Three Junes — Julia Glass

When a book comes highly recommended, I am not one to turn away from it. I know what it feels like to push a certain book with all my heart and soul, hoping people will believe me when I say "This book is simply sensational." This was just such a book, from Carlin, and we chose to do something a little different this month: I would read this, and she would read my recommendation to her, The Time Traveler's Wife. (How many reviews can I mention that book in?!)

I'll start off by saying that Three Junes is no easy read. The writing style is not complicated — it's actually rather simple. But like many books that cover numerous characters and span many, many years, it can seem a little too detailed, covering more than enough of the person's life, until you all of a sudden have to ask, "OK, so... what's the point of this? Where is this story going?"

The book tells three separate stories, centering around (can you guess?) three different Junes for three specific characters. The years covered, however, are numerous, with each story going back and forth through different periods of each character's life. The first subject is Paul McLeod, an older Scotsman who is vacationing in Greece following his wife's death. He tells us about about his life, his wife and her breeding collies, and their sons, along with his search for something on this tour of Greece. The second character (providing the meat of the book and the bulk of the story) is Fenno McLeod, Paul's oldest son. Paul recounts his life in New York City, gay life of the 80's, along with a trip to Scotland for his father's funeral. The final story is the only one told in the third person, centering on Fern — a girl who met Paul during his trip to Greece and who is visiting a friend, Tony, outside New York City.

Yes, it sounds complicated. No, it isn't as complicated to read as it is to describe.

The characters are all connected, their stories overlap, but that is merely a fact of the story, not any sort of plot point. Essentially, their connections make no major difference to their own tales. Fenno's story is the fullest, the most detailed, and covers the most events. It is difficult to figure out just why Glass decided it was necessary to have the two bookends. They were interesting, and I enjoyed them very much (particularly Fern's story, and her own relationships), but Fenno's story could very much have stood on its own.

Even though a lot happens in the book, it becomes clear (not soon enough) that it is about relationships and life decisions and family, more so than any particular events or catastrophes. The best thing about the book is the character development, the unique and beautifully detailed lives of each and every character (and there are many — not just our main three). Among these are Fenno's twin brothers, David and Dennis, who are as individual and interesting as could be for minor characters. (Dennis, without a doubt, was my very favorite.) Also, there is Mal — Fenno's close friend who is slowly dying of AIDS. One of the most interesting aspects of the book is the way their friendship never becomes romantic, and the bonds that can develop in a relationship that doesn't enter into the realm of sex.

I understand what Carlin loved about this book; I enjoyed the same aspects. But I can't say I would recommend it. It didn't capture me the way I felt it should, and there were far too many moments that seemed to repeat itself. Fenno's story (and only Fenno's story) would make a fantastic film, condensing all the many, many details into something a little more streamlined.

Not a total strikeout, but not quite a standout.

**½/*****

The Coma — Alex Garland

Every once in a while, you will be faced with a book that holds what should be a recipe for success: it's short, it's structured and presented in an easy-to-read fashion, it's intriguing, and there are even little pictures scattered about, here and there. Yet, despite all this, it will take you ages to get through because there is just no reason to pick the book back up again once you've decided to put it down. It's books like these that I find particularly difficult to comment on. However, I will try.

The Coma, written by Alex Garland (the 'mastermind' behind the novel The Beach, as well as the films 28 Days Later and Sunshine) presents a straightforward story: a man finds himself trapped in a dreamworld after being put in a coma, and struggles to regain his memory in order to wake up.

This "man," whose true identity even he is unsure about, is Carl. His experience begins as a series of scenes in which he seems to awake, all of a sudden someplace new. For the reader, it is no mystery that he is dreaming, though it takes him a bit longer to figure this out. At least, long enough for us to start thinking "Is his dream-state supposed to shock us, too?" Well, there isn't much shock at all. Anywhere.

He discovers his situation soon enough, often philosophizing on the nature of being awake and what it means to be dead — probably the most interesting aspect of the book. Carl maneuvers through his dreams easy enough once he gets the hang of it, meeting people he either remembers vividly from his life or that appear only as blurry images. The most significant of these people is Christine, a woman he (ergo: we) believe to be his secretary, and who in his dreams he is having a passionate affair with. It is with her he realizes what is happening, and she helps him in his mission to trigger a memory that might prompt him to wake up.

And that is it. Carl and Christine continue on a short, fragmented journey through disjointed memories and images that Carl is able to unearth from the depths of his waste-bin of a brain. Carl never describes himself, and even though he doesn't know much (pst! amnesia) we still never find out much about him. It is for this reason I found it difficult to care much about where the book was taking me.

Where Garland's storytelling lacks in character and plot points, it somewhat makes up for with its structure, illustrating a breathtaking ability to capture — as much as can be — a written example of what it truly feels like to dream. Things aren't always obvious, people aren't always clear, places come and go, and time works in inconceivable ways.

Events move quickly, and though it took me longer than I care to admit to read this book (lack of interest, as opposed to inability to read), it is probably the easiest of any book I've ever picked up (that wasn't for children). Though it didn't particularly grab my interest, I do not feel it was necessarily Garland's fault. I feel as though a novel may not have been the artistic medium for this story. The entire time I was reading it, I tried to picture it as a movie (which was remarkably easy to do) and I found it far more enjoyable.

