I think I have just had the brainwave that not only am I wordy, I am mobile and wordy! Oh, this could be genius. It's like mobile Facebook, but better.
Test-posting from my phone, y'all!
From: http://arttattler.com/archiverussiancourtprotocol.html
Monday, March 4, 2013
Hey, Look - It's Me!
So, a couple of weeks ago, someone pointed out to me that if I open a different browser, I can sign into the account that lets me post to this blog without logging out my school and personal accounts in my other browser session (which I can never close because I am a tab-a-holic), and I think this advice is basically genius because it removes the chief obstacle to my posting here.
Yes; I have been stiffing you all because I am too lazy to log out of two email accounts and into a third.
But, on the plus side, I've kind of also been doing things like applying to grad schools and having interviews and trying to distill a paper proposal for my senior project, so we could, objectively speaking, say that I've been too busy to write.
Which sounds ever so much better than that I was too lazy to hit a few keystrokes.
That said, hello!
I've been having some thoughts about thoughts, lately. Which could sound terribly academic and abstruse and "meta," if I wanted it to, but I'm rapidly coming to despise that sort of arcane nonsense, and so I will say instead that it is actually born of very concrete and frustrating experience.
Like I said, I have been attempting to put together a one-to-two page project proposal for my senior project. More to the point, I have been busily engaged in the process of not-writing a single page for three weeks. And it isn't because I've been lolling about (well, except for the one afternoon I curled up in the sunshine on the floor like a cat, but everyone enjoys Sabbath rest in a different way...).
No - it's because I've been thinking.
About coffee.
My thoughts are like coffee.
They require percolation before they may be deemed ready for consumption.
Once percolated, they can be consumed black, if you insist, but they'll really be better if stirred up a bit and sweetened with cream and sugar.
And you see, the problem with a paper proposal, and the reason why I detest the words almost as much as "annotated bibliography," is that a paper proposal wants to know what direction you are going to go for the rest of your paper.
"It's just an overview," says my advisor, but the simple fact is, (perhaps I'm doing this wrong), I haven't the faintest idea where my paper is headed until I've immersed myself in the research for a while and come up with about eight possible directions and then researched some more and followed a tangent and scribbled down a whole bunch of ideas very illegibly around the sides of a paper and tried to write an overall proposal or thesis at least three times. Then, and only then, may I be able to present you with something like an adequate picture of what I want to write about.
Which still, by the way, may not be entirely the same as what I end up writing about.
I understand that research should have direction, but for some reason, my head insists on thinking about things backwards.
I never start out with one definitive question to answer in research, because I find that the problem is that somebody has inevitably already answered it. And since quoting the entirety of somebody else's text is, it would seem, academically discouraged, I am always left with the sad state of an answered question and a defunct paper topic.
Call me a true child of the liberal arts, but if I wanted answers to my questions, I'd have studied math! (Well, and if I'd ever learned my multiplication tables.)
No - what I want are not answers, even, but connections. I don't want just answers - I want new ways to think about other people's answers. I want to raise questions, not answers. I'd like to think that I can make people think about other people's thoughts...which is really just a long-winded way of saying I like to suggest slightly fractious and unorthodox ideas, throw them carelessly out on the winds of dialogue, and see who bites, and how hard, while I stuff my face with candy bars in the corner.
But, in order to do this, I find that I must know other people's ideas first, and in sufficient quantity to begin yanking them out of their respective books (or fields or traditions or disciplines or specialties) and tying them together into something that approximates a decent picture of what History was actually like...every bit as complicated and inter-disciplinary and non-bullet-pointed as our modern world.
I can give you a page of proposal before my research...if you want me to make it up, and turn in something completely different.
But, if you want to know what I really think about something complex, in academics or in life, give me time, and let me play outside the box for a while.
When I've bunny-trailed and false-started and flipped out and panned out, when I've stained the margins with every kind of commentary and crumb, then I will be able to tell you what research I am going to use, what more I need to read, and what I am really going to write about.
I cannot have thoughts on a schedule.
But I will have thoughts eventually. Adequate stewing, adequate brewing.
Yes; I have been stiffing you all because I am too lazy to log out of two email accounts and into a third.
But, on the plus side, I've kind of also been doing things like applying to grad schools and having interviews and trying to distill a paper proposal for my senior project, so we could, objectively speaking, say that I've been too busy to write.
Which sounds ever so much better than that I was too lazy to hit a few keystrokes.
That said, hello!
I've been having some thoughts about thoughts, lately. Which could sound terribly academic and abstruse and "meta," if I wanted it to, but I'm rapidly coming to despise that sort of arcane nonsense, and so I will say instead that it is actually born of very concrete and frustrating experience.
Like I said, I have been attempting to put together a one-to-two page project proposal for my senior project. More to the point, I have been busily engaged in the process of not-writing a single page for three weeks. And it isn't because I've been lolling about (well, except for the one afternoon I curled up in the sunshine on the floor like a cat, but everyone enjoys Sabbath rest in a different way...).
No - it's because I've been thinking.
About coffee.
My thoughts are like coffee.
They require percolation before they may be deemed ready for consumption.
Once percolated, they can be consumed black, if you insist, but they'll really be better if stirred up a bit and sweetened with cream and sugar.
And you see, the problem with a paper proposal, and the reason why I detest the words almost as much as "annotated bibliography," is that a paper proposal wants to know what direction you are going to go for the rest of your paper.
"It's just an overview," says my advisor, but the simple fact is, (perhaps I'm doing this wrong), I haven't the faintest idea where my paper is headed until I've immersed myself in the research for a while and come up with about eight possible directions and then researched some more and followed a tangent and scribbled down a whole bunch of ideas very illegibly around the sides of a paper and tried to write an overall proposal or thesis at least three times. Then, and only then, may I be able to present you with something like an adequate picture of what I want to write about.
Which still, by the way, may not be entirely the same as what I end up writing about.
I understand that research should have direction, but for some reason, my head insists on thinking about things backwards.
I never start out with one definitive question to answer in research, because I find that the problem is that somebody has inevitably already answered it. And since quoting the entirety of somebody else's text is, it would seem, academically discouraged, I am always left with the sad state of an answered question and a defunct paper topic.
