Rowing Camp: An Experience in Precipitation

A handful of novice rowers were invited to the training camp for the development squad. Three full days out on the water in the middle of a relatively mild English winter. How bad could it be? Well we woke up at 5:45 on the first morning to gently falling snow. Normally I would be thrilled about that but it didn't bode well for a day on the river. The stretch of river near Oxford is narrow and windy, with only a short channel that is navigable by boats so we were to row at Reading, which is about an hour away. We walked 30 minutes in the dark and snow to get to the boat house, rowed across the river, then disassembled the boat and put it on a trailer before walking back to get the cars. Unfortunately the snow melted as soon as it landed so everything and everyone ended up wet. By the time we drove to Reading, the snow had stopped but reassembling a boat with dozens of nuts and bolts when your fingers are numb with cold isn't particularly pleasant. Or productive.

When we finally got on the river everyone was freezing and two hours of technical drills didn't improve anyone's spirits. The two coxes, who are both males, keep up a constant banter, whether it is at dinner or using their microphones to shout insults across the river. The jibes aren't particularly clever and it seems incredibly immature to constantly make themselves the center of attention. But I'm a lowly novice rower so I'm endeavoring to bite my tongue and hide my annoyance. Good practice for me. One of them is quite officious which is irritating. If someone in a group is going to be officious, I prefer for it to be me.

The senior girls have a beautiful new racing shell named Shakira (the last one was named Brittany so I'm sure you can see the trend). And it is a definite upgrade over Joan and Carol.  But, like all divas, she's a bit temperamental so keeping her level in the water is a constant struggle. And she still weighs several hundred pounds so getting her in an out of the water is a considerable feat. At reading, the docks were lined with landmines of goose poop the size of cow pies.

We were all so tired of being cold that we turned the water on scalding hot when we finally got in the showers and the steam must have triggered the locker room fire alarm. We deliberated and decided that we would wait and let the fire marshal drag us out. Alternatively, burning alive would be far better than freezing to death in our towels outside.

Photo courtesy of Puffett Foto

On day two we were sparred the rigging process but it started raining just as we went out on the water and the temperatures were hovering around freezing. I don’t think I have ever worn so many pieces of clothing at once. Fortunately the skies soon cleared and the sun peaked out a bit in the afternoon. When we weren’t on the river or gasping for breath in the erg room, several of the crew took to bursting into song. Show tunes, Christmas carols, and bad pop songs. You name it, they probable sang it. It was like living in an episode of Glee. Amusing and exasperating all at the same time. Everyone was sleeping over at one of the girls houses and that is a lot of team bonding time.

The training was a great experience, and definitely improved my rowing, but by the third day I was ready for it to be over. Despite frost and icy docks, the weather held through Sunday. We got really lucky to have fairly decent conditions but a hailstorm caught up with us just as we were rerigging the boats in Oxford. The weather gods wanted to make sure we experienced the full spectrum of precipitation. 

Arrivederci

Today's itinerary included the catacombs, Palatine hill and exploring the shopping district. We were the only people on the English tour of the catacombs and our guide, Father Anthony, had a heavy Indian accent so I just smiled and nodded most of the time. He kept quizzing us on the meaning of different iconography and religious trivia. My grandma would be ashamed of my performance- couldn't remember who St. Cecelia was, didn't know that the anchor was a religious symbol and couldn't tell the difference between shards of oil lamps and perfume jars. Father Anthony was particularly disappointed that I couldn't read Greek. Apparently US schools are failing in more ways that we realise, and that includes the numerous Catholic schools I attended. However, I was incredibly proud to have figured out how to use the bus system, in a foreign language no less. It was a major accomplishment for a suburban kid.

For lunch we went back to the Trastevere neighbourhood and found a little trattoria that looked inviting. In the spirit of trying as many classic Italian dishes as possible, I ordered homemade lasagne. I'm not a big lasagne person but this was the best I have ever had.  Then we trekked back into the city center for more exploring. Palatine Hill  is thought to be the site where Rome was founded and was the home for many emperors and wealthy citizens. It had stunning views of the city and the buildings were impressively well preserved (which is to say that a number of them were still standing and largely intact.) Then we revisited the Trevi Fountain and Spanish Steps and explored the shopping district along the way. The two high end streets that are Rome's version of Rodeo Drive were literally lined with a red carpet and chandelier style Christmas lights. Gucci, Versace and Louis Vuitton aren't really my style but it's always nice to see how the other half lives and reaffirm that it doesn't have any appeal.