The writing is decent, the ideas are interesting and imaginative, but the novella seems to be written more as a fictional musing on the nature of dreams than a serious attempt at storytelling. I would say this is the perfect airplane book — something that is simple and reads like a movie on paper. It won't change your life, it isn't even that great, but you could finish it — no problem — if you've got an hour and a half to kill on a plane ride.

**½/*****

The Almond — Nedjma

Sometimes you will be walking through a bookstore and a book will just catch your eye. No matter what you do, you can't avoid it, because it just has one of those covers. And if you're lucky, it will actually be a good book. The Almond was this book for me, and I won't deny that the subject matter drew me in even more than the cover: "The sexual awakening of a Muslim woman." My curiosity was peaked.

I am not one to go into a bookstore and pick out erotica. That's not to say I don't like reading about sex in books — on the contrary, it has been known to make me like books I otherwise wouldn't (Atonement, anyone?), and no one can deny that Sex Sells. But books about it tend to turn me off, simply because they look cheap, dirty, without a shred of taste. And while The Almond is certainly graphic and unapologetically erotic in both language and detail, it managed to avoid triteness and contrivances, exploring a real woman's discovery of sex.

"Nedjma" is a nom de plume, designed to protect the identity of the author. She tells her story centered on Badra, a woman from Imchouk forced at the age of 18 into a marriage with a much older man. Some three years later — her sexuality destroyed, her understanding of love non-existent — she escapes to Tangiers to live with her aunt. There, after a few years of hiding, she meets Driss, a wealthy doctor who over the course of ten years teaches her the glory of sex and the body.

The author tells Badra's story, going back and forth between the present and the past. In the past, she remembers a childhood wrought with sexual curiosity, innocent and powerful, and the events that led to later understandings about sex. As she describes her relationship with Driss, it is extremely graphic, but written with a poetic lens that fills the book with color and extravagance.

Her experiences are empowering, and not just sexually. In the 24 years following her escape from Imchouk, she discovers her own sexual powers in a world ruled by men and an Islamic world that is attempting to immerse itself in Western cultures and ideas. She describes her struggles with love, jealousy, abuse and, of course, the delectable nature of sex.

I really enjoyed reading this book, for it's a memoir that could very easily have gone in a different direction. The simple idea that it deals with a Muslim world, and a woman who (during her marriage) looks like the stereotype that the Western world has adopted of oppressed women, drew me in — she illustrated how sexuality is natural to everyone. You can either oppress it, as most in her world do, or learn to understand and enjoy it.

Again, it's graphic, and not necessarily happy and positive. But it's her story. And I admire her desire to share it. It's a good read, poetic and beautiful, but it can drag at times, as well as get a little repetitive in some parts and not descriptive enough in others. I would have liked to know more about her later life, though the point is mainly about what gets her there.

A good read, but far from perfect.

***/*****

No Country For Old Men — Cormac McCarthy

It's interesting when a piece of artwork comes along that really makes you examine and understand the vast difference between liking something and thinking something is great. No Country For Old Men is just such a work of art.

Cormac McCarthy is unlike any other writer I've read, simply because he doesn't follow any basic rules of literary writing: He doesn't use punctuation (only occassionally, and as far as I can tell, there is no particular rule about its use), he writes about events as though he were reporting them and he writes dialogue as if it were a play. All of these aspects made me LOVE his writing. Despite the unorthodoxy of it, it flowed brilliantly. The pacing was steady as well as jolting, and McCarthy's dialogue, strewn with subtle wit, is some of the best, most realistic I have ever read in my life.

The story centers on three very different men — Ed Tom Bell, Llewelyn Moss and Anton Chigurh — and the part they play in the aftermath of a drug deal gone terribly wrong. Moss takes off with over $2 million in cash after stumbling across this crime scene, leaving his wife, Carla Jean, behind. Bell is the sheriff of the county, hoping to solve the case, and track down an unknown 'serial killer' — Chigurh, the ruthless assassin hot on Moss' path.

Chigurh is the most fascinating character for me. He is like a robot, hard and the epitome of evil. But he has principles. He lives by a set of rules and — though wrong, in most respects — he never deviates from those rules. Moss, on the other hand, is the opposite: a good man who, mistake after mistake, proves to have no principles at all.

This is where my thoughts on the book get complicated. Reading No Country was quite an experience — one I enjoyed immensely. It's rare that a book can be captivating, and the author does nothing to elicit much suspense; the way McCarthy writes, what is just is. No gloss. No hoopla. No pizazz. Just facts about events — brutal, gory, frightening and unapologetic. Sentimentality does not come within one hundred miles of this story. If it can be argued to be anywhere, it is with the "What has this country become?"-romantic mentality of part-time narrator, Sheriff Bell. It is through him that some great thoughts arise.

No Country is a book, were I to teach an English or creative writing class, I would no doubt have in the curriculum. It approaches drama and story-telling a completely different way, and encompasses themes on morality and human psychology that a 10-page analysis paper could only begin to explore.

However, as far as my personal taste goes, I did not like this story (the book, I liked), for no other reason than that I didn't care much about the characters, nor was I given a chance to build up any hope for them. It was somewhat Brechtian, in that I felt detached from them, but was still interested in them. That, by no means, is a bad thing. I'm certain it was McCarthy's intention. Thinking about the book is interesting, simply because I will never deny how amazing it really is — unique and riveting.

TASTE will play a big part in how the book resonates. To some, it will be everything they look for in a book. To others, it will be nothing more than a book of good writing. I recommend everyone reads it and figures it out for themselves.