Call me a true child of the liberal arts, but if I wanted answers to my questions, I'd have studied math! (Well, and if I'd ever learned my multiplication tables.)
No - what I want are not answers, even, but connections. I don't want just answers - I want new ways to think about other people's answers. I want to raise questions, not answers. I'd like to think that I can make people think about other people's thoughts...which is really just a long-winded way of saying I like to suggest slightly fractious and unorthodox ideas, throw them carelessly out on the winds of dialogue, and see who bites, and how hard, while I stuff my face with candy bars in the corner.
But, in order to do this, I find that I must know other people's ideas first, and in sufficient quantity to begin yanking them out of their respective books (or fields or traditions or disciplines or specialties) and tying them together into something that approximates a decent picture of what History was actually like...every bit as complicated and inter-disciplinary and non-bullet-pointed as our modern world.
I can give you a page of proposal before my research...if you want me to make it up, and turn in something completely different.
But, if you want to know what I really think about something complex, in academics or in life, give me time, and let me play outside the box for a while.
When I've bunny-trailed and false-started and flipped out and panned out, when I've stained the margins with every kind of commentary and crumb, then I will be able to tell you what research I am going to use, what more I need to read, and what I am really going to write about.
I cannot have thoughts on a schedule.
But I will have thoughts eventually. Adequate stewing, adequate brewing.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Why I Write A Words Blog
There's a funny thing about a lot of blogs, and it annoys me. We call
it authorship, "writing a blog," but many, many blogs and websites are
actually collections of images with precious few words.
Not, of course, that there is anything wrong with images. Pictures are powerful, are arresting, are singular. They can do things that words cannot. But, to riff on the theme of an earlier post of mine, are they really worth a thousand words?
Perhaps a photograph is, particularly if it has real memories behind it. In a photograph, you can see what your grandparents looked like in 1950's Hawaii, better than you could ever imagine. A photograph can show you, my readers, what I saw in Versailles in much more detail than you could construe in your heads, unless you, too, have been there. Photographs are excellent for depicting outside things, for capturing a dynamic between people, or the exact look of a place.
But the interesting thing about the blog world is that so much of it is based on the dynamic inside our heads. It is usually one writer, one reader, both likely conducting their interaction silently. It is a one-on-one world, for the most part. Even the images on blogs are very often devoted to capturing someone's essence, to creating an image that supposedly expresses their inner self, and we as a society eat this up. Fashion blogs abound, where the only purpose is to show off your personal style. We have Tumblrs and Pinterest, especially in the female blogosphere, inundating our minds with image after image after image.
But do you ever log off of Pinterest or leave a favorite blog feeling tired, disappointed - bored? All those pictures that used to inspire me suddenly feel hackneyed, cliche. I forsake my old fashion muses every couple of years not because my fashion sense has grown, but because the blog I'm following hasn't. After a while, most image-based blogs and websites seem to develop a formula, and in turn this formula begins to show you not the inspiring, creative personality and artistry that you began following the blog for, but instead a typecast persona. You begin to recognize the bywords, the key pieces of the "look," and once you do this you can suddenly do a quick Google search and dredge up every other person on the planet who has chosen the same "type" or "persona" for her image.
Not, of course, that there is anything wrong with images. Pictures are powerful, are arresting, are singular. They can do things that words cannot. But, to riff on the theme of an earlier post of mine, are they really worth a thousand words?
Perhaps a photograph is, particularly if it has real memories behind it. In a photograph, you can see what your grandparents looked like in 1950's Hawaii, better than you could ever imagine. A photograph can show you, my readers, what I saw in Versailles in much more detail than you could construe in your heads, unless you, too, have been there. Photographs are excellent for depicting outside things, for capturing a dynamic between people, or the exact look of a place.
But the interesting thing about the blog world is that so much of it is based on the dynamic inside our heads. It is usually one writer, one reader, both likely conducting their interaction silently. It is a one-on-one world, for the most part. Even the images on blogs are very often devoted to capturing someone's essence, to creating an image that supposedly expresses their inner self, and we as a society eat this up. Fashion blogs abound, where the only purpose is to show off your personal style. We have Tumblrs and Pinterest, especially in the female blogosphere, inundating our minds with image after image after image.
But do you ever log off of Pinterest or leave a favorite blog feeling tired, disappointed - bored? All those pictures that used to inspire me suddenly feel hackneyed, cliche. I forsake my old fashion muses every couple of years not because my fashion sense has grown, but because the blog I'm following hasn't. After a while, most image-based blogs and websites seem to develop a formula, and in turn this formula begins to show you not the inspiring, creative personality and artistry that you began following the blog for, but instead a typecast persona. You begin to recognize the bywords, the key pieces of the "look," and once you do this you can suddenly do a quick Google search and dredge up every other person on the planet who has chosen the same "type" or "persona" for her image.
Think about it. You can get the HelloGiggles/New Girl/500 Days of Summer type, often known as the "manic pixie dreamgirl." You can get the one who posts pictures of broken dolls and Japanese kittens and blood and skulls. You can get the angry liberal feminist, the sweater-knitting Austenite, the high-fashion platform-heel New Yorker, the cheery sorority bopper, the trippy-hippie who makes her own facewash. I find it terribly frustrating that these are flattened into separate entities in media, whereas in real life they have a much greater tendency to coincide, at least in trace amounts, in the same person's life and image.
And then I wonder: would these images be so distinct if all we had were words?
Imagine each of these girls blogged only with words. You would, of course, still have typecasting. But would it be as strong? You see, I wonder if our modern brains aren't on image-overload to such a degree that we just qualify things and throw them into separate mental piles because we have to. If we didn't, we'd be overwhelmed by trying to process the thousand Instagrams and pinboards and blog posts that make up each personality's internet representation. We can't do it, as readers and viewers. And I have a suspicion that after a while the bloggers can't do it, either. Business or boredom sets in on their end, and, defeated by the sheer variety of images they are exposed to, the unlimited number of possible pictures to post or re-post, these bloggers begin to adopt a "type" at least semi-consciously.