Lonely Planet restaurant recommendations seem to favor places that are way off the beaten path and have taken us down a number of suspicious looking back alleys. Tonight was no exception. After winding through back roads for 20 minutes we finally find the place but there isn't a soul in sight and we spend several minutes casing the place out and trying to decide if it is open. Then someone comes charging out the door with a garbage bag in hand and practically knocks us over. We ask when they open and he says now so we go inside only to be shown to a table and then told in Italian that they don't serve until 6:30 (it's barely 6:00). Unsure of how to exit gracefully we begin discussing escape routes that will avoid undue embarrassment. Caroline obviously wants to leave but seems unwilling to make the first move. So after 10 minutes of being studiously ignored I just get up and walk out. I think I was half expecting someone to stop us and we had to resist the urge to run giggling down the alleyway. I've never dined and ditched but somehow ditching without dining seems even worse. Maybe it's not as amusing in writing.

After our awkward experience and perhaps motivated by the fact that we have been the only customers in a restaurant on at least four occasions this trip, we settled for an unoriginal but bustling restaurant in one of the major piazzas. As this was our last night in Rome, I of course ordered the fettuccini alfredo. (For those of you who havent heard my grandma tell the story at least three times before, homemade  fettuccini is the dinner I always request on my birthday. Ten years ago when I was in Rome, we went to a restaurant that claims to have invented fettuccini so of course it's obvious what I ordered. When the head waited asked me what I thought of it, I told him my mom's was better. Honest to a fault even then.) This time it came with mushrooms, ham and peas. It was good but too rich. Mom's is still the best.

For a series of complicated and convoluted reasons, Florence and Pisa have been axed from the itinerary and we fly out of Rome this afternoon. Florence, Pisa and Venice will just have to be a separate trip. But the timing couldn't be better. I'm officially tired of Italian food, am inordinately thrilled to be going back to Oxford and can't wait to touch down at San Diego International Airport in T-minus seven days.

The Eternal City

I think a few days in the gritty urban sprawl of Naples really primed us to appreciate the classic elegance that is Rome. While Naples has its churches and castles, this is a city that reflects the conscious design of emperors, popes and leading artists intent in conveying power and grandeur. Our first time of business was a circuitous walking tour past all the major attractions in central Rome. The sidewalks are wide, clean and exceptionally well lit and it's refreshing not to be harassed by scooters. You hear about the labyrinth of streets the taxi drivers have to master but it is not nearly as bad as I expected. We walked for hours with nothing but a cheap tourist map and didn't get turned around once. It helps that the streets here are actually labeled- on the map and with signs. We waded through tourists at the Piazza del Popolo and Piazza di Spagna, cruised past the Spanish steps, made a wish at the Trevi Fountain, gapped at Ill Vittorio, puzzled over the scattered stone ruins at the Roman Forum and admired the imposing fascade of the Colosseum. The graffiti of Naples made me appreciate how exceptionally well maintained the Roman sites are, although the Colosseum could use a power wash. And the Trevi Fountian is one of those rare sites that is more impressive in person than I had imagined. For dinner we crossed the Isola Tiberina, the oldest bridge in Rome.The strings of blue and white lights hung across the roads in a series of inverted arches made the city seem inviting at night. This restaurant district called the Trastevere is a series of family-run trattorias and pizzerias spilling out into densely packed streets. We rested our exhausted feet while sampling the gnocchi and then crossed back over the Tiber to find desert near the Piazza Navona.  The elongated plaza had been concerted into a holiday carnival complete with rides, fried food and ornament vendors. But we found some traditional Italian gellato to round out a successful introduction to Rome.

Sunday started with a nice run through the Villa Borghese  followed by a hearty breakfast at the Beehive Cafe- a classy American establishment located in our hostel. Then we were off to the Vatican for mass at St. Peter's Basillica. The church is awesome in the most literal sense of the word- the cavernous space, imposing dome and incredible attention to artistic detail are more than I can comprehend. Sistine Chapel was closed (should have guessed that The Creation of Adam would be given a respite from viewing on God's day or rest) but the trek to the Vatican Museums wasn't wholly unproductive- it's not everyday you walk half way around a state.

By the time we walked back to central Rome our feet were revolting and a sudden downpour provided an excuse to duck into the nearest restaurant. Unbenounced to us,  we should have tarried outside because the Pizzeria la Montecarlo doesn't provide menus other than the one posted outside the door. Suddey the waiter demanded our order. I figured when in doubt order pizza. Ladies beside us (European style seating- our tables were literally touching and my chair was abutting that of the person behind me) insisted that we order the fried appetiser platter. When we asked what was in it she replied (perhaps for lack of English vocabulary) "Roman stuff." Well, when in Rome... The bowl had an assortment of items that were indistinguishable apart from the varying shapes. When ours finally arrived we took turns cutting into each one and sampling the contents- one was definitely stuffed olives and another was mozzarella. The other two were tasty but we had to wait until we got back outside and got a look at the menu before we knew what they were- fried zucchini flowers and suppli- balls of rice, mozzarella and marinara sauce. To my taste, even frying can't make olives palatable but everything else was quite good. The pizza was enormous but I'm not yet a fan of the incredibly thin crust of Roman style  pizza. But experimenting was all part of the culinary adventure and after all this journey seems to be first and foremost about the food.