***½/*****

[side note: The Coen Brothers' adaptation of this book, which I saw yesterday, was exactly the book. If someone had somehow fed the book through a funnel that immediately transcribed it to screen, you would basically have gotten that movie. Is that bad? Not necessarily. To some, it is fantastic! To others, it points to a lack of creativity.

The film was not so much an adaptation of the book as it was a transcription of the book. Therefore, my thoughts about it are the same: perfectly done, but lacking in heart.

While I enjoyed watching the movie, I get offended for the Coens when people say it's their best work to date. Everything in the movie, save for some characterization choices (Chigurh) and such, was Cormac McCarthy's creation — particularly the dialogue, funny lines and all. There was very little "Coen-ness" about it.]

The Kite Runner — Khaled Hosseini

In an age when war is raging in the Middle East, and our concept of Afghanistan consists mainly of terrorism, oppressed women, religious radicals, and oh, did I mention terrorism??, I can't imagine anything this country needs more than a book that transports its readers to a world we have been forced to fear and gain an entirely new perspective.

The Kite Runner is that book — for more reasons than its unique story using Kabul as a backdrop. The struggles faced in this story of friendship, fatherhood, guilt and atonement are universal, in the extremist sense of the word, and the ability to relate to it is not at all hindered by its placement in a world most of us will never, luckily, have to live in.

Our narrator, like most great narrators in literature, is human — imperfect, troubled and, at times, detestable. Amir, who narrates as an older man, telling the story of his youth in Kabul with his father, Baba, his best friend/servant, Hassan, and Hassan's father, Ali. Amir is an average boy, desperate for his father's love, and jealous over Baba's distribution of love between he and Hassan.

Hassan, without a single shred of doubt in my body and soul, is the kindest, most loyal, honest and brave character I have ever read or could ever hope to read in my lifetime. Reading about his "unrequited loyalty" to Amir will bring tears to your eyes, and will not cease as you read how Amir takes advantage of his best friend's love.

The story deals, early on, with the boys' relationship that is strained by their different Muslim heritages: Amir is Pashtun; Hassan is Hazara. The culture does not consider them equals... and neither does Amir. As Kabul and Afghanistan crumbles around them, so does Amir's friendship with the ever-loyal Hassan, and after many heart-wrenching betrayals, the two are separated. Amir and his father retreat to Fremont, California as war rages for over twenty years in their homeland. It is not until just before the September 11th attacks that Amir is called back to Kabul for one final test of his courage, and one final chance to atone for his sins.

The story is extensive, and come a few events near the end, it can become a bit predictable and a little too convenient. But it works. As a dramatic story, having the loose ends tied up, everything works. A dreadfully sad, yet hopeful story, The Kite Runner is the perfect blend of brilliant writing and mainstream appeal.

Do not miss out on reading this novel. Read it before the film comes out. Because the film is going to be good. But nothing can touch the endearment of this book.

*****/*****

Into the Wild — Jon Krakauer

The interesting thing about reading a book in which you already (kind of) know how it ends (since it is an actual researched text on the life and death of a real person) is discovering how it can capture your interest and your heart as though it were a work of fiction. That is what happens with this book, and it's strange to think that it is almost nothing more than a collection of essays, interviews and reports.

Jon Krakauer delves into the world of Christopher Johnson McCandless, who after graduating from college embarked on a 2-year-long journey, alone, across the United States and met a terrible end after attempting to live in the Alaskan wilderness during the summer of 1993. Krakauer is meticulous in his research, drawing from interviews he's conducted with many of the people that McCandless (who took on the nom de plume "Alexander Supertramp") came in contact with, and whose lives he touched.

One of the main things that makes Chris' story so harrowing is that it is impossible to deny how smart, kind and giving he was. He understood the world he lived in. He understood his own life. He knew what he wanted and he wouldn't let anyone or anything stop him from getting it. He was a true traveler — someone who genuinely lived off the land and kept moving. Though stubborn, in many respects, he never refused an opportunity to work hard and learn from people. And people, as a result, learned from him.

Krakauer attempts to discover the reasons behind his decision to leave his family, all this money, his life behind him and, subsequently, never look back. He poignantly addresses the connection Chris had with nature, the love he had for literature, and the aspirations he held for making his way to Alaska. And with heartbreaking clarity, he gives details concerning Chris' less-than-perfect family life, as well as a detailed description of his death.

Reading Into the Wild was certainly a different experience than seeing the newly-released movie by Sean Penn. The film is a worthy, beautiful and precise adaptation, but with the book comes (aside from more details about Chris' journey), analysis of other people's journeys into the wilderness that shed light on what Chris might have intended in embarking on such a dangerous journey. Krakauer covers all of his bases, never stopping short of giving as much information as is possible for him to give, making the book a brilliantly conceived page-turner.

In the end, even though Chris' 'story' seems unfinished considering the type of person he was and could have become, there is a sense of completeness; the reader is left with a sense that he truly discovered something worthwhile. Something that really has the power to resonate. Something that he was able to leave behind.

****½/*****

Love in the Time of Cholera — Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Taking on what Oprah was proud to call "the greatest love story" after she announced it as her recent book club book wasn't a particularly harrowing prospect. With the movie coming out this fall, I felt it would be in my best interest to read the book before seeing the movie. Granted, I was skeptical. My appreciation for love stories is vast (and a little sick), so after reading classics like Pride & Prejudice and what I consider to be the greatest modern love story, The Time Traveler's Wife, I took on this book with a sense of, "Oh yeah? We'll see."

