And of course, the comedian picked up on the lameness of my answer. She said, "doesn't that sound like it should be in inverted commas and said in a sarcastic tone?" And it does. In retrospect, the funniest answer I could have given would have been to say "Stand-up comedy." But I didn't think of it in time.
They say that specificity is key in comedy. Most of the time, "He hit the other guy with something silly" would be funnier if it was "He hit the other guy with a large fish," and even funnier if it was "He smacked the other guy upside the head with an eight-pound speckled sea bass." Well, specificity is also key in my self-description. I know what I want to see in the world, and I just need to get comfortable saying it. I guess I'm afraid that I'd be pidgeonholing myself if I said I wanted to stay in Baltimore and do United Workers stuff forever (which I don't). But if I say that, and I later do other things, who cares? That's my goal right now. Goals can change, and I needn't be afraid of it.
One more light-hearted moment: Out of the folks in the audience who got made fun of, the four of us got the most attention from the comedians, and I definitely got more than everyone else. One of them was mock-flirting me throughout her act (did I need to specify that it was mock-flirting? Probably not). And of course, there was the exchange I already mentioned. By the end, I was pretty popular with the crowd, and I actually felt like I added something to the success of the show. I was certainly expecting to be entertained, but I wasn't expecting to leave the show feeling that I had somehow contributed. Before the last comedian, there was a raffle, and the audience voted by applause for which previously heckled audience member should draw the ticket. There was the scary man, the Americans, and two couples (one had been married for years, the other were on their second date; the expected jokes were made about "this is your future," etc.). The four of us Americans were more or less the only people to cheer for the scary guy, which cracked me up. I won by a landslide, got to draw the ticket, get made fun of a bit more, then present the prize. I was also instructed to give the winner a kiss, which I did (with her permission, 'cause that's the kind of guy I am). Life throws unexpected twists. I certainly couldn't have told you a few weeks ago that I'd be adding "back row of a Glasgow comedy club" to the list of places I've gotten to kiss a pretty girl. Not that I have such a list. Well, it's certainly not on my computer. And the file is definitely not called "elismooches.doc"
-----
For today's Random Pictures Unrelated to the Post, here's some from when we climbed a mountain/hill near Loch Katrine.
(On the way up. The peak on the left was our peak)
(The view from just below the summit, facing Eastish)
(Me on the true peak. There was a small, flat summit, but this rock was the one that jutted up the highest. Also, I look like I'm either meditating, or asking for a hug)
(The view facing... Westish? Maybe Northwestish?)
(View facing Southish)
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Stock Characters and Absent Friends (Scotland Post 3)
I'm not quite done with the Royal Oak yet, because I barely talked about any of the people I met there. I don't have any photos of the place, but I'll put some photos of unrelated things at the end so it's not just a block of text. Also, I'm going to use initials to protect identity where appropriate, not that anyone's likely to care. However, there are two exceptions, and you'll see why.
-----
First, E&H. I met a young woman (E) and an older woman (H) who were living together. I assumed they were mother and daughter from they way they were interacting, but in hindsight I'm not sure they were. I saw H get drunker and drunker, and E seemed to simply be putting up with her; she was quite sober. I spoke to the two of them briefly, but about the basic stuff (me explaining I'm a visitor from the US, here on a trip, etc.). H was my loudest fan when I was playing guitar, though I doubt she realized how loud she was.
Towards the end of the night, H invited me to sit next to her, and started a very serious conversation about how I appeared to be uncomfortable with myself. I was somewhat taken aback, but admitted that being the lone American in the pub made me feel a little awkward, and that even after several Dylan songs had been played, I still felt like "the American hippie kid" by playing one myself. I was perhaps being hypersensitive to my own social miscues. She insisted that it was something else. I assured her that was the biggest thing going on at the moment.
Then, all of a sudden, she went from comforting to judgmental and said that I should get some Scottish shirts and a new haircut if I really care about fitting in. Scottish people don't run around with slogans on their shirts (I was wearing my United Workers Harriet Tubman shirt). It looked like it was going to become an argument. I explained that I was only there a week, so there was no need to change my whole look. She asked why I needed to make such a statement, why couldn't I at least tie my hair back. I responded that I felt tying my hair back and wearing plain clothes would be a statement, just a different kind of statement. We're always making statements, whether actively or passively.