For dinner we consulted the Oracle yet again (our nickname for the Lonely Planet guidebook- much more convenient to pull it out of my bag every five minutes than doing as the Romans did and travelling to Delphi and making a sacrifice each time we have a question.) We decided on Insalata Ricca, known for hearty pasta and meal- sized salads. I figured the Californians have the upper hand in the salad department so I stuck with pasta and ordered Orecchiette (disk-shaped pasta) with broccoli and garlic. The broccoli florets has disintegrated giving it a creamy texture and the stalks were in cubes. Dinner of course was followed by gelato from a back alley gelateria. After pouring over the recommendations from the Oracle we settled on the estaishment  favored by Pope John Paul II. Allegedly he used to have tubs of his favourite flavor, marrons glacé (glacé chestnuts) flown out to his summer residence.

In between eating we did manage to do some sight seeing. We walked up Michelangelo's ramped steps at the Campidoglio- the grade is so steep that it's no wonder this invention didn't take off. Maybe it would have enabled a carriage to be pulled up to the steps of the palaces. Ht only if you had a very strong horse and didn't mind dislodging all the occupants of the carriage. Then we swung back by the Colosseum and spent a few minutes laughing at some camera-ready Roman legionarres (not to be confused with gladiators) goofing off in front of the entrance. One kept thumping his sword against breast plate and lining up camera angles like he was the next Steven Spielberg. But eventually we broke down and got a picture of our own. I think I will get it framed side by side with a similar picture from my trip to Rome- a symbol of my maturation and the enduring nature of the Eternal City.

"Et tu, Brute?"

"Rome, a lifetime is not enough."

Sensory overload. That's how I would describe Rome. The hundreds of monuments that span from imperial to medieval  and Renaissance are simply overwhelming. It is at turns chaotic and coordinated, exhilarating and exasperating. Although I was here ten years ago with my parents, touring it as an adult was like seeing it for the first time.

Of all the beautiful places I have visited in the last week, this is the only one where I can see myself living. If I wasn't already studying abroad, I would want to come here. And I think one has to be a resident of Rome (for at least a few months) to appreciate everything that it has to offer. Granted, in a matter of three hours we walked to most of the major historic sites. But the whirlwind tour merely entailed gapping at a series of imposing stone structures. The richness of the history and art simply overwhelmes the senses.

To know Rome you would need to savour each piazza, fountain and basilica individually. The rich detail and history of the Roman Forum alone are enough to keep you engaged for days on end. And maybe that's the mark of a great city; it can't be seen in a day or a week- that's when you make it's acquaintance but, you need to develop a relationship with it.  The city of Rome seems like a community- an outsider can admire it but only an insider can appreciate it. With a community, you need to get to know each individual in the group- learn about their history, their passions, their sorrows and their talents. Then you need to learn how the individuals are interwoven by shared history and intertwined by relationships. Rome was the site where successive empires overlaid one another, artistic movements clashed and religions vied for influence. To understand any monument you would need to appreciate the complicated context and then see the details and styles that elevate a church from a mere place of worship into an artistic masterpiece.

But most of us don't have this awareness- we are like a gaggle of tourist starring at Einstein's theory of relativity. We know it's impressive because the textbooks said so but we would be hard pressed to articulate why. Yet instead of pleading ignorance everyone wanders around oohing and ahhing and taking pictures to impress their friends. Because that's what sophisticated people do- they travel  around as if traversing the same ground as Caesar and Michelangelo would make them more cultured or sitting in the same basilica as the Pope and the tomb of St. Peter would make them more holy. But it doesn't work that way- these aren't traits we learn from osmosis, they are qualities we gain from application.

This is all probably a long winded way of saying that I have become disenchanted with my camera and am frustrated by my superficial exposure to a city that obviously has so much more richness to offer. So for the moment I am going to adopt a paradigm shift. Perhaps I need to accept that most of us travel for enjoyment, to get a break from our hectic lives, and to enjoy the company of those we care about. Maybe enrichment doesn't have to come from developing new expertise, maybe it comes from experiencing beautiful moments, even when we can't articulate what beauty is. 

The Amalfi Coast

Today we were off to the Amalfi Coast, a 50km stretch of coastline just south of Naples, known for vertical cliff faces dropping into gorgeous blue water, with idyllic little towns nestled into the hillsides. The bus ride wound deep into the mountains behind Naples on circuitous roads that looked too narrow to accomodate two lanes of traffic. Our driver cursed vigorously, smoked inside the bus and stopped inexplicably for twenty minutes to read his newspaper. Most of the time Caroline and I has no idea where we were but hoped the reputedly jaw dropping views of Amalfi would let us know when to disembark. Eventually we emerged from the tree line and began a steep descent down a perilous strip of asphalt fraught with blind hairpin turns. The bus driver blared the horn the whole way down in the hopes that oncoming cars would get out of the way before we flattened them but there were several instances that were too close for comfort. So we perched on the edge of our seats and distracted ourselves by marvelling at the little vineyards on terraces cleaved out of the cliffside and the colourful stucco neighbourhoods tucked in at the water's edge.