First off, reading Garcia Marquez's work is not an easy task. His attention to detail is staggering and, at times, unnecessary. The omniscient narration covers everything, from every physical and historical fact of each character — namely Florentino Ariza and Fermina Daza (the unrequited lovers), and Fermina's husband, Juvenal Urbino — to the history of every building, every town and every random ocean liner. Luckily, it flows well. After getting through the first 50 pages, it becomes less of a challenge. How this is so, I couldn't tell you; I would make it through 30 pages and wonder HOW I could have managed it without falling asleep. It's engaging, but given the expanse of information, it's not that engaging. I just couldn't tell you.

The love story is unlike any I've read, mainly because the characters struggle with their own humanity: Florentino is painfully romantic and obsessive, almost to the point of it being frightening. Fermina is selfish and stubborn, and she doesn't deserve Florentino's adoration. And like James Joyce's Ulysses, Marquez unabashedly includes descriptions of Florentino's bodily ailments, including his need for annual enemas, his loss of teeth and hair. The characters are real, and in no way romanticized. As the years pass (over 50 of them) and the character's experience their lives without each other, you realize that this book is not about their relationship at all. On the contrary, it is about how love can endure through many other loves, and can — even in old age, approaching death — be rediscovered. Life happens, and afterwards, love is still possible.

I can't say I agree with Oprah that Love in the Time of Cholera is the greatest love story, but I can see what she is saying. Like Wuthering Heights, this story is not romantic in the traditional sense. It goes against the grain, exploring love in a world that works against it, with people who are anything but perfect. The read is not easy, but if you are a fan of great writing and great literature, and stories that really do — literally — withstand the test of time, you cannot surpass this book.

****/*****

A Twilight Halloween

'Cause what could be cuter than this? 'Mutts' comic strip + Twilight series = Adorableness mixed with cute cute cute! This week's strips were all about my main couple.

Meet Bella and Edward: a bird who falls in love with a bat.

I know. I know.

The North Calls

I've been absent for a while. School still hasn't started, meaning I've been doing nothing but reading and (sometimes) watching movies. Haven't seen too many people, mostly just my family, and I apologize for being such a weird and non-committal friend. It's not 'cause I don't care.

My thoughts, lately, have been almost entirely focused on The Future. Decisions about money and jobs and location and everything that goes along with that. It's scary that as I'm nearing the end of college -- and my financial security -- I'm realizing exactly how much my major in Theatre isn't going to help me one bit. I'm not entirely sure that working in the theatre is right for me. Not that I'm giving up on it completely, but my heart just doesn't feel in it anymore.

More than anything, I've been thinking about moving. Specifically: where. I try and place myself in a possible atmosphere, knowing that if I can't get the perfect job, I might as well make myself as happy as possible in a place that I love and that I respond well (creatively) to.

Without a shred of doubt, that leads me to Seattle, Washington. For as long as I can remember, I've had a love for Washington and the rain and gray skies and green green green trees. Seattle is my favorite (mid-size) city that I've ever visited, and I've thought of moving there since I was 17. When I got in to University of Washington, it was hard for me to come to terms with not being able to afford going there, since it was my #1 choice. I've realized that no matter what I end up doing post-graduation, I'd be happy as long as I were residing in Seattle.

I can see myself living there forever. Isn't that the most important factor of any place you move?

I dunno what my plan is. I don't know how best to go about making this decision final. I'm scared that I'll be too scared to go through with it. But, as far as I can see, all arrows point North.

I want to write. I feel that I can write ANYTHING in Seattle. Plays, for a newspaper or magazine, stories, whatever. I can teach there. I can have fun and experience art and music and theatre and all the things I love there.

Plus, thinking about the natural landscape, the beauty of the nearby Olympic National Park, the exact type of visual peacefulness that I've always dreamed about... I need to be near that. I want to know it, intimately. I want to feel at home in a place like that.

Yes. I'm certain. That is what I'll be doing once I graduate.

Before then, I need to make some money. Stat.

Wave Me Hello!

I'm finally home. Hurray. When traveling back, it really felt as though I would never make it. But I did. Yes.

My Air India flight actually totally rocked this time -- it always helps when it isn't a night flight and you have an empty buffer seat between you and other people. Plus, I had a window. The guy I sat 'next to' was named Omar, and he's British but have lived in New York City for 12 or so years. He was SO nice, and we talked all about the West Coast (which, thanks to my suggestions, he thinks he might go live there -- either San Diego or Seattle -- for a few months) and also about all the ways to find cheap places to live in NYC. He basically convinced me that bartending would be the best job. I think I might actually take a class, because, as he puts it, "If you're a great bartender in the city, you can make hundreds of dollars a night -- and that is at the upscale places. Everyone would want to hire you." So... that's cool.

But I digress. The flight was great. No worries at all, and it was a relief.

Getting to New York hurt my brain. TOOOOO hot. Not used to the humidity, 'cause England was just so not humid or hot.

My JetBlue flight sucked. Some stupid bitch and her retarded husband confined me to my row, and she kept looking over at me like I was crazy. I was so tired, I tried to pass out, but the bitch was reading a book (OK, I'll give her credit, she read the ENTIRE THING on the flight) and kept her light on. I can't sleep with light, 'cause I hate it, so it was tough. I thought I'd have to be carried off the plane, I was so exhausted.

Thanks to Mom and Dad and Shannon for meeting me at the airport, and apologies for being so incoherent. Sleep was all I needed.