As soon as I said that, she changed tone again and told me she thought it was great how independent I am. I thanked her, and she went to get a round of drinks. That was that. From my point of view, the universe was testing me through this old Scottish woman. But if I had to guess... from her point of view she was probably just drunk.
----
Second, I should tell you about A. A is from Belfast, and doesn't like Americans much. As soon as I told him I was from the US, he began loudly singing his idea of an American patriotic song. I'm going to call it "Tis Of Thee The Beautiful Spangled Yankee Doodle America." It definitely wasn't a single, recognizable song, but certainly had elements and lyrics from several. Just before I started playing, he yelled, "Hey, who gave the Yank a guitar?" then looked around at his friends for confirmation and laughter, but they weren't listening. I don't think they were his friends, actually. I think they were some guys who he decided were his friends four minutes prior. Which is what he would later do to me. I responded, "The Scottish musicians gave the Yank the guitar" and proceeded to play my favorite Scottish song, and one of the Scottish guys recognized it, figured out the key, and joined in. Although I certainly didn't feel the need to "beat" this guy, it was certainly a cathartic moment.
I think the fact that I was largely unphased by his verbal assault struck him as somewhat of a challenge. After I played, he sat down near me and we started up a conversation. Turns out he worked in Ocean City, Maryland for a while, and we agreed that Baltimore was a rough city with a lot of issues. Well, first he called me an ass for insulting my hometown, then agreed with me about it, then started talking about how Belfast has similar issues. So... a bit of a hypocrite. Thankfully, he went home after a bit. He made me mildly uncomfortable, but that was the worst of it; there was too much positivity around me otherwise.
-----
For the sake of narrative structure, I want to save the most feelgood story for last. The problem is, I've got two and I can't decide. So, I'll start with the dead guy.
As I said in the last post, the Royal Oak is filled with regulars who come for both the music and the company. Many people seemed to know each other, which I think contributes to the atmosphere. Along those lines, there was a plaque hanging on the wall above the end seat of a bench. The plaque read the following (exact quote, give or take a word or two): "This seat belonged to Alec Wright until 14th August 2007. He was a grumpy old man, and we miss him." I thought that was sweet. It's not the sort of thing that would fly in most communities, but it worked where it was, and that's all that matters.
-----
The last guy I want to tell you about was Bill. I'm calling him by his real name because he asked me to tell all my friends about him. Bill is a janitor. Bill works for the government, possibly through an intermediate management company, I don't know. I don't even know if they have those in Scotland, or if pointless bureaucracy is an American thing. Point is, he was one of the night janitors for a government building. I believe he said the courthouse. He takes pride in his work, and told me that the place was spotless the whole time he was working there.
He started telling me this as we were both leaving the bathroom. I told him I was a tourist, and he asked if I had seen the Scottish Parliament building. Although he was pretty wasted, Bill was able to explain the above, and told me that he was out drinking tonight because he had just been moved to the Parliament, where he was made head of that cleaning crew. So, in six days, he would be starting his newer, better paying, and much more important cleaning job. Since it's been a week now, I suspect last night was Bill's first night on the job. Hope it went well.
The point I want to drive home is that this man's joy was infectious. Sure, he was moving from cleaning one building to cleaning another building, but to think that would be to completely miss the point. Bill was celebrating because he felt he had done a good job and was being recognized for it. I was incredibly humbled by his excitement, and I'll be thinking about him for a long time. I need to remind myself to be that happy about good things when they come along because it's a great way to live.
About ten minutes into the conversation, he had the wherewithal (despite his drunkenness) to notice that he'd been talking to a total stranger for quite some time. He apologized for yammering on, seeing as I probably came to listen to the music, not listen to some old guy talk about mopping floors. I told him that I appreciated the thought, but that I had, in fact, come to meet people, and I succeeded. He laughed and thanked me for listening. "I've been telling everyone," he said, because he wanted to celebrate. "As well you should," I told him, and congratulated him again. He then wandered off out of the bar, presumably to another bar.