Eventually the bus came to a stop in a picturesque little piazza and we tumbled out into the dazzling afternoon sunshine of Amalfi. We wandered out onto the jetti for a better view of the town and outlying areas. Overcome with enthusiasm for the sun and the view, we scurried down to the beach to dip our toes in the Mediterranean. However, the rich aquamarine color was deceptively inviting as the water was quite chilly. Hunger soon called us back to the town center and we set off in search of lunch. At the heart of Amalfi lies a charming little piazza with a 10th century cathedral and a series of boutiques, caffes and gelato shops that spill outwards onto radiating streets. Most of the quaint little shops were selling lemon themed products- soap, candies, biscotti, and a potent little beverage with 35% alcohol content that the locals use as a palate cleanser. After a painstakingly thorough reconnaissance of all the local pizzerias we settled on a classy little joint with an amazing sausage and broccoli pizza. By the time we finished, it was time to catch a bus back to Naples. The journey back was equally perilous and twice as long. But the redeeming element was a brief drive through Sorrento, another charming coastal town, but much larger than Amalfi. The orderly streets, bustling restaurants and tasteful Christmas decorations suggest that it would make a classy alternative to staying in Naples if I ever come back to visit southern Italy. 

Naples and Pompeii

"Raucous, polluted, unruly, anarchic, deafening and with so many of its majestic historical buildings crumbling, Naples has at least as much in common with Casablanca in Morocco or Egypt's Alexandria on the other side of the Mediterranean as with fellow Mediterranean ports such as Genoa, Marseilles or Barcelona. And like the cities on the other side of the pond, it's glued together by the sheer zest and vitality of its inhabitants." -Lonely Planet's guidebook to Italy

After 36 hours of travelling the dingy streets of Naples were an anticlimactic welcome. From the street, the Hostel of the Sun looked anything but sunny. It is in a tired looking high rise and up seven flights of stairs. But once you open the postcard covered door you discover a traveler's oasis with great character and incredible attention to detail. Everyone is assigned a locker, it boasts free wireless Internet and two guest computers, and comes complete with a complimentary breakfast. English is the main language and the guests are young, hip and mostly American. The receptionist was eager to offer tips on the best pizza joints and draw up a map for a walking tour.

With daylight fading fast we headed straight for the heart of the city. The many churches were closed off by wrought iron gates, hemmed in by crumbling apartments and the stonework covered by graffiti.  Apparently, that which is common isn't valued. As we walked on it became clear that this phenomenon wasn't unique to one neighbourhood. Throughout Naples The aisles of history have been converted into grungy bazaars with vendors hawking cheap trinkets and candy. With every step we were harassed by dare devils on vespas. Obviously it was unclear to everyone where the street ended and the sidewalk began.

Despite this, the city does have a certain gritty charm. The people are energetic and outgoing and the streets buzz with activity. Most importantly there is no pretense- the streets are grungy but Naples embraces this. Its historic sites may be worse for wear but it is almost as if the city is saying, this is our history but it is also part of our present and rather than exalt it on a pedestal or lock it away in a glass  box, we are going to imbue it with our current character, dilapidated and dysfunctional as that may be. It's not a style that I would pick for my hometown, but it's one I can appreciate.

Still, after several hours of wading through clouds of cigarette smoke, fending off over eager salesmen and weaving through throngs of people, I was ravenously hungry and ready to clothesline the next scooter driver who honked at me. Fortunately for the motorists, we happened upon Pizzaria de Michelle just in time. I recalled that Lonely Planet rates it the best pizza in Italy and we immediately darted inside. The walls are covered with life size portraits of Italian grandmothers but a photo of Julia Roberts sinking her teeth into the pizza hangs discreetly near the open pizza oven. Apparently Elizabeth Gilbert of Eat, Pray, Love gives it two thumbs up and the movie filmed a scene here. This pie isn't for the true cheese lovers (although you can order double mozzarella) and it only comes in two variations- margherita and marinara. But the flavour is fabulous- the lightly singed crust manages to be both crispy and doughy, the marinara sauce tastes like tomatoes dress from the vine and the delicate seeds speckle the pizza. It was a thoroughly satisfying end to a hectic day.