Perhaps this is the nature of the beast. After all, besides private diaries and letters, no one has ever really tried keeping up a constant stream of engaging personal writing before. And the letters would not have been terribly interesting outside of the writer's rather immediate circle of acquaintances. As for the diaries, unless someone has curious and ill-mannered relatives with no self-restraint, a real personal diary is rarely of interest to anyone except dusty historians and other writers of sentences, stage, or screen, all of whom are born with a voyeuristic impulse that can never quite be content to inhabit merely the mind and the scenario it was given. Perhaps blogs will only hold human interest for so long, no matter what the combination of words and images. After all, if we read what even our favorite novelists wrote every day, sooner or later we would become privy to some boring, repetitious junk. No one can write great prose all of the time.
Still, it strikes me that prose writing has been the mainstay of storytelling for some centuries for a reason. Arguably, it has even held up better than film and television, because of it's ability to present both internal and external experiences without having to resort to symbolism or soliloquy. Picture books, in our society, are usually for children. They rely on a big, bright image on every page, to convey one idea, one sentence of captioning explanation, to ingrain one idea into a child's head. When authors want to break away from the one image, the one idea, the one-dimensional, they tend to include more words and fewer pictures. Overtime, the greatest stories of human life have been relayed in words. Words can be multifaceted and twisted, they can blend disparate elements, they can draw together a complex image that might actually contain more content, more emotion, and more reality than what anyone can shoot through a lens. Are they thoroughly superior? Of course not. But to my mind they allow for greater dimensionality and more divergence and variety in the image that an author creates. They are also easy. They require no camera, no lighting. And yet they are hard. You cannot Google search for exactly the right sentence, that one with just the feel you were looking for. Words have to be made anew more frequently than pictures, because you cannot find that exact sentence that you need. You might find a quote, perhaps a line or two, but the words of others are very difficult to integrate into your own writing, whereas the pictures of others can be dropped in at will. Copy, paste, add prior URL.
This is not to demean those who make their own photography and images, be they computerized or fine art. They work a miracle, and do a deed that few of us can do. They can take our breath away in an instant, with one glimpse, faster than any text. But can they keep us engaged? Rare is the picture that you really stare at for hours, though they do exist. Much more frequent the book we will devote hours to, even if the story is only mediocre. Human nature or culture, I don't know, but I do know that after a while, we crave more than images, images, images. We want to know what we're looking at, where it's from, when it was taken, who made it. Perhaps we will tire of all blogs in time, anyway. But perhaps the bloggers are not feeding us enough of their real complexities.
Perhaps, in a sea of images, we are missing a true image of the actual writers, as we would know them in person. If the internet is to be communication and connection, it must communicate more than stereotypes and adopted personas.
And so, in an instant world, I have chosen to fight the uphill battle and hope that people will take the time to read my words. They are not great ones, they are not timeless ones, and very likely you will all sometimes find them deadly dull ones. But I think in words, and I want to try to do more than adopt a persona and find a niche. I don't think that other bloggers mean to typecast themselves, but eventually it seems to happen, one way or another. I can't promise that it won't. But I can promise that I am not re-posting or pinning or insta-whatevering my words. If that's not enough to try to combat the flattening effect of the internet, then I don't know what is.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
I'm Not Dead Yet...
It occurred to me the other day that I still have quite literally thousands of Europe photos that no one has ever seen. Well, that and the fact that I miss my loving virtual audience. So, my rather cranky little computer having been mended, I figure that I shall begin posting both recaps of Europe and other things that capture my fancy on here, for the benefit, amusement, or simply the better procrastinatory capability of my friends, followers, and relations. I believe I said something in my very first post about how I wasn't sure what this blog would turn into after my study abroad. I'm still not, but I can't see why that's any reason not to be writing it. Perhaps I'll find out along the way! Do join me.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
I See Your True Colors
Being as I am known, among many other artistic things, to
have an interest in clothes, I thought that perhaps a few words on my observations of European
fashion were due. I am not about to give
a guide on how to obtain it – first of all, it’s as diverse as American fashion
is these days. When the runways showcase
everything from lace to athletic mesh, how can you possibly pick one look as
"stylish"? Besides that, I don't wear it myself, and so, being unpracticed in the genre, do not presume to offer tips. That said, I thought I’d offer a few of my
observations, just for kicks. Clearly,
these are not universally accurate, but they’ll serve as a general picture of
fashion quirks, I think, for those of you who are interested in this sort of
thing.
1.) Tights, tights. Tights.
Girls in Brussels seem to wear tights with their dresses even on the
(relatively few) days that I have considered it warm enough to ditch the
legwear. And they live here, so you’d
expect them to be less cold than me. But
I don’t think it’s necessarily a temperature thing or a fashion statement so
much as a cultural difference. Even when
going out, Belgian girls wear a lot of tights, usually in solid, dark colors,
or pants. During the day, they layer
tights under most shorts and dresses.
Bare legs, especially if your hem is anywhere above the knee, are just really
unusual on any age here. During our one
warm week, way back in March, I was definitely the only person on the tram – or
the campus, as far as I saw – to ditch pants and tights completely for a
knee-length dress with a blazer. And I
definitely drew some weird looks in both places. In America, I would assume this was because
of the paper-whiteness of my legs, but the vast percentage of girls here don’t
have a whole lot more color than I do.
So my only thought is that a skirt that would be completely modest in
the US, especially in the roasting climes of Texas, possibly came off as odd or
daring here. I’ve stuck to tights since
then – fortunately, I’m known in my native land for having a collection!
2.) Modest fit in general, really. My tights mistake aside, it’s nice to see the
girls on the dance floors fully clad here, by and large, and it’s not just their
stocking affinity. Short,
stretch-tastic, and skintight clothes, à
la Forever 21, are not as common here –
despite the fact that they have enormous Forever 21 stores. Hmm.
Granted, I’m kind of the anti-authority on typical going out, but on my
few forays into the mainstream, the variety of outfits is much greater, and the
clothes are more luxe, loose, and unintentional than American nighttime wear. There is a bit more of that “Oh, I just
happened to toss this fabulous silk top on over my flowy pants and killer heels”
thing going on here. This is enhanced by
the next point, which is
3.) Natural hair texture.