I tell you this not only because I want to, but also because I promised I would. Bill told me that I should tell all my friends to visit Parliament and marvel at the cleanliness. More importantly, he told me to tell all my friends back home that I met the man in charge of cleaning it. He's a VIP in his own mind, for sure. But hey, I think he's Very Important too. So, I promised I'd tell everyone. And I succeeded. So, if you're ever in Edinburgh, check out the place. Not only is Parliament a tourist attraction in its own right, but I also hear that it's spotless.
-----
First, E&H. I met a young woman (E) and an older woman (H) who were living together. I assumed they were mother and daughter from they way they were interacting, but in hindsight I'm not sure they were. I saw H get drunker and drunker, and E seemed to simply be putting up with her; she was quite sober. I spoke to the two of them briefly, but about the basic stuff (me explaining I'm a visitor from the US, here on a trip, etc.). H was my loudest fan when I was playing guitar, though I doubt she realized how loud she was.
Towards the end of the night, H invited me to sit next to her, and started a very serious conversation about how I appeared to be uncomfortable with myself. I was somewhat taken aback, but admitted that being the lone American in the pub made me feel a little awkward, and that even after several Dylan songs had been played, I still felt like "the American hippie kid" by playing one myself. I was perhaps being hypersensitive to my own social miscues. She insisted that it was something else. I assured her that was the biggest thing going on at the moment.
Then, all of a sudden, she went from comforting to judgmental and said that I should get some Scottish shirts and a new haircut if I really care about fitting in. Scottish people don't run around with slogans on their shirts (I was wearing my United Workers Harriet Tubman shirt). It looked like it was going to become an argument. I explained that I was only there a week, so there was no need to change my whole look. She asked why I needed to make such a statement, why couldn't I at least tie my hair back. I responded that I felt tying my hair back and wearing plain clothes would be a statement, just a different kind of statement. We're always making statements, whether actively or passively.
As soon as I said that, she changed tone again and told me she thought it was great how independent I am. I thanked her, and she went to get a round of drinks. That was that. From my point of view, the universe was testing me through this old Scottish woman. But if I had to guess... from her point of view she was probably just drunk.
----
Second, I should tell you about A. A is from Belfast, and doesn't like Americans much. As soon as I told him I was from the US, he began loudly singing his idea of an American patriotic song. I'm going to call it "Tis Of Thee The Beautiful Spangled Yankee Doodle America." It definitely wasn't a single, recognizable song, but certainly had elements and lyrics from several. Just before I started playing, he yelled, "Hey, who gave the Yank a guitar?" then looked around at his friends for confirmation and laughter, but they weren't listening. I don't think they were his friends, actually. I think they were some guys who he decided were his friends four minutes prior. Which is what he would later do to me. I responded, "The Scottish musicians gave the Yank the guitar" and proceeded to play my favorite Scottish song, and one of the Scottish guys recognized it, figured out the key, and joined in. Although I certainly didn't feel the need to "beat" this guy, it was certainly a cathartic moment.
I think the fact that I was largely unphased by his verbal assault struck him as somewhat of a challenge. After I played, he sat down near me and we started up a conversation. Turns out he worked in Ocean City, Maryland for a while, and we agreed that Baltimore was a rough city with a lot of issues. Well, first he called me an ass for insulting my hometown, then agreed with me about it, then started talking about how Belfast has similar issues. So... a bit of a hypocrite. Thankfully, he went home after a bit. He made me mildly uncomfortable, but that was the worst of it; there was too much positivity around me otherwise.
-----
For the sake of narrative structure, I want to save the most feelgood story for last. The problem is, I've got two and I can't decide. So, I'll start with the dead guy.
As I said in the last post, the Royal Oak is filled with regulars who come for both the music and the company. Many people seemed to know each other, which I think contributes to the atmosphere. Along those lines, there was a plaque hanging on the wall above the end seat of a bench. The plaque read the following (exact quote, give or take a word or two): "This seat belonged to Alec Wright until 14th August 2007. He was a grumpy old man, and we miss him." I thought that was sweet. It's not the sort of thing that would fly in most communities, but it worked where it was, and that's all that matters.