This morning we took a day trip to Pompeii- Roman city that was permanently evacuated when Mt. Vesuvius erupted in 79AD. The buildings and artifacts have been remarkably well preserved by several meters of volcanic ash. Archaeologists estimate that about 2,000 of the 20,000 inhabitants of Pompeii were killed when the weight of the ash caused buildings to collapse or they inhaled the noxious volcanic gases. Their corpses, contorted in the throes of agonising deaths have been reconstructed from plasters molds poured into the ash. The sprawling city measures 30 acres and most of the buildings have been partially preserved, including delicate fresco paintings, wine jars and intricate stone work. We spent several hours meandering through the streets, singing in the amphitheater, sword fighting in the antitheater (miniature Coliseum) and wandering around the ancient market. The empty streets exude the feeling of a ghost town, but while its former occupants have been gone for almost two millenniums there is a unique immediacy about their shadows. It's obvious that many of them rushed out in the midst of their midday meal and you feel a bit like an intruder poking about in someone else's living room when they might come back in and startle you at any moment.

Vesuvius remains an active volcano and just as Los Angeles sits on a precarious earthquake fault line, the densely populated center of modern Naples lies in the shadow of Vesuvius. You have to wonder if we are tempting fate. 

Split to Ancona

Idling away time before our bus ride, we passed by a bistro where an old man offered to buy us coffee. His name was Salvo and he owns a hostel, speaks excellent English and makes a hobby of striking up conversations with tourists. He talked of living in Dubrovnik as a child during World War II when Italian soldiers occupied the city and he occasionally snuck into town in the hopes that they would pass him bits of food. He spent 25 years in the shipping industry and from the sounds of it, he has seen as much of the US as I have- Galvaston, Baton Rouge, San Diego, Long Beach, Oakland, Boston, Philadelphia, etc. The 1991 war wasn't a topic he seemed interested in discussing but he spoke casually of the violence and hunger like a man who has seen more than his share of conflict.  I couldn't tell if he was being flippant but he suggested that in ten years Croatia could find itself at war again.  And yet he seemed to approach each day with verve and enthusiastically pointed us to our bus and offered recommendations of accommodations in Split.

The bus ride offered stirring views of the Croatian coastline and after a brief rainstorm the sun peered out through a net of clouds. Like everywhere else in Croatia, Rhianna, Taylor Swift, Shakira, Aretha Franklin, Michael Jackson and other American icons provided the soundtrack.  But bus rides also tend to traverse the more desperate areas of a country. We saw the parts of Croatia not advertised in the travel brochures- the fifteen story cinder block apartments, town gutted by civil war and the ruins of industry. By the time we arrived in Split at 2:30 the sun was fading fast and we rushed off to see the city before we lost the light.

Diocletian's Palace was built in the 4th century as a retirement home for the Roman emperor Diocletian. Now the 200 some buildings within its fortified walls are home to several thousand people and have been converted to shops and restaurants. Remnants of the imported Italian marble, Greek columns and Egyptian sphinxes are still visible. Although its ironic to see trash heaps, graffiti and clothes lines adorning the once opulent structures. Over the centuries the Temple of Jupiter was converted into a baptistery and a Christian symbol marks the doorway of what was once a pagan site of worship is visible example of religious syncretism at work.

Sphinxes are known for being treacherous and merciless- not sure what this says about me

It may be a coincidence or it may be a genuine atmospheric trend but it seems as though a downpour always follows the sunset here and this time we were caught outside. We rushed to the ferry terminal and bided our time in a gritty smoke filled coffee shop. When we finally border the ferry it seemed to have more cargo trucks than passengers. Most of the guests rented cabins so there were only about four people in the room with airplane style seating designed to accommodate closer to 150. After a long night of shivering in the cold and fidgeting to find a comfortable position we woke to the sounds of the engines down shifting  to see dawn breaking over Ancona. Now off to Naples for the three P's: pizza, pasta and Pompeii!

A Second Look at Dubrovnik

Last night was my first taste of Bosnian food. Acting on the recommendation of our Croatian landlord we combed through the side streets of Dubrovnik until we found the Taj Mahal. The restaurant had a charming ambiance with hand carved wooden tables, woven placemats, low hanging lanterns and regional artwork. Caroline and I both decided to try the cevapi, which is small, grilled rolls of minced beef in a half pita bread (with the taste and texture of Ciabatta), served with chopped onions and something akin to a cross between cream cheese and butter. It was surprisingly good, although the aftertaste of onions continued to remind me of the meal for many hours. After dinner we sat outside the gates of the old city looking out over the harbor. Occasionally the moon peaked through the cloud cover, bathing the scene in dim light. The rhythmic clanking of sailboat rigging against the masts kept time as we whiled away an hour discussing families, fortunes and futures.

This morning we went for a run along the coast- it was mostly uphill on narrow sidewalks lined with old couples who looked ready to wallop us with purses or canes if we brushed too close. There wasn't a single other jogger or biker to be seen. We spent the rest of the day wandering through the side streets we had yet to explore. Despite a slow Sunday, the city was suddenly teeming with tourists. One of the squares had been converted into an outdoor market with fresh lavender, candied almonds, dried oranges and local crafts. The resident pigeons seemed to be genuinely alarmed each time the church bells sounded (which seemed to happen every five minutes) and dive bombed from their perches atop the surrounding buildings down into the center of the square. One five year old boy delighted in chasing them around and droves of them took flight again as helpless shoppers ducked or covered their faces to protect against the thrashing wings.