Well. This is it. How sad. I don't know what I'm going to write about now. I guess non-important things. I will probably be writing one more big ENGLAND post, all about what I've learned from traveling and things. But it'll take me a while, 'cause I want it to be right.

Good to be home. Thanks everyone for reading all this time. =)

One final picture, 'cause it sums up my thoughts on traveling.

Not Just Another College Town

While waiting with baited breath to leave my humble room to hunt down some Indian cuisine for dinner, I figured I'd update with what will probably be my last picture post of my time here at King's.

On Friday, the official 'final' day of the program, I went with Mike (of 'the Carlins') to check out several things around town that I had yet to see. Amazing that I'd been here for 8 weeks and still hadn't made my way to certain places.

I started off, actually, having coffee with Abby at Indigo Cafe -- the most popular little cafe for all the King's kids, which is right down a little alleyway across the street. Had never gone, though I'd heard nothing but good things. It's possibly the quaintest, most awesome little cafe, and I can see myself having spent every morning of this programme having coffee/bagel sandwiches there with Carlin. Not to downplay the amazingness that was our time at Starbucks/Borders, but Indigo would have been perhaps a little better.

It was so great in fact, I went there this morning, alone, and had my first official English tea (with a little personal pot and everything), along with a remarkable baguette sandwich (I'll miss those in the States). How lame I am for never having had real tea before today.

I'm actually not going to post too many pics. There are tons. And tons and tons. So I'll include some Wiki-links if you want to know anything more. (This is gonna be boring and not detailed.)

First stop was Queen's College, right next to King's. I'd been there a lot, actually, 'cause I had a section for Drama there. It has some of the oldest buildings in all of Cambridge. ==>

<== Then it was off to Corpus Christi College, which is located basically right across the street from Queen's, and in between King's and Pembroke.

Finally, off to Trinity College, which was.... very grand. Not like King's. Our lawn is way nicer. But the courtyard was ginormous! The grounds were certainly bigger than ours, and you can tell that that's where all the rich kids go. Stupid Henry VIII. ==>

We sneaked out through the back of Trinity in order to try and get into St. John's College. It was interesting, 'cause you're supposed to pay to get in to each of the colleges if you're a visitor. I'm proud to say that we didn't pay to go into a single one.

St. John's presented itself as a challenge, and Mike and I were up for it. We walked all around this enormous lawn and found a little open gate way off to the side, on the other side of the river, and we high-tailed it around and walked right into St. John's. It was definitely worth the effort.

<== As I stated a while back in one of my punting videos, the back entrance to St. John's looks like a giant vagina. Nice change from all the big phalli all over the damn place.

Also, walking through the Bridge of Sighs was pretty frickin' cool. A little starstruck, not gonna lie. ==>

In leaving St. John's, we ran into some fellow PKP-ers were heading to something called Castle Mount -- this hill (one of Cambridge's only) that once had a little castle on it. Sounded good to us, so we followed suit.

It was pretty cool getting to see Cambridge from above. It is one beautiful city.

<== And can you see King's the background?!? We also explored Sidney Sussex College, which is nearer to the market area, but I didn't get any pictures. We were searching (unsuccessfully) for a bathroom.

That night, I went out with a large group of people to The Regal (cheap drinks, good music), I got kind of drunk, I ran across the front and back lawn in the dense fog (as I described in my video I posted yesterday) and it was exhilarating in way I could never really describe.

Perfect last night. Now I'm ready to get the hell out of here.

See the rest of the photos from my college excursion HERE.

Wine, Cheese and Bread Party: Final Edition

I'm sitting at my desk right now with a bottle of Chilean Cab/Merlot, some Boursin cheese and a loaf of bread. These three things are my favorite foods I've had while being here (minus my new favorite Indian dish, chicken bhuna -- yumm!). Except now, instead of enjoying it with Carlin, Sean, Dean and Mark while watching 1940's British war films, I'm doing it alone. For the last time in England. =/ That's kind of sad. It's all as a present to myself while having to pack. (Guys... I have over 13 books to cram into my suitcase... I think I might kill myself.)

I love wine so much, I think someone should be worried. I've had more wine during the last 10 weeks than I could possible count, and while I have kept all the corks, twist-off caps are possible here. I did not keep the twist-off caps. They wouldn't fit in my suitcase. I know that I'm supposed to have grown an attachment to beer (and I have found some amazing beer, such as Kronenberg and Carling, my new loves), but honestly, it has been all about the wine here. Possibly because we get so much of it for free during any and all King's events. I love this school.

Today is an absolutely gorgeous day. Frightening, actually, that on the absolute final day of the programme, as the majority of people are leaving, there are no clouds in the sky, the air is painfully hot, and Cambridge is at its most active. Well, I get to enjoy it at least.

Even though I'm sad that I can't leave to go home sooner, getting to relax here for another day will be fantastic. Not like when I came early, and knew nothing about anything. I'm only sad that no one is around to go to a pub with me. Maybe I can hunt down a TA or something.

I have a few videos for you. Nothing special, just a look around my area of Cambridge and King's. Even though you've seen pictures, they don't always do things justice. So enjoy them.

Boring, I know. But whatever.

The Last Hoorah

The last formal hall was an interesting event. After 4 previous ones, Carlin and I made a promise that we were going to talk to/hang out with/experience our friends that we just hadn't spent enough time with. More importantly -- after all the drama, all the craziness, all the frustration -- we were going to enjoy ourselves.