-----
The last guy I want to tell you about was Bill. I'm calling him by his real name because he asked me to tell all my friends about him. Bill is a janitor. Bill works for the government, possibly through an intermediate management company, I don't know. I don't even know if they have those in Scotland, or if pointless bureaucracy is an American thing. Point is, he was one of the night janitors for a government building. I believe he said the courthouse. He takes pride in his work, and told me that the place was spotless the whole time he was working there.
He started telling me this as we were both leaving the bathroom. I told him I was a tourist, and he asked if I had seen the Scottish Parliament building. Although he was pretty wasted, Bill was able to explain the above, and told me that he was out drinking tonight because he had just been moved to the Parliament, where he was made head of that cleaning crew. So, in six days, he would be starting his newer, better paying, and much more important cleaning job. Since it's been a week now, I suspect last night was Bill's first night on the job. Hope it went well.
The point I want to drive home is that this man's joy was infectious. Sure, he was moving from cleaning one building to cleaning another building, but to think that would be to completely miss the point. Bill was celebrating because he felt he had done a good job and was being recognized for it. I was incredibly humbled by his excitement, and I'll be thinking about him for a long time. I need to remind myself to be that happy about good things when they come along because it's a great way to live.
About ten minutes into the conversation, he had the wherewithal (despite his drunkenness) to notice that he'd been talking to a total stranger for quite some time. He apologized for yammering on, seeing as I probably came to listen to the music, not listen to some old guy talk about mopping floors. I told him that I appreciated the thought, but that I had, in fact, come to meet people, and I succeeded. He laughed and thanked me for listening. "I've been telling everyone," he said, because he wanted to celebrate. "As well you should," I told him, and congratulated him again. He then wandered off out of the bar, presumably to another bar.
I tell you this not only because I want to, but also because I promised I would. Bill told me that I should tell all my friends to visit Parliament and marvel at the cleanliness. More importantly, he told me to tell all my friends back home that I met the man in charge of cleaning it. He's a VIP in his own mind, for sure. But hey, I think he's Very Important too. So, I promised I'd tell everyone. And I succeeded. So, if you're ever in Edinburgh, check out the place. Not only is Parliament a tourist attraction in its own right, but I also hear that it's spotless.
I'm a Rover, Generally Sober (Scotland Post 2)
Okay, that's not how the song goes.
I'd like to talk about nights out on the town in Edinburgh. The first evening, a few friends and I wandered around in the New Town (a relative term, as it's several hundred years old) just north of the Royal Mile. We got to see a lot, and we took some pictures:
(The Scott Monument)
(A model of Edinburgh. Also, my legs.)
(The Loft Crew, so named because we shared a cabin in Jutland. The sixth and final member is behind the camera)
Night two, I decided to go out on my own and look for some live music. By the time we were done with the wonderfully tacky Ghost Tour of Edinburgh, it around 9:30PM and I knew there would be a pub in the area. I had already received a few recommendations from the friendly man at Coda Music, which is an awesome store, by the way. You know, if you're ever in the area.
The first bar I went to was called Sandy Bell's. According to the people I talked to, it was the original folk revival bar in Edinburgh. In the early 60's, musicians would gather to share tunes and play together at the bar. There was no stage, nor was it officially a show. Musicians simply gathered at a table and started playing. Connections were made, and bands that became popular in the area often had their start at Sandy Bell's. Nowadays, it's more or less the same story. That evening there were five people playing their instruments: a somewhat tired-looking (but very talented) concertina player, a guy playing a set of uilleann pipes, a banjo/mandolin player, a flutist, and a fiddle player. They were crammed around a table just large enough for them; the fiddler frequently looked like she was going to whack the concertina player with her bow when the music got fast. Thankfully, spatial awareness prevailed, and no such injury occurred.
After about an hour, I decided to find something else. I enjoyed the tunes, but I also wanted to hear some singing. After a brief stop at an unimpressive open mic, I found the Royal Oak, which was only two blocks from where we were staying. Similarly small, this was more of a group-participating sort of place. As random musicians would show up, the folks who were playing would say "Hey, Peter, come play a few for us." I heard a couple new songs which I fully intend to learn, and spirits were generally high. The folks playing were definitely regulars who everyone knew and liked.