We retreated from the melee and journeyed deeper into the recesses of the city where we had only the menagerie of stray cats for company. Eventually we came upon an aperture in the city's outer wall that opened suddenly onto a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea. It was a gusty day and the churning water was flecked with whitecaps. We spent close to an hour mesmerized as the waves buffeted the sea wall. Again and again they pummeled the jagged rocks, sending up plumes of foam, like a massive champagne bottle coming uncorked. In the aftermath of the salty explosions, the water retreated again in a mix of froth and aquamarine sea. It was too cloudy for a proper sunset but the rain began misting down just as the last flecks of gold slipped down the hazy horizon and we slipped back through the wall in search of a hot meal.

Tomorrow we will say goodbye to Dubrovnik and take a bus to Split for a whirlwind tour of Diocletian's Palace before catching an overnight ferry across the Adriatic to Ancona. From there we will catch a train to Naples on the otherwise of the Italian peninsula.  Once we leave our cozy Croatian apartment, I'm not sure how much wi-fi access I will have, but I will try to post updates about pizza, pasta and Pompeii as often as possible. 

The Pearl of the Adriatic

Coming to Dubrovnik in the dead of winter may have been an ill-fated decision. It is far enough north that jackets are required attire and the sun seems to be vacationing elsewhere. Many of the shops and restaurants are closed for the season and the streets are noticeably devoid of the photo-snapping tourists who must clog the narrow alleyways all summer long. The usual kayaking, boat tours, snorkeling, swimming and sun bathing that make Dubrovnik one of the fastest growing tourist destinations and earned it the title "an oasis of civilization" are all out of the question. And yet the city's unique cultural, historical and architectural heritage continue to shine through.

Dubrovnik has long been an important center of maritime commerce in the Mediterranean trade network and perhaps the most significant hub on the Adriatic. Surviving the variances of the Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman and Napoleonic empires, Dubrovnik has constantly been sought after as an important link between Mediterranean and Balkan states. Over the years it has enhanced its fortifications to protect trade from barbarian raiders and the old city is entirely walled off  by a series of fortifications that date to the sixteenth century. Many of the Venetian era buildings and Romanesque structures were destroyed by the great earthquake of 1667 or the civil wars that wracked the former Yugoslavia in 1991 and 1992 (68% of the old town buildings were damaged by shells), but Dubrovnik has always rebuilt with a conscious eye towards maintaining its unique cultural heritage and grandeur.

We arrived last night after 17 hours of travel. Our flight out of Heathrow departed over an hour late, causing us to miss our connecting flight in Zagreb. Thus we had to spend over 7 hours in a tiny airport with one near empty cafe and an abysmally slow and obscenely overpriced Internet station with a confused keyboard. When we finally arrived in Dubrovnik it was nearly midnight and much to dark to enjoy what must have been a beautiful view driving into the old city. We checked into a lovely little apartment rented out by an eccentric but incredibly hospitable Croatian woman named Ana. I'm sure we will come to appreciate the privacy and convenience  of this cute little studio apartment with free wi-fi even more when we start staying in hostiles in Italy.

 After sleeping in this morning we strolled down to a local market for croissants and Nutella, the seemingly ubiquitous condiment in Europe. We spent the rest of the day wandering around the old city and taking in the sights. The shiny white limestone of the streets glistened in the light, enhancing the sensations that Dubrovnik is as much a museum as it is a functioning city. We posed for photos in front of the Orlando Column and Onofrio Fountain, meandered through Sponza Palace, sat for a few minutes in St. Ignatius Church and gaped at the enormous Pile Gate. Soon our exploring took us out of the city walls and we hiked along the surrounding hillsides, looking back repeatedly to see the Adriatic framing the silhouette of the old city. Even after years of being spoiled by the California coastline, it was a truly breathtaking view. Dubrovnik is a city that looks to stand in perpetuity and yet the scars of war glossed over by new buildings speaks to the transient nature of society. Once we had walked far enough to truly appreciate the panorama we sat on a little promontory and gazed over the hills speckled with majestic villas and a coastline sprinkled with islands. This combined with the harmonious blend of Renaissance architecture  and the warm tile of the Mediterranean make it easy to see why Dubrovnik was dubbed the "pearl of the Adriatic."

Christmas Plans

Oxford has a six week break from the beginning of December through the middle of January. Much as I would love to bask in the glory of California sunshine, the fact that I can fly to Madrid for roughly the same amount as it would cost me to take a train to Los Angeles, means that access to Europe is something I can’t afford to pass up. So my good friend Caroline and I will be cruising around Croatia and Italy for the first two months of December and I will be spending a week in Portugal in January. I probably won’t have much access to a computer so the blog will be silent for a time, followed by a flurry of posts when I return.