And by God, we did. I love these people so much.

Mark and I -- prom style! .... Jon, our amazingly breathtaking Brit Brit TA who pretty much ran the show (all the girls loved him, hehe)


Howie (the funniest mo'f on planet earth), the Carlins, and me .... Sean, my favoritest =)


Spencer, Katrina and Megan (I'll miss them!) .... Abby and I -- she and I should have hung out about a thousand times more, ::sniff::, because I love her!


Bri and Cherie ... me and my girl, JennyRae (yay Santa Barbara!)


Dave Scales, everyone's favorite comedian, and the one whom everyone has claimed they would take home with them .... me and my PKP best friend from, literally, day one (who's slightly flashing us)

Will I miss England? No, not really. But I will miss Cambridge and these people. Luckily, most of us are going back to the same state. Except Marshall (not pictured), ::sniff::... stupid Yale student who grew up in Manhattan (92nd and Broadway, can you imagine??).

After the formal dinner, we listened to Spencer and Howie's band, Grover's Cleveland, play (which was fun[ny]), and then danced to some jazz. More dancing ensued in the Cellar, and once it all closed down it was one last trip to the Trailer of Life (or, as Carlin calls it, "the Trailer of Fat Thighs") for burgers.

Stayed up all night with Carlin, who had to leave for the bus station at 5am, talking about the programme and all the people we're gonna miss and all the things we'll have to do when we get back.

A fantastic night, a fantastic full-circle ending.

More videos and pictures to come.

The Walk

For Dad.

Sorry. The video cut out. And apologies for my horrible appearance. It was 9am and my coffee spilled.

Love you!

The Lost Picture Post: It's a Formal Thing!

This film paper is kicking my ass, mainly 'cause my brain is telling me that it's so easy, I shouldn't worry about it. Yeah. It's only due in 9 hours. That's SO MUCH TIME! So blogging it is. (I'll get to the paper, don't you worry 'bout me...)

Tonight is our last formal hall, and I'm excited/sad/anxious about it. It's the very last time we'll all be together, and if I've gotten anything out of the program, it's the people. Some more than others. And others that I wish I hadn't spent so much time with. And some I'm only now realizing would have made my time here even BETTER than it was, which is hard to imagine, but there ya go.

<== that's Oliver and us girls. He's our sexy Australian writer extraordinaire! I'll be taking massive amounts of pictures tonight, of everyone that I haven't yet photographed. I'm actually bringing my camera tonight, which I never do. I usually just steal other people's pictures, like I did in this post, and I've collected more, so I'm posting some here for you to see...

Bri and I, and also our shoes we got in Bath. We're in love with these shoes. LOVE. And also, could I look any more like my father?!? Look at my left eye!! Dad, I'll strangle you for passing me your heavy eye-lid genes...


Carlin and I with our boys: Sean, who is one of our 2 fellow film screening wine drinkers (Dean was nowhere to be found), and then Spencer and Marshall, who kept us laughing and entertained on our long bus ride to and from Edinburgh. We want to somehow see Atonement when it comes out with these kids. They know why.

Hm... guess I don't have as many pictures as I thought I did. There are more picture posts to come, so stay tuned.

Unluck o' the Irish

This is several days past due, and for that, I apologize. I feel as though there is so much to do now that there are only 2 days left of school, and I'll only be in England for about 5 more. Gotta get crackin' on stuff -- mostly my final paper for film. Is it wrong that I just don't care?

This last weekend. Dublin, Ireland. OK.

People in Ireland are probably some of the nicest people I've ever met. Generally speaking, they love Americans, and Americans love them. At least, this is what they loved to tell us.

Carlin and I went with a large group of people (ending up being about 11 of us total), and I'll just say that traveling in large groups is a bad idea. Especially when not everyone has a phone. Dublin isn't a very large city -- on the contrary, it's remarkably small -- but finding people is damn near impossible. That being said, we managed pretty well.

We stayed with our friends, Dan and Austin, at a hotel near the airport. About a 20 minute bus right from the center of the city. A hastle, but what can ya do? Other people stayed at this great hostel in the center of town, right near the Abbey Theatre (which I accidentally stumbled across when heading in that direction -- kind of freaked out, and LOOK! they're doing Woman and Scarecrow by Marina Carr, who, if you remember, came to UCSB when we did By the Bog of Cats and read about half of that play! So good...), and we ended up hanging out at the hostel, drinking a lot, because you can't drink in the streets.

Dublin is the most expensive city I've been to while traveling. It's on the Euro, which should be cheaper, but even compared to Paris it was insanely expensive. I felt like I ran out of money almost instantly. And there weren't any Barclays around, so the conversion rate must have killed me.

Not much happened in Dublin. A few really great moments, surrounded mostly by spending too much money, drinking, losing members of the group, drinking, drama, more drinking, and very cheap food (aka. Burger King and McDonald's -- they LOVE that stuff over here, what is wrong with them?!).

One of the great 'sites' we experienced was the Guinness Factory. First off, the building was totally amazing. I don't think you can go to Dublin and not pay to see this factory. If ever there was a cooler self-guided tour, I can't imagine it.

I don't like Guinness. I'll just put that out there right now. In the States, I think it tastes like heavy, muddy water. OK, that isn't really true, but I'm simply not a fan of super hoppy beer. However, when I tasted the beer from the factory... O. M. G. Though it was still really heavy (too much for me to drink all of it), it was so crisp and refreshing! Who'd have known? I was happy about that. I drank my pint for you, Dad, as you requested. =)

And also: I want to make a barrel. New life goal: make a barrel. Don't even ask me why -- if you saw the barrel-making video at the GF, you'd understand completely. Unquestionably the highlight of that tour. I even bought a Guinness barrel keychain, that's how cool.