One of the regulars asked me if I played anything, and encouraged me to give it a shot. He explained that the pile of drums, guitars, and other instruments on the shelf above the door were for public use. I should just grab one and start playing when there's a lull. So, I grabbed a guitar and did just that.
It should be noted a this point that I play decently, but I always fingerpick, which comes at the cost of volume. I can't even hold a pick properly; I really should practice that, even if I don't stick with it. So, only the people immediately around me could hear, but those who could said they liked it. I stuck to the couple of Scottish songs I knew, so as not to be "that guy," but later on some other folks pulled out a few Dylan songs and a Joni Mitchell song, so I played my favorite Dylan song when they asked me to play again. There was sort of an unwritten rule that there should never be a moment without music. So, when the main guys went outside for a smoke break, they asked me to play again. In reality, they were asking me to fill in for them for ten minutes. There was an implication that they couldn't leave otherwise. I happily obliged.
The next night (my final night in Edinburgh), I went back to the same place. This time, there was more of an American blues/folk/country feel to the group that was there. There was a guy with a horrendously ugly but very impressive homemade electric guitar with an amp embedded into the body. He was playing slide, then there was an accordian and a guitar, later joined by a fiddle. The musical fusion was pretty cool; blues sounds great with an accordian and a fiddle. So, I grabbed a guitar and joined in on a blues jam that was happening, but didn't lead anything myself. Both nights were great.
I also found a beer that I liked the taste of, which was a nice change of pace. Deuchars. Apparently it's brewed right in Edinburgh. I don't know if that makes it taste better, but it was good. Despite Scotland's reputation as a place where people get drunk all the time, the drinking was super low-pressure. Nobody yelled at me for not drinking to their standards. It seemed most of the room was drinking slowly, and nobody really made a fuss about what anyone else was doing. Felt more like a community and less like a competition. That's the sort of place I like.
I'd like to talk about nights out on the town in Edinburgh. The first evening, a few friends and I wandered around in the New Town (a relative term, as it's several hundred years old) just north of the Royal Mile. We got to see a lot, and we took some pictures:
(The Scott Monument)
(A model of Edinburgh. Also, my legs.)
(The Loft Crew, so named because we shared a cabin in Jutland. The sixth and final member is behind the camera)
Night two, I decided to go out on my own and look for some live music. By the time we were done with the wonderfully tacky Ghost Tour of Edinburgh, it around 9:30PM and I knew there would be a pub in the area. I had already received a few recommendations from the friendly man at Coda Music, which is an awesome store, by the way. You know, if you're ever in the area.
The first bar I went to was called Sandy Bell's. According to the people I talked to, it was the original folk revival bar in Edinburgh. In the early 60's, musicians would gather to share tunes and play together at the bar. There was no stage, nor was it officially a show. Musicians simply gathered at a table and started playing. Connections were made, and bands that became popular in the area often had their start at Sandy Bell's. Nowadays, it's more or less the same story. That evening there were five people playing their instruments: a somewhat tired-looking (but very talented) concertina player, a guy playing a set of uilleann pipes, a banjo/mandolin player, a flutist, and a fiddle player. They were crammed around a table just large enough for them; the fiddler frequently looked like she was going to whack the concertina player with her bow when the music got fast. Thankfully, spatial awareness prevailed, and no such injury occurred.
After about an hour, I decided to find something else. I enjoyed the tunes, but I also wanted to hear some singing. After a brief stop at an unimpressive open mic, I found the Royal Oak, which was only two blocks from where we were staying. Similarly small, this was more of a group-participating sort of place. As random musicians would show up, the folks who were playing would say "Hey, Peter, come play a few for us." I heard a couple new songs which I fully intend to learn, and spirits were generally high. The folks playing were definitely regulars who everyone knew and liked.
One of the regulars asked me if I played anything, and encouraged me to give it a shot. He explained that the pile of drums, guitars, and other instruments on the shelf above the door were for public use. I should just grab one and start playing when there's a lull. So, I grabbed a guitar and did just that.