For those of you following along, here is the proposed itinerary:

Dec 3-6 Dubrovnik & Coast

Dec 6 Ferry to Bari           

Dec 7 Arrive in Bari and take a train to Naples

Dec 7-10 Naples/Pompeii/Sorrento

Dec 11-14 Rome/Vatican City

Dec 15- Pisa

We were supposed to go to Florence and Venice from the 15^th-19^th but now I need to return to Oxford for rowing training camp. Fortunately Florence isn’t going anywhere and while Venice may be sinking into the sea, hopefully it can hold it’s ground until I have time to travel again in the Spring.

I will be in Southern California from the 21^st-31^st for those of you who are around so shoot me an email if you want to find time to catch up. 

Bicycle Graveyard

The city of Oxford is filled with the decomposing carcasses of abandoned bicycles. The amputee victim missing a wheel, the cripple whose chain and derailleur are irreparably snarled, the scoliosis sufferer whose frame is warped beyond even the most modest functionality, the gimp with a flat tire and the blind bike who has been stripped of the legally required bike lights. Then there are the thousands of orphans who have long since been deserted by their owners. They sit abandoned in the bike racks, collecting dirt and rust as they are rudely jostled about by shiny new bicycles looking for safe purchase on the bike racks.

The new bikes resent the cast aways, as slots in the racks are at a premium in a town where dozens of bikes are stolen every week. One student allegedly conducted an experiment by repeatedly cutting the lock to his own bike in public to see if anyone would stop him. In 17 tries no one ever detained him. One gentleman merely looked at him and said, “hey, are you nicking that bike?!” and then continued past. But in the corrosive English rain the orphans waste away until they are so dilapidated, so rickety and so decrepit that even the thieves aren’t tempted and the police can’t be bothered to collect them. They merely proliferate, choking out the new bikes and slowly wasting away.

Christ Church Regatta

St. John's Novice A's (I am third from the left)

This past weekend Oxford hosted Christ Church Regatta, the annual inter-college novice rowing competition that tests the metal of over 100 boats from approximately twenty different boat clubs. Like all good teams, St. John’s held a pre-race dinner. In keeping with the latest research in sports nutrition we opted for protein-loading as opposed to carbo-loading, or maybe it was mere coincidence that it was salmon night at formal. hall. Then of course we had to watch an inspirational film- I would have voted for Miracle, Remember the Titans or the classically hilarious Cool Runnings, but this is England, so we watched Oxford Blues. The acting and screenplay were truly awful and the film villainizes American rowers at Oxford in the boat club revolt of 1987 and makes the English chaps look like a bunch of pansies. Despite the prevalence of incredibly corny dialogue there were a couple of infinitely quotable lines, most notably: “Make them feel like they came in third” (Obviously there are only two boats in the Oxford-Cambridge boat race so the worst you can finish is second).

Roused by this display of rowing process we cruised through two races on Thursday to advance out of the second round. Seeding is totally skewed so a lot of teams had byes through the second round and then A-boats were paired with pitifully mismatched B-boats in the third round. St. John’s had to fight our way through the regatta. Our first match up was a close race against Balliol, a strong boat club who kept with us until the last couple hundred yards when their energy petered out and we pulled safely away. The second race was against the Trinity B-boat. They caught a crab early in the race and veered so far off course I wondered whether they were heading straight to the dock rather than finishing the race. Friday we raced immediately after the St. John’s B-boat but fortunately we had done the Carol penance the week before and it was their turn to race in a bathtub. Despite Joan’s reliable performance, our race against Linacre was sloppy from the outset- the boat was unsat, the timing was off, people’s blades weren’t catching. Then the four seat caught a crab just as we rounded Boathouse Island. She couldn’t recover her oar so we came to a complete stop and went through the start sequence from the beginning. In the meantime, Linacre had gone ahead by two boat lengths. After the restart we settled into a beautiful rhythm and really put power down. We caught up to within a few meters but ultimately came up short. As we paddled back to the boathouse, it was one of the most oppressive silences I had ever experienced. There is nothing worse than being the source of your own defeat. We were a really powerful team and we cost ourselves the victory. Interestingly, a number of people in other crews, including Wadham, the boat that went on to win, expressed relief that we had been knocked out. Apparently the scouting reports indicated that we were a force to be reckoned with.