Either the girls in Brussels have all given up on trying to style that which
will get rained upon daily, or they were smart enough never to try. I have given up so much as a blowdryer,
because it’s useless. First of all, you
will not make it through 99% of the days here without getting wet. Secondly, even if you do, no one else will
have bothered. I have seen so many more
curls, waves, and natural flyaways here.
Pin-straight strands are practically a non-entity for any age. What does exist, however, is
4.) Wild Hair. If hair is
noticeably styled, it’s often pretty edgy.
This applies to men and women.
There are definitely a lot more adventurous hairstyles in practice, as
opposed to just on posters, here. Most
of these are, in my unsolicited opinion, not a good thing. There is a small but still alarmingly common subset
of girls who sport shaved patches on one side of their heads, the rest left
long. I seriously hope this trend does
not cross the Atlantic. Partially
because I think it’s terribly harsh and confusing; moreso because I cannot see
it without wanting to crack, “Hey, the 80’s called. And Cindy Lauper made great music, but she
wants her hair back!” After which joke,
another voice inside my head invariably says, “Hey, middle-school called. And it wants that joke back!” and the whole
mental conversation goes rapidly downhill from there. So, we’ll move on to
5.) Tailored clothing.
This is the big Euro-vs-America difference, fashion-wise. Sweatpants are a very rare sighting. Ugg boots happen, but not on every other
female for three months solid. And never
with running shorts. (Save me!) Blazers are common, and even sweatshirts look
like they came from a real-clothes store, not a university give-away. Ditto for tee shirts. This applies across all age groups. Even old people wear nice leather shoes and
clothing that isn’t half lycra-spandex.
That said,
6.) Sneakers are actually way
more common in Europe than in the US, especially on young women, but, they’re not exactly New Balance
running shoes, either. In fact, I don’t
think I’ve spotted a single pair of white, blimp-like tennies, on anyone. But slim-line sneakers, like Converse, Keds,
Bensimons, or similar, are way common, even with the aforementioned dresses and
tights. They’re kind of like the Euro
equivalent of the flip-flop or the basic ballet flat. The wear-everywhere shoe of Europe. Totally didn’t expect that. Also, TOMS shoes, while I saw them all over
Scotland, do not abound in Belgium.
7.) Coats. I mean, first
of all, it’s still cold here and it’s MAY, for goodness sakes, but even so, the
girls around here are still in jackets, sweaters, and coats, even on the warmer
afternoons when I take any excuse to ditch my coat. Maybe coats are just so habitual here that no
one thinks of not wearing them? Or maybe
it’s just my intense hatred of bulky, dull winter-wear, and my correspondingly
intense joy at any sign of sunshine around here. But I really do think they wear coats and
layers in weather that many Americans would consider too warm for such.
8.) And, my rant. Young
men in harem pants! Okay, so they’re not
really harem pants. But, there is this perfectly
vile trend among some of the youthful males over here to wear the most
horrendous pants I have ever seen, bar none.
Imagine the low-slung, falling-off-the-tush jeans of the nineties. The ones Cher bemoans in Clueless. Got that image? Now, meld the top half of those with the
bottom half of a hipster’s skinny jeans.
Keep the crotch-seam flopping loosely around the knee-area, then narrow
the baggy legs to taper down into tight calves, and then puddle around the
ankles. Which, it may be noted, they
wouldn’t have to do if the waistbands were in the same zipcode as the natural
waist. Wear with pointy-toed shoes (which
even straight men wear, here) and my gag-reflex will react palpably. Give me
a guy in a pair of Wranglers any day over those monstrosities! Besides the fact is that pants are –
shockingly – made to cover the lower end of one’s torso more than just one’s
legs. Vide, shorts. Not tush-less
legwarmers. Those aren’t pants. They’re just heinous.
Ah, yes, you say, but with (or in spite of) all of this, are
they really more stylish than us?
Excluding the bizarre American propensity for confusing casual clothing
and gymwear, and comparing them to Americans who bother to wear real clothes, my
answer is:
Not really.
I’ve seen some really great outfits here. But I’ve seen plenty of fabulous looks in the
US, too. If there is one aspect where
the Europeans continually have a leg up, it is probably fit. You ever see that girl wearing the latest fad
in completely the wrong size? Well, you
almost never see her here. I don’t know
whether people tailor things more, or whether the intentional looseness and
oversized character of the current trends is responsible, though. It could just be that they’re better here at
buying the proper size because they don’t mind things being looser. But since the same fit is really trending on
both sides of the ocean right now (thanks, internet), maybe I’m imagining
things. After all, Stacey and Clinton
say that if you don’t have fit, then you don’t have style. In this arena, my fellow Americans, we may be
noticeably losing. But I’d say we certainly
advertise the same style. J Crew, which
seems to be the current American fashion darling, hasn’t featured a fitted
sweater in its lookbook in seasons. It
will be interesting to go back and compare.
I also think it depends on where you’re from in the US,
though. After all, Belgium is a tiny
country, compared to my state alone.
Maybe up north-east in the US, people dress more like Belgians. From a city Texan’s perspective, though,
clothes here fit beautifully and are usually nicely tailored, but gosh, they’re
a little bit dull, long-term! So many
neutrals. And to my mind, navy blazers
and khakis can only be so interesting, no matter how fabulous their details
are. I enjoy seeing bright sundresses
and blue snakeskin sandals and bright orange bangles around. It’s funny, but that’s one of my lingering
comparisons between Brussels and Austin.
Here, the buildings are grey, and the coats are mostly neutral. Though I will miss my friends in Brussels
immensely, something in my soul longs for my City with the Violet Crown. For restaurants painted strange, weird, Tex-Mex
colors. And for my OPI nail polish
called, appropriately, “Austin-tatious Turquoise,” which I am considering wearing
as a celebratory measure for a good two or three weeks once I get home.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
A Sunny Tale for a Rainy Day
While cleaning my room today, I came across my travel notebook/diary, and of course, sat down to reread it, because it's no good cleaning a room if you can't sit down in the middle of the unresolved mess and read your findings.