It should be noted a this point that I play decently, but I always fingerpick, which comes at the cost of volume. I can't even hold a pick properly; I really should practice that, even if I don't stick with it. So, only the people immediately around me could hear, but those who could said they liked it. I stuck to the couple of Scottish songs I knew, so as not to be "that guy," but later on some other folks pulled out a few Dylan songs and a Joni Mitchell song, so I played my favorite Dylan song when they asked me to play again. There was sort of an unwritten rule that there should never be a moment without music. So, when the main guys went outside for a smoke break, they asked me to play again. In reality, they were asking me to fill in for them for ten minutes. There was an implication that they couldn't leave otherwise. I happily obliged.
The next night (my final night in Edinburgh), I went back to the same place. This time, there was more of an American blues/folk/country feel to the group that was there. There was a guy with a horrendously ugly but very impressive homemade electric guitar with an amp embedded into the body. He was playing slide, then there was an accordian and a guitar, later joined by a fiddle. The musical fusion was pretty cool; blues sounds great with an accordian and a fiddle. So, I grabbed a guitar and joined in on a blues jam that was happening, but didn't lead anything myself. Both nights were great.
I also found a beer that I liked the taste of, which was a nice change of pace. Deuchars. Apparently it's brewed right in Edinburgh. I don't know if that makes it taste better, but it was good. Despite Scotland's reputation as a place where people get drunk all the time, the drinking was super low-pressure. Nobody yelled at me for not drinking to their standards. It seemed most of the room was drinking slowly, and nobody really made a fuss about what anyone else was doing. Felt more like a community and less like a competition. That's the sort of place I like.
Monday, October 12, 2009
If One More Person Uses the Word "Character..." (First Scotland Post)
(Boarding the plane from Copenhagen to Scotland)
So, I'm back from Scotland, and after a few days of reflection, I'm ready to write. I'm not sure whether a full chronological account is as appropriate for this trip as it was for my Jutland trip, so instead I'm going to take my posts in a thematic order, of sorts. The first thing I want to talk about are the two cities we visited, and the differences between the two.
We spent three days in Edinburgh and two in Glasgow, and the cities are very different from each other. Edinburgh is more of a cultural/governmental center, while Glasgow is more of a business center. It's noticeable as soon as you enter the cities. In Edinburgh, all the buildings look old and castle-y, and in Glasgow they look like modern office buildings. Edinburgh is "prettier" by some people's standards, but I have this nasty habit of seeing beauty where others don't, and there were things I preferred about each city. However, it's no wonder that most of our "cultural visits" were in Edinburgh and most of our "academic visits" were in Glasgow. You'll get what I mean by the end of this post.
Edinburgh has that old-Europe tourist appeal to it. It's no accident, either: there were about eight shops within sight of each other along two blocks where one could purchase the same tourist items. CDs, shortbread cookies, "I *heart* Scotland" t-shirts, and of course, kilts. Edinburgh castle is both large and beautiful, and the whole city seems to fit in with the castle motif.
(The view of Edinburgh, as seen from behind a cannon in the castle)
Glasgow on the other hand... well, it's a city. It looks like Boston, or maybe DC. There are many buildings that have that "old city" look to them, but then there's the unmistakable modernity to the rest of it that completely overshadows any sense of antiquity. As soon as we got off the bus, some students were already complaining that Glasgow didn't have as much "character" as Edinburgh, a statement which I found to be completely unfair. My view was that Glasgow was simply more of a modern city. I quickly found supermarkets, clothing stores, cafes, and several dozen restaurants of every variety.
In Glasgow, I found several pound stores (like a dollar store, but everything costs $1.58). It wasn't until then that realized I hadn't seen a single supermarket in Edinburgh. Admittedly, I only strayed a few blocks from the touristy area, but I don't see that as a coincidence. They don't stick "real people" stores in the middle of the touristy part of town; there's an unspoken (or sometimes spoken) rule that we all understand. It breaks our suspension of disbelief. I've heard many historic cities have ordinances stating that no new buildings can be taller than the current ones. The churches sticking out above the other rooftops are part of the charm. Edinburgh at least appears to have such a rule (once again, it may not be codified, but it's certainly observed).