On the Sunday we left, the girls hung around and took a bus tour around the city. Normally I hate that sort of thing, but this was actually really cool! We could get off at any stop and get back on the next bus -- which came every 10 minutes or so. All the sites, such as Trinity College, Oscar Wilde's statue/house, the factory, Temple Bar -- you name it, the bus went by it.

Oh. Except for anything related to James Joyce. That's what was weird. Everywhere you go in Dublin, there is some reference to Joyce. But on this tour, his name wasn't mentioned once. Isn't that odd?? I'm not sure what that was about.

I also ran out of batteries in my camera and refused to buy more. No more pictures, sorry. I'll have to steal them from someone else.

In the end (I'm keeping this short and completely free of details) Carlin and I had plane drama, we now want to sue RyanAir (yes, that's right, we're true Americans), we've realized how much we love great, cheap airlines like JetBlue, we wound up paying €75 to get on another flight since we missed our check-in (their fault) and didn't make it home until 1am, and I had two finals starting at 9:30am, neither of which I did a second of studying for.

Yeah. It was annoying. Had we not had a terrible travel time home, I might not be a little bitter at Dublin.

Don't worry, Dublin. I still love you, and Irish people are still really nice (unless they work for RyanAir), and I will come back someday when I have money. Or rather, I'll be going to Dingle, like Kait and Adam suggest, and I'll probably stay away from you for a while. No offense.

Peace.

Sprinkle Sprinkle Sprinkle

Sorry for the lack of postage. It's been difficult to organize what to post and what not to -- so much is going on over here. And right now, I'm still working off my trip to Dublin. I'll probably feel inspired to crank out a few updates today, perhaps tomorrow morning, about Oxford, Dublin, and all the crazy happenings here at the world's most beautiful college from the mid-15th century.

I still owe you all Cambridge pictures. There is still so much more campus to see!

My picture taking has been lousy, but I just bought batteries, so I can capture the last week with no problem. My finals are finished now, and all I have left is a 2000 word essay analyzing two scenes from movies. I'm getting my hopes up, most likely, that it'll be super easy, so I haven't started yet.

I'm just grateful that my classes are finished. This has been an insanely busy 7 weeks, academically. And socially, which makes the academic thing all the more difficult.

Soon.

Brighton: The City of Bromance

Made my lonesome way down to Brighton -- the British Miami -- this last Friday to visit Barbara for part of the weekend and to see the school/town I almost studied in this summer. It's strange to think how close I came to not coming to Cambridge! Either way, it was a very chill weekend. Seeing Barb was, of course, awesome!

First, the place is huge, and so bright!! Basically, if Santa Barbara and San Francisco had a baby, it would be Brighton. It's so much like coastal California except it's gayer, if you can believe it. Because not only are there gay men everywhere, all the straight men act/look/sound gay too. Or "gay," rather -- the stereotypical sense of the word. And the accent doesn't help. My gaydar went haywire and then ceased to work after about 15 minutes of walking around The Lanes, which is a very windy, English-esque collection of streets that have pubs, shops and, well, people (gay men?) galore. I can't even say that I saw a lot of gay men while being there.

They may have been straight, who knows!

We went out to a club after hitting up a bar on Friday night, but the club was... well, it was Babylon, for those of you who I've forced "Queer as Folk" upon. Just with straight people, and girls. But not more girls than guys... on the contrary, guys were everywhere, which is strange, considering they aren't as prevalent in Cambridge clubs. Not that it really mattered: the guys (the straight ones!) had no interest in any girls, unless they were there with them. They were just interested in dancing with each other.

Yes, you read correctly: each other. I dunno, this place was whack. I wasn't drunk enough (or tipsy enough) not to laugh at most of the guys, who looked like models, but in a creepy, artificial kind of way.

It was a lot of fun just to watch people, 'cause it was SOOOOO different from being in Cambridge. The girls at least stand a chance of meeting someone here, even if they aren't as "attractive" or as good at dancing. It's all relative, I say. I like the intellectual, dorky, non-muscle-y types. =)

Pubs, pubs, and more pubs. Even in the middle of the day -- it is Barb's favorite activity. Heh, what else was there to do to distract us from shopping?

Didn't help, though. I bought three pairs of shoes. :|

On Saturday it was just wandering around, shopping, sitting in the park with cider and then going out to the Brighton Pier before heading back to campus (a whopping 20-minute bus ride away!) to get my stuff to leave.

On the pier.... we got donuts. Really good, warm, sugar-y donuts.

Here's me, enjoying my first bite! See that bird in the background? See how it looks like it is plotting some Hitchcockean destruction??

Just like my canon incident, this picture was taken about 5 seconds before a bird swooped out of nowhere and snatched my entire donut from my hand!

It happened so quickly, I could barely process the strange whoosh! and nip that grazed my thumb before seeing my poor donut plummet to the rocky beach below.

I didn't know whether to hunt it down or give it a gold medal. Barb and I like to think he did it on a dare. Hopefully he got a nice girl seagull out of it, the little dick.

The beach, as you can see, is enormous, but all rocks. But they're not sharp, at least, just smooth and round. It really is a British paradise, if ever there was one.