I don't usually mix my personal diary, my travel notebook, and my blog, but sometimes I am possessed of the urge to write, and whatever notebook (or keyboard) that is closest receives the story. On this occasion, I found a charming little journal entry in my travel book, though, and thought that perhaps it was just the thing to share.
If you have been reading my posts since the beginning, you will know that Luxembourg was the first country I saw besides Belgium this semester. But that time it was only the American War Cemetery, and then we drove almost immediately back into southern Belgium for Bastogne and the Battle of the Bulge. In March, on one of the few lovely, sunny days that we have had all spring here, I went again, with the same study-abroad group but this time to see the European Investment Bank (which was dull) and to ramble around in Luxembourg City. I hereby provide you with a briefly edited transcription of my immediate account of that wonderful day:
Wednesday, March 21st, 2012
I am currently riding, reclining sideways, across two seats of a bus through Luxembourg! I have spent the most wonderful afternoon with my friends here - beautiful photographer K., lone adventurer M, and charming sophisticate A. - skipping the guided tour (for once) to spend an afternoon wandering around this beautiful, beautiful place. K's date lives here, so she knows some of the history and all the good views and a fabulous, delightful little chocolate shop right next to the Grand Ducal Palace, so really we did our own tour, with spontaneous excursions and copious romantic photoshoots.
We ate fancy hamburgers outside on a wide, sunny-and-shady Luxembourg street, then we wandered at will through the golden city (so many of the buildings are soft, warm yellow), taking photos in archways, all rushing out of the way of cars, the nicest cars I've seen in Europe, plastering ourselves against the medieval walls, laughing. The drivers always smiled, too; a rare and lovely thing in Europe. Warm and weak after walking so much, somehow quite literally uphill both ways, we stopped in the top floor of the chocolate shop, cool but warmly lit by the rustic windows, for a chill glass of pinot noir rose, which was delicious. Then, I bought two little "framboise noir" chocolates, and ate them walking back to the bus in the late afternoon sun. And we're still not yet done. We're going to see a Belgian castle and another glorious old church, and then be fed a traditional Ardennes meal.
It is days - little escapes into paradise - like these that turn the grey, dull Brussels experience into something not only bearable but wonderful. I feel so happy wandering the canal-streets of Amsterdam, photographing the other-worldly light effects of Delft, rambling over the hills of Luxembourg with three fresh, artistic friends! For just a day, all the stress of school and grades and unhappiness with myself is gone - it's simply no use thinking about it, because it's left briefly at home and I can't do anything about it, here - only see and learn and laugh and relax and enjoy myself, and lie in the sunlight on a softly speeding bus, still tasting raspberry chocolates. I don't remember being this happy - this content - this free - since Scotland.
I wish more days of my life could be like this. I feel a little oddly like Jenny in the film An Education, when she says that she's been fabulous places and seen beautiful and exciting things. Brussels was such a letdown, and I always have scoffed at Jenny for thinking academics were not equally interesting and alive, but...now I finally am going to breathtaking places and seeing things that I can see nowhere else, and may only see once in my life, and there is something so different about feeling the breeze on your skin and the sun on your back and the heart-deep feeling of satisfaction and glory that comes with such pleasant new experiences. No essay ever gave me that, no matter how good it was by the end.
It does make one think, a bit.
~
Cara
Never fear, oh my friends - my academic will is a strong as ever, and my term papers are progressing. But nevertheless, that, my friends, is why I shall never regret that I came on this otherwise somewhat turbulent abroad semester.
I don't usually mix my personal diary, my travel notebook, and my blog, but sometimes I am possessed of the urge to write, and whatever notebook (or keyboard) that is closest receives the story. On this occasion, I found a charming little journal entry in my travel book, though, and thought that perhaps it was just the thing to share.
If you have been reading my posts since the beginning, you will know that Luxembourg was the first country I saw besides Belgium this semester. But that time it was only the American War Cemetery, and then we drove almost immediately back into southern Belgium for Bastogne and the Battle of the Bulge. In March, on one of the few lovely, sunny days that we have had all spring here, I went again, with the same study-abroad group but this time to see the European Investment Bank (which was dull) and to ramble around in Luxembourg City. I hereby provide you with a briefly edited transcription of my immediate account of that wonderful day:
Wednesday, March 21st, 2012
I am currently riding, reclining sideways, across two seats of a bus through Luxembourg! I have spent the most wonderful afternoon with my friends here - beautiful photographer K., lone adventurer M, and charming sophisticate A. - skipping the guided tour (for once) to spend an afternoon wandering around this beautiful, beautiful place. K's date lives here, so she knows some of the history and all the good views and a fabulous, delightful little chocolate shop right next to the Grand Ducal Palace, so really we did our own tour, with spontaneous excursions and copious romantic photoshoots.
We ate fancy hamburgers outside on a wide, sunny-and-shady Luxembourg street, then we wandered at will through the golden city (so many of the buildings are soft, warm yellow), taking photos in archways, all rushing out of the way of cars, the nicest cars I've seen in Europe, plastering ourselves against the medieval walls, laughing. The drivers always smiled, too; a rare and lovely thing in Europe. Warm and weak after walking so much, somehow quite literally uphill both ways, we stopped in the top floor of the chocolate shop, cool but warmly lit by the rustic windows, for a chill glass of pinot noir rose, which was delicious. Then, I bought two little "framboise noir" chocolates, and ate them walking back to the bus in the late afternoon sun. And we're still not yet done. We're going to see a Belgian castle and another glorious old church, and then be fed a traditional Ardennes meal.
It is days - little escapes into paradise - like these that turn the grey, dull Brussels experience into something not only bearable but wonderful. I feel so happy wandering the canal-streets of Amsterdam, photographing the other-worldly light effects of Delft, rambling over the hills of Luxembourg with three fresh, artistic friends! For just a day, all the stress of school and grades and unhappiness with myself is gone - it's simply no use thinking about it, because it's left briefly at home and I can't do anything about it, here - only see and learn and laugh and relax and enjoy myself, and lie in the sunlight on a softly speeding bus, still tasting raspberry chocolates. I don't remember being this happy - this content - this free - since Scotland.