(The inner wall of Edinburgh castle, taken from the outer wall)
I'd have a hard time convincing anybody that one city is better than the other, least of all myself. At times, I felt like Edinburgh was a tourist attraction, while Glasgow was more of a genuine city with "real people." But then again, I've never been one to think of businessmen as genuine. A lot of my classmates had more fun in Edinburgh, though, and I suppose I did too. But I'm glad I went to both places, and I wouldn't take any part of the trip back. Both cities have plenty of "character," albeit of a different variety.
-----
Now, for my two favorite things in Edinburgh castle:
This is an old cannon hole in David's Tower, which was part of the castle before the tower was destroyed, I believe, by a fire. Don't quote me on that. What you're looking at here, though, is that the cannon hole has become a wishing well of sorts. It reminded me of one of those coin-pusher arcade games. I imagined that if I could roll a coin at just the right angle, I could cause the whole pile to come cascading out the other end (where they would land in some unreachable bushes. But let's face it, it's not really about the coins. It's about bragging rights.)
Moment #2: Walking through an exhibit on Scotland's crown jewels, I came across a great line. Unfortunately, I didn't have my notebook on me, but this is almost a direct quote: "In 1707, the crown jewels were lost, and by the early 19th century, people began to wonder what had happened to them." Apparently nobody noticed they were missing for 100 years.
The actual story is that they had lost their symbolic value when the English took over, so they were locked up in a chest and put somewhere off in a corner where everyone promptly stopped caring. But the way they phrase it is way funnier.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Christiania Follow-up
Near the front of Christiania, there were a few people with tables or even just blankets set up, selling their artwork or other assorted items. About 20 meters down the street, there is a small, slightly more permanent commercial area with folks selling food, hash pipes, t-shirts, CDs, etc. All in all there were about 10 or 15 people selling things in this small area (and another 20 meters away was Pusher Street, which contained another handful of salesmen).
There were two things I noticed about the people who were selling things that day.
1) The salesmen were just that: men. I'm not sure what that says about the nature of capitalism, or selling things, or Christiania, but I did notice it. In fact, at the whole celebration, I felt like there were more men than women. I'm curious what the demographics of the whole community is.
2) The folks selling things weren't pushy the way street merchants usually are in the US. They waited for people to approach them and ask to buy something. No hard sell, no calling over random people. It was much more relaxed than that. Well, except one guy. One guy was being loud, calling over random people, talking at length about the history of the various paintings he was selling. Guess where he was from.
On a happier note, here's a photo of me and one of my favorite DIS kids, Kat, at the Home-Depot-type-place.
There were two things I noticed about the people who were selling things that day.
1) The salesmen were just that: men. I'm not sure what that says about the nature of capitalism, or selling things, or Christiania, but I did notice it. In fact, at the whole celebration, I felt like there were more men than women. I'm curious what the demographics of the whole community is.
2) The folks selling things weren't pushy the way street merchants usually are in the US. They waited for people to approach them and ask to buy something. No hard sell, no calling over random people. It was much more relaxed than that. Well, except one guy. One guy was being loud, calling over random people, talking at length about the history of the various paintings he was selling. Guess where he was from.
On a happier note, here's a photo of me and one of my favorite DIS kids, Kat, at the Home-Depot-type-place.
Only Two Things Come From Christiania...
So, about that Christiania place.
Christiania was founded in 1971 when a group of (mostly) young people squatted in a closed-down military base in southeastern Copenhagen. There were occasional squabbles with the government over this, but the government wasn't actually using the land, so they decided to officially leave Christiania alone as a "social experiment." Their relationship with the government has been more or less peaceful over the years, with the exception of drug issues. A more detailed history can be found on wikipedia (for the lazy) or on the Christiania info page.
Nowadays, the average student (Danish or American) knows Christiania as "that place where you can buy pot." Much in the same way that they think of Jamaica as "that country where you can buy pot" or of Amsterdam as "that city where you can go into a coffee shop and buy pot." The point I'm trying to make is that while all these places contain pot, they are not defined by it (except among the narrow-minded).
During the first couple weeks here, some people I talked to were saying that they went to Christiania, and I was intrigued. I asked them what they saw, what the people were like, and if the infrastructure and art was as amazing as I had heard. The universal response was "I don't know, I only saw Pusher Street. There was some guy selling hash pipes, but I already had one, so I bought some weed." So, realized I wasn't going to learn anything without going there on my own.