Good two days, overall. Travel wasn't a problem, though it took longer than I would have liked. I was just proud of myself for not getting on the wrong train.

Didn't get to see Charlie, unfortunately, didn't get to meet too many of Barb's friends. But it was still great! It was so very different from Cambridge, and while Brighton is totally happenin', I am glad (for me) that I came to Cambridge. Just simply for knowing that the building I'm currently sitting in is older than ANY BUILDING in the United States. That's pretty trippy.

Peace.

PS. Here are additional links to more photos:
Sheringham + Stonehenge
Bath + Salisbury
Brighton

Day Trips: A Montage

I'm going to try and keep this short and concise (ha! yeah right). It isn't full of much "happenings," just pictures and places. I just have too much to do, paper-wise, here and I should be researching for my terrifying Early/Modern British Theatre paper. What was I thinking taking that class?!?

Weekend trips: Go!
Sheringham

This is a beach front town on the North Sea -- about a 3 hour train ride from Cambridge. It was just a small group of us that went, lead by the amazing Jacqui, and we honestly did nothing but lounge around all day.

The town reminds me a little bit of a coast town in Maine. Like... seafood and ice cream everywhere. Just with more pubs.

It's hard to get used to the heat in England. I don't like it. I'm used to cloudy, semi-rainy, chilly weather now, and it is what I would prefer. Yes, I know it's summer, but I can't help it.

Sheringham was interesting. I'll just say this: I never want to hear an English person say ever again that American's are overweight. I have never seen so many lumpy (and unattractive) people in my life. And not only that, but they were like caricatures of real people. And too many people here own Crocs, which I think should be outlawed. I don't care if they're comfortable. Basically, while eating our fish & chips, lounging against a concrete wall overlooking the water, we people-watched like no time in my recent memory, and there were 1,000-page stories a minute, let me tell ya.

The beach, itself, was kind of a joke. When we got there the tide was up -- all the way up. And yet, there were still people on the rocks, soaking up the rarely-seen British sun. I mean...

Right? This is Britain, ya'll. Oy vey. I don't even wanna know what they'd do if they saw a Hawai'i beach.

It was an all-day outing, not too eventful, but fun nonetheless. It was good to hang out with people and just do nothing.

Stonehenge

This is definitely going to be a short section.

I saw it. It was there. I beheld it in all it's mysterious Celtic glory. That's it.

There really isn't anything to report other than
a) It was really cool to see,
b) I don't understand why people have to pay to see it, considering it's right on the side of the highway and all you'd really need to do is pull over,
c) There were way too many people there, and
d) It would have been worth it had I been able to get close to the stones and touch them... or something.

And could this picture be any less attractive of me? Yuck-O.

We were only there for an hour. It was like the Grand Canyon. "Great, there it is..... Let's go."

Then we headed off to...

Bath

My favorite town I've been to since being abroad, hands-down. It wasn't like Edinburgh -- which was a constant party, and totally happenin' town -- but it was a town I could see myself moving to, working in, and raising a family in.
The only thing we really "did" was see the Roman Baths. Not remarkable, but interesting nonetheless.

We got big phones from circa 1982 that informed us about all the sexy bath history.

That picture up-left looks like I'm about to pop-a-squat. Hot!

Anyway, I just loved the town. I dunno. We didn't do much -- mainly us girls shopped and walked around while making the guys tag along (they were such troopers, really), and I just got to enjoy the atmosphere of Bath. It was a little downtown Santa Barbara, a little Piedmont (geographically) and a little Ashland -- only with lots and lots of British flare!

If you want to go and spend a month or two in a cottage somewhere and just enjoy the British life, go to Bath. That's all I can say.

Salisbury

This was kind of a pointless outing. We stopped here for a few hours on our way home, to see Salisbury Cathedral. Well, our group actually went to the Evensong service (which totally blew compared to the King's Chapel performance! Salisbury choir is not good... not even kind of)... we were supposed to take a tour, but it started later than we could do, so we just found a pub and had some food before getting back on the bus to pass out for the 3 hour drive home.

The cathedral was beautiful, yes, but after a while they just all start to look the same. I mean... I get it: Gothic architecture: Amazing. I still think King's Chapel is the best.
The highlight of Salisbury was the menagerie of white swans in the river.

I mean... crap, they were everywhere and they're mutants! They were huge! And I felt sorry for the ducks who just wanted food. Granted, they held their own.

Alright. Yay. England! Wahoo!

This weekend will see me heading down to Barb and Charlie in Brighton for Friday and Saturday and then back up to go to Oxford on Sunday. Another busy weekend of traveling, but I am excited to see more of England, because that is my reason for being here.

I have so much to do in the next 3 weeks. And I may just not pass my British Theatre class because I've never taken a class more hard or complicated in my life.

I mean, check out my paper topic!

What do plays matter in Shakespeare's time?

What?!?! Vague, much?! Broad, endless topics infuriate me. I'm too much of a generalizer when topics aren't specific.

Oh well. Off to read about morality in Elizabethan and Jacobean tragedy. Wish me luck that I don't have an aneurysm.

PS. A shout-out to Carlin for introducing me through praise to Jeff Buckley, who is now my music companion. I needed to stop listening to Joshua Radin, Snow Patrol and The Smiths on constant repeat, despite how bomb they are. Buckley's remarkable, and very much my taste in music. Though, I still maintain that no one sings "Hallelujah" like Rufus does. I find it blasphemy to say otherwise.