I wish more days of my life could be like this. I feel a little oddly like Jenny in the film An Education, when she says that she's been fabulous places and seen beautiful and exciting things. Brussels was such a letdown, and I always have scoffed at Jenny for thinking academics were not equally interesting and alive, but...now I finally am going to breathtaking places and seeing things that I can see nowhere else, and may only see once in my life, and there is something so different about feeling the breeze on your skin and the sun on your back and the heart-deep feeling of satisfaction and glory that comes with such pleasant new experiences. No essay ever gave me that, no matter how good it was by the end.
It does make one think, a bit.
~
Cara
Never fear, oh my friends - my academic will is a strong as ever, and my term papers are progressing. But nevertheless, that, my friends, is why I shall never regret that I came on this otherwise somewhat turbulent abroad semester.
Monday, April 23, 2012
The Night I Thought I Ate Cat...
...and kept eating.
I don't usually blog things in close-to-real time. Well, one might make the argument that, recently, I don't often blog things at all, but this one's really too good to miss.
As usual, I came when called and sat down for dinner tonight with my host-family. My host mom was off, at some one of her multiple fun lessons, likely - she takes Italian lessons, painting lessons, goes to theatre rehearsals, and goodness knows what all else - so it was just me, my host-sister "A.", and my host-dad. Served were potatoes, carrots, and some slab of meat in creamy yellowish sauce, with water, a par-for-the-course meal around here. Usually I recognize the meat as something normal, like chicken or beef, if, indeed, I bother to think about it at all.
I have been told that some people really focus on their food and take delight in what they eat. Some skilled souls even seem able to mentally connect with their food on a daily basis. I am not one of the souls thus blessed. Depending on how distracted I am by actual or imaginative life, I may not progress as far as actually knowing what's on the plate in front of me. Distracted by various litanies, conversations, or procrastinations inside my own head, and I'll eat idly and blindly, not bothering much about what I'm eating or how much of it I have - or haven't - eaten. Good for consuming my own burnt cookies by the dozen, then flailing my hand around on the plate a bit before realizing, "Oh. Drat. I ate them all already." Distracted by reading or writing any form of literature, poetry, or novel, and I might well either A.) Eat old shoe leather without noticing I had even chewed anything, B.) Starve to death in the same room as a gourmet meal because I haven't figured out who falls in love with Miss Brown or who killed Lady Helena yet.
When worrying about homework, experiencing a painful shoulder, and surrounded by conversation in French tonight, I fell closest to situation 1, above - litanies in own head taking cognitive precedence over physical reality. Only a sudden question from my host sister recalled me back to the present table.
"Do you know what kind of meat it is?"
Huh? What, who - me? Meat...oh, yes, that's meat I'm eating. Hm! Come to think of it - chews meat meditatively - it's actually rather good. Quite moist.
Then her question sunk in. Do I -
"Should I? Do I...want to?" I asked her.
"What do you think it is?" she said, looking perhaps vaguely amused.
I stared at my plate and gave serious thought to the meat. It wasn't chicken. Nor beef. Pork, maybe? Except it looked a little too reddish for pork. Hmm. This was getting worrisome.
"Pork?" I hazarded a guess.
It occurred to me then that I had seen it defrosting on the counter that morning. A situation that, even in my half-asleep state, had caused me to cross my fingers and pray a little bit, because I'm not much of a cook, but I'm pretty sure one of those major safe-food tips is that you don't want to leave meat flopped on a counter all day defrosting at room temperature. Granted, it was wrapped in plastic, but all day long? And on a countertop that, during the past week, has become host to not-so-infrequent visits by the large family of ants that are having a rollicking good time in the kitchen trashcan, to the apparent blithe unconcern of everyone but me? No; this didn't seem like the best possible idea. But, it's neither my house nor my meat, so what was I to do? I shook my head, ate - something - for breakfast, and wandered off to catch the tram.
Ah, but now the question was, quid the state of the meat that morning, besides room-temp? Long, chicken-breast-like shape, reddish then too. Sort a beefy color, but a chicken shape. This was not looking good.
"No; it's not a pig." Was she slightly too amused about that?
"I have no idea," I gave up. "Just tell me it's not something really weird, please."
"Oh, no; it's not weird for us," she said, not at all assuaging my fears.
I am not a typically adventurous eater, but I'll try many things on the basis of one question - that you tell me what it is before you make me eat it. Now here I was in the middle of a rather good meal, suddenly fearing the worst. I've heard they eat horse in this country...and of all the things I could never forgive myself if I knowingly ate, it would be a horse. I haven't spent half my life around those animals, tending to their every need, and getting flung off into mud puddles and bitten on the butt in the process, only to eat one in Belgium. No siree - no horse-eating for me!
I blanched, inspecting the morsel on my fork suspiciously. I twirled it over and over, a safe distance from my face. Did I dare to ask if it was horse, or should I try calculatus eliminatus and see if it was something else first?
"But it...is weird for me?" spoken tentatively, eyeing A. and the forkful of...something...as if I wasn't sure which one of the two might bite me first.
"Well, if you've never eaten cat before, then - "
CAT? She had to be kidding. No one eats cats. Well, maybe in rural Asia or something, but...No. No-no-no-no-no. It wasn't possible. Was it?
"Cat? You have got to be kidding me." I said, giving her my best sibling-to-sibling "oh, come on, lamebrain. Knock it off" look.
Now, if I had the sense God gave seafood, I would have processed right away that A., though generally a very nice girl, is also a maniacal and well-practiced prankster, aka, a younger sibling. The youngest of her siblings, actually, though she's a few years older than I. And, though she usually spares me, I have witnessed a few incidences of sisterly love in this house that should have given me fair warning. But one does not think entirely clearly when one has just been stopped in the middle of a veritable viande de mystère.