I've been there twice now, and it's awesome. Yes, there's weed if you want it, but there's also a whole town. People often think of some kind of 30-person hippie commune, but this is a 750-person community. They have a bike shop, a day care, playgrounds, several cafes and restaurants, a workshop (where people do metalworking and other crafts), and a big general store/warehouse where you can get everything you need to build your own house (which is what most people there have done). They've got working plumbing and electricity which they set up themselves. It's a great place.
Drugs tend to be the public focus, but what I really appreciate is the community. People came together and created a social structure that worked, and although people come and go, the nature of the place has stayed the same. People don't come just to squat and avoid rent. These are not lazy people. They created the place they wanted to live in, and they did it themselves.
The first time I went, I got a guided tour as part of a class visit (we were ostensibly learning something about Danish culture). The second time, I went with one friend a few days later to see Christiania's Birthday Party (anniversary of the initial entry/squatting in September 1971). There was a ton of music and art (more than usual), people setting up shop selling whatever they felt like selling (clothes, paintings, CDs, drugs, whatever). A lot of people in elaborate red and yellow costumes, in honor of Christiania's flag:
Some of the costumes reminded me less of Christiania and more of Hulk Hogan:
But that's neither here nor there.
To summarize my feelings, Christiania as a cool community that happens to also have narcotics. However, the narcotics distract the world-at-large from the main purpose of the community. They didn't spend years building an entire town just to have a place to sell weed. They also:
Christiania was founded in 1971 when a group of (mostly) young people squatted in a closed-down military base in southeastern Copenhagen. There were occasional squabbles with the government over this, but the government wasn't actually using the land, so they decided to officially leave Christiania alone as a "social experiment." Their relationship with the government has been more or less peaceful over the years, with the exception of drug issues. A more detailed history can be found on wikipedia (for the lazy) or on the Christiania info page.
Nowadays, the average student (Danish or American) knows Christiania as "that place where you can buy pot." Much in the same way that they think of Jamaica as "that country where you can buy pot" or of Amsterdam as "that city where you can go into a coffee shop and buy pot." The point I'm trying to make is that while all these places contain pot, they are not defined by it (except among the narrow-minded).
During the first couple weeks here, some people I talked to were saying that they went to Christiania, and I was intrigued. I asked them what they saw, what the people were like, and if the infrastructure and art was as amazing as I had heard. The universal response was "I don't know, I only saw Pusher Street. There was some guy selling hash pipes, but I already had one, so I bought some weed." So, realized I wasn't going to learn anything without going there on my own.
I've been there twice now, and it's awesome. Yes, there's weed if you want it, but there's also a whole town. People often think of some kind of 30-person hippie commune, but this is a 750-person community. They have a bike shop, a day care, playgrounds, several cafes and restaurants, a workshop (where people do metalworking and other crafts), and a big general store/warehouse where you can get everything you need to build your own house (which is what most people there have done). They've got working plumbing and electricity which they set up themselves. It's a great place.
Drugs tend to be the public focus, but what I really appreciate is the community. People came together and created a social structure that worked, and although people come and go, the nature of the place has stayed the same. People don't come just to squat and avoid rent. These are not lazy people. They created the place they wanted to live in, and they did it themselves.
The first time I went, I got a guided tour as part of a class visit (we were ostensibly learning something about Danish culture). The second time, I went with one friend a few days later to see Christiania's Birthday Party (anniversary of the initial entry/squatting in September 1971). There was a ton of music and art (more than usual), people setting up shop selling whatever they felt like selling (clothes, paintings, CDs, drugs, whatever). A lot of people in elaborate red and yellow costumes, in honor of Christiania's flag:
Some of the costumes reminded me less of Christiania and more of Hulk Hogan:
But that's neither here nor there.
To summarize my feelings, Christiania as a cool community that happens to also have narcotics. However, the narcotics distract the world-at-large from the main purpose of the community. They didn't spend years building an entire town just to have a place to sell weed. They also:
- Work towards a more equal society
- Built and sustained a community that cares about each other, and where all voices are respected
- Collectively embrace non-violence (including evicting a biker gang that took up residence in the 80's)
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