"No, really!" she said, with a perfectly straight face. "We don't believe in wasting anything useful here." Broke into short explanation in French about waste and the environment and conscientiousness. Seeing as A.) she is actually eco-conscious enough to turn off the water while washing her face and brushing her teeth, and B.) I never do know what social and political policies to expect Europeans to actually take seriously, seeing as they abide, as a whole, by so many that I consider nuts, I was backed into a tight spot.
"You're pulling my leg. You have to be." I maintained my best we-are-not-amused face. I also went from 95% to only about 75% certain that it wasn't cat.
The American phrase did not phase her. "No, really - just ask my dad!" She turned to him, and asked him if it was or was not chat that he was eating.
Now, my host-dad is a quiet, ostensibly mild-mannered sort of person, but he is not without his own peculiar sense of humor. He favors a salt-shaker that looks like a little red bird with a white, plumy tail, that sits on little wind-up wheels. He got a big kick out of my reaction to it during the first few weeks here by asking me if I wanted salt on my potatoes until I said yes, and then winding it up and letting it careen towards me across the tablecloth. I couldn't decide whether a speechless "What on Earth?" or giggling indulgence-of-my-inner-six-year-old was the more suitable reaction.
Today, however, he looked up from his dinner, and, without batting an eyelash, said something about chat that seemed to confirm A.'s demand. Not-cat certainty plummeted to a close 60%. I inspected the morsel on my fork as if it had suddenly grown decidedly grotesque.
"What, you never eat cat in America?" A. asked. At this point, my brain was very conflicted. I, you see, am a somewhat literal and trusting (read: gullible) person. Because of this, I can also be a very suspicious person who is afraid of seeming too gullible (read: dumb). Not-cat had fallen to around 50-50. But, hadn't she said earlier that she knew it was unusual for me?
I had stopped eating completely. But, I was also ravenously hungry, because Europeans apparently find between 8 and 9 pm a suitable time to have dinner, and my American stomach is fully convinced that this is something like 2 hours too late. And, now that I'd had to stop eating it, I'd realized that that meat really was good. Wait a sec...did that mean I was eating cat and liking it?
"They even tell you what race" - the usual translation she uses for breed - "of cat it is when you buy it at the boucherie." You bought it at the butcher?!
Holy goodness, I was eating a cat.
Well, at least, I though so for a solid second or so, before reason rebooted. Something felt...off. Not-cat certainty had bottomed out at maybe 40%.
"Aren't you going to eat it?" she prodded. Hmm. I have a sibling, and that seemed too eager. Not-cat percentage began to rise again. She was good, though - very good. Would have made a darn good actress. Then, she made the slip.
"My mom had an accident with the car the other day, and we didn't want to waste it, and so - "
Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!! And we have our answer, folks! It is 100% not a cat! Even I am not gullible enough to believe I am eating a roadkill cat for dinner! Besides, it came in a package.
I said as much, and she admitted that okay, it wasn't road kill, but didn't I like cat, anyway?
I glowered at her. I waggled the morsel of what-ever-it-was on my fork around. I asked her if it was horse, very plaintively. She assured me, in a much more credible fashion, that it wasn't. Then I ate it. All of it. And it was really quite good, even though I was still only about 75% certain that it wasn't a house cat. And 100% uncertain of what it might really be.
Finished, and starting on the carrots, I practically lept out of my chair when A. started laughing fit to kill.
"It was canard!" she said, gleefully. "Duck! Not cat."
"I knew you were kidding!" I shouted, which might have been a slight overstatement of the fact. I had not, precisely, known. These things get difficult cross-culturally, you understand. But I had strongly suspected she was kidding.
Then she gave me that look that meant mischief again. "But would you still have eaten it if it was cat?"
I don't usually blog things in close-to-real time. Well, one might make the argument that, recently, I don't often blog things at all, but this one's really too good to miss.
As usual, I came when called and sat down for dinner tonight with my host-family. My host mom was off, at some one of her multiple fun lessons, likely - she takes Italian lessons, painting lessons, goes to theatre rehearsals, and goodness knows what all else - so it was just me, my host-sister "A.", and my host-dad. Served were potatoes, carrots, and some slab of meat in creamy yellowish sauce, with water, a par-for-the-course meal around here. Usually I recognize the meat as something normal, like chicken or beef, if, indeed, I bother to think about it at all.
I have been told that some people really focus on their food and take delight in what they eat. Some skilled souls even seem able to mentally connect with their food on a daily basis. I am not one of the souls thus blessed. Depending on how distracted I am by actual or imaginative life, I may not progress as far as actually knowing what's on the plate in front of me. Distracted by various litanies, conversations, or procrastinations inside my own head, and I'll eat idly and blindly, not bothering much about what I'm eating or how much of it I have - or haven't - eaten. Good for consuming my own burnt cookies by the dozen, then flailing my hand around on the plate a bit before realizing, "Oh. Drat. I ate them all already." Distracted by reading or writing any form of literature, poetry, or novel, and I might well either A.) Eat old shoe leather without noticing I had even chewed anything, B.) Starve to death in the same room as a gourmet meal because I haven't figured out who falls in love with Miss Brown or who killed Lady Helena yet.
When worrying about homework, experiencing a painful shoulder, and surrounded by conversation in French tonight, I fell closest to situation 1, above - litanies in own head taking cognitive precedence over physical reality. Only a sudden question from my host sister recalled me back to the present table.
"Do you know what kind of meat it is?"
Huh? What, who - me? Meat...oh, yes, that's meat I'm eating. Hm! Come to think of it - chews meat meditatively - it's actually rather good. Quite moist.
Then her question sunk in. Do I -
"Should I? Do I...want to?" I asked her.
"What do you think it is?" she said, looking perhaps vaguely amused.
I stared at my plate and gave serious thought to the meat. It wasn't chicken. Nor beef. Pork, maybe? Except it looked a little too reddish for pork. Hmm. This was getting worrisome.
"Pork?" I hazarded a guess.
It occurred to me then that I had seen it defrosting on the counter that morning. A situation that, even in my half-asleep state, had caused me to cross my fingers and pray a little bit, because I'm not much of a cook, but I'm pretty sure one of those major safe-food tips is that you don't want to leave meat flopped on a counter all day defrosting at room temperature. Granted, it was wrapped in plastic, but all day long? And on a countertop that, during the past week, has become host to not-so-infrequent visits by the large family of ants that are having a rollicking good time in the kitchen trashcan, to the apparent blithe unconcern of everyone but me? No; this didn't seem like the best possible idea. But, it's neither my house nor my meat, so what was I to do? I shook my head, ate - something - for breakfast, and wandered off to catch the tram.
Ah, but now the question was, quid the state of the meat that morning, besides room-temp? Long, chicken-breast-like shape, reddish then too. Sort a beefy color, but a chicken shape. This was not looking good.
"No; it's not a pig." Was she slightly too amused about that?
"I have no idea," I gave up. "Just tell me it's not something really weird, please."
"Oh, no; it's not weird for us," she said, not at all assuaging my fears.
I am not a typically adventurous eater, but I'll try many things on the basis of one question - that you tell me what it is before you make me eat it. Now here I was in the middle of a rather good meal, suddenly fearing the worst. I've heard they eat horse in this country...and of all the things I could never forgive myself if I knowingly ate, it would be a horse. I haven't spent half my life around those animals, tending to their every need, and getting flung off into mud puddles and bitten on the butt in the process, only to eat one in Belgium. No siree - no horse-eating for me!
I blanched, inspecting the morsel on my fork suspiciously. I twirled it over and over, a safe distance from my face. Did I dare to ask if it was horse, or should I try calculatus eliminatus and see if it was something else first?
"But it...is weird for me?" spoken tentatively, eyeing A. and the forkful of...something...as if I wasn't sure which one of the two might bite me first.
"Well, if you've never eaten cat before, then - "
CAT? She had to be kidding. No one eats cats. Well, maybe in rural Asia or something, but...No. No-no-no-no-no. It wasn't possible. Was it?
"Cat? You have got to be kidding me." I said, giving her my best sibling-to-sibling "oh, come on, lamebrain. Knock it off" look.
Now, if I had the sense God gave seafood, I would have processed right away that A., though generally a very nice girl, is also a maniacal and well-practiced prankster, aka, a younger sibling. The youngest of her siblings, actually, though she's a few years older than I. And, though she usually spares me, I have witnessed a few incidences of sisterly love in this house that should have given me fair warning. But one does not think entirely clearly when one has just been stopped in the middle of a veritable viande de mystère.
"No, really!" she said, with a perfectly straight face. "We don't believe in wasting anything useful here." Broke into short explanation in French about waste and the environment and conscientiousness. Seeing as A.) she is actually eco-conscious enough to turn off the water while washing her face and brushing her teeth, and B.) I never do know what social and political policies to expect Europeans to actually take seriously, seeing as they abide, as a whole, by so many that I consider nuts, I was backed into a tight spot.
"You're pulling my leg. You have to be." I maintained my best we-are-not-amused face. I also went from 95% to only about 75% certain that it wasn't cat.
The American phrase did not phase her. "No, really - just ask my dad!" She turned to him, and asked him if it was or was not chat that he was eating.
Now, my host-dad is a quiet, ostensibly mild-mannered sort of person, but he is not without his own peculiar sense of humor. He favors a salt-shaker that looks like a little red bird with a white, plumy tail, that sits on little wind-up wheels. He got a big kick out of my reaction to it during the first few weeks here by asking me if I wanted salt on my potatoes until I said yes, and then winding it up and letting it careen towards me across the tablecloth. I couldn't decide whether a speechless "What on Earth?" or giggling indulgence-of-my-inner-six-year-old was the more suitable reaction.
Today, however, he looked up from his dinner, and, without batting an eyelash, said something about chat that seemed to confirm A.'s demand. Not-cat certainty plummeted to a close 60%. I inspected the morsel on my fork as if it had suddenly grown decidedly grotesque.
"What, you never eat cat in America?" A. asked. At this point, my brain was very conflicted. I, you see, am a somewhat literal and trusting (read: gullible) person. Because of this, I can also be a very suspicious person who is afraid of seeming too gullible (read: dumb). Not-cat had fallen to around 50-50. But, hadn't she said earlier that she knew it was unusual for me?
I had stopped eating completely. But, I was also ravenously hungry, because Europeans apparently find between 8 and 9 pm a suitable time to have dinner, and my American stomach is fully convinced that this is something like 2 hours too late. And, now that I'd had to stop eating it, I'd realized that that meat really was good. Wait a sec...did that mean I was eating cat and liking it?
"They even tell you what race" - the usual translation she uses for breed - "of cat it is when you buy it at the boucherie." You bought it at the butcher?!
Holy goodness, I was eating a cat.
Well, at least, I though so for a solid second or so, before reason rebooted. Something felt...off. Not-cat certainty had bottomed out at maybe 40%.
"Aren't you going to eat it?" she prodded. Hmm. I have a sibling, and that seemed too eager. Not-cat percentage began to rise again. She was good, though - very good. Would have made a darn good actress. Then, she made the slip.
"My mom had an accident with the car the other day, and we didn't want to waste it, and so - "
Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!! And we have our answer, folks! It is 100% not a cat! Even I am not gullible enough to believe I am eating a roadkill cat for dinner! Besides, it came in a package.
I said as much, and she admitted that okay, it wasn't road kill, but didn't I like cat, anyway?
I glowered at her. I waggled the morsel of what-ever-it-was on my fork around. I asked her if it was horse, very plaintively. She assured me, in a much more credible fashion, that it wasn't. Then I ate it. All of it. And it was really quite good, even though I was still only about 75% certain that it wasn't a house cat. And 100% uncertain of what it might really be.
Finished, and starting on the carrots, I practically lept out of my chair when A. started laughing fit to kill.
"It was canard!" she said, gleefully. "Duck! Not cat."
"I knew you were kidding!" I shouted, which might have been a slight overstatement of the fact. I had not, precisely, known. These things get difficult cross-culturally, you understand. But I had strongly suspected she was kidding.
Then she gave me that look that meant mischief again. "But would you still have eaten it if it was cat?"
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