It is a tradition after the boat races for the college clubs to go out for a formal dinner, usually curry. In our case we went to a swanky establishment named Jamal’s where the table still bore the sullied table-cloth of the previous guests, diners bring their own beverages and it costs 13GBP for a paltry lump of rice and a few cubes of curried chicken. But at least the guests were classier than the water polo curry. The rules of pennying were clearly explained and strictly enforced (although apparently it is legal to throw a penny at someone’s glass if you are more than a meter away so in addition to being dunked incessantly, Queen Elizabeth was repeatedly hurled across the room and guests were frequently dodging projectiles). Most notably, the sconcing stuck to the theme of rowing- those who had caught a crab, overslept for a morning outing, switched seats, etc. In the course of the evening, a number of my teammates became quite inebriated and great hilarity ensued. Melissa took to song writing and penned the charming little ditty “Who should have one Christ Church? St. John’s! St. John’s!” which she got the whole boat to chant as we walked back to college. Hey, if Justin Bieber can make a career out of crooning “Baby, Baby, Baby” repeatedly, I think two lines may be enough for us to release a hit single. Then our cox got into the spirit and decided that our stroll was insufficiently organized. Soon he had us skipping down St. Giles street in stroke and bow-side pairs arranged in order, while he shouted out commands- “Bow four you are speeding up…Let’s get the timing back!... Power ten, ready, Go! Focus on the finish! Drive with the legs!” It may have been an demoralizing end to our novice rowing season but I don’t think even the winningest teams had a more jovial celebration.

An Apt Description of the English Grading System

Thanksgiving in Oxford

A few years ago a group of American Rhodies decided to host their own Thanksgiving feast here in Oxford. What started as twenty students has now grown to over a hundred, and not just Americans but scholars from all over the world who gather to share in our celebration. Many of us were at the rowing regatta all afternoon but a group got together and made turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, etc. It perfectly captured the taste of Thanksgiving, although I must admit that I missed the long hours in the kitchen chopping lettuce and onions, peeling the potatoes and mixing the gravy. And while, I love that Thanksgiving is a day that focuses on family, it was wonderful to spend the evening with the Rhodes family. It reminds me how much I have to be thankful for and how easy it is to take my blessings for granted. Of course there are the usual family, health, subsistence needs, etc to be thankful for. But despite the fact that I often struggle to come up with interesting blog posts, every day here in Oxford is a unique privilege. I spent all morning writing a paper on research methods that will be reviewed by some of the leading thinkers in the field of International Relations, I spent all afternoon in a huge boathouse built just for the couple dozen St. John’s students who chose to row each year and I spent the evening in the great hall at Rhodes house listening to a talk from the highest ranking female officer in the US Air Force and chatting with friends, whom I met through one of the world’s most sought after scholarships. So while I may lament the daily vexations of the British banking system, an excessive reading load and the exorbitant prices in Oxford, I could hardly be more blessed.

And while we are on the subject of Rhodes House, I should note that the new class of American Rhodes scholars was announced this week. It’s a good chance to emphasize the exceptional company I keep, the humbling experience of being surrounded by people who are more intelligent and more accomplished, and a source of hope for the future. I’m inspired by reading about a group of young leaders who are tackling the world’s toughest problems and making a discernable difference in issues as diverse as water security, cancer and human trafficking. It’s a call for all of us to think about the unique talents that we can leverage and the areas where we can make a difference in our corner of the world.

Winner Bios: http://www.rhodesscholar.org/winners/

Oxford Water Polo Hits the Road

Modesty is an incredibly important attribute, but seeing as my last post was pretty explicit about my shortcomings as a rower, today I am going to take the liberty of tooting my own horn. For purposes of full disclosure, I should note that I have since been demoted from stroke to seat 6. Allegedly it’s the “engine room” of the boat, but I think the coaches finally figured out that I have zero sense of rhythm.

Sunday night the water polo team had our first away game. It was in the Midlands, which, shockingly enough is in the middle of England and just getting there was a comedy of errors with rain, winding roads, multiple laps around every roundabout we encountered and a driver who wasn’t getting along well with the gear shifter and couldn’t find the lights for the first 20 minutes. Loughborough is known throughout the UK as a “sporty” school, an uncommon distinction. They also have one of the nicest aquatic facilities in the UK and a rare 50M (Olympic distance) pool. And despite a hydraulic pool floor and moveable bulkhead, they had no shot clocks, no scoreboard, and no game clock.

The game had an inauspicious beginning. We lost the sprint start, then a girl immediately got beat on a drive to the goal. As a perfectly placed overpass landed on the water right in front of her, I thought “to steal or not to steal” but the thought alone implied it was too late- she drove to the 2 meter park and then hammered the ball under my right arm. Ten seconds off the clock and we were already down. Oxford lost to Longborough 10-1 last year and I thought, “this is going to be a very long game- thank God I can’t see a scoreboard.” Fortunately, the duration of the first quarter was actually rather uneventful. Even though we couldn’t seem to pass the ball, Loughborough didn’t manage to convert on their shots. At the break, I swapped with the other goalie, but there was some confusion about whether I would play field. I didn’t jump in until after the ref blew the whistle to start the quarter and he decided that was an illegal entry and gave the other team a 5M penalty- I need to double check the rule book but I’m pretty sure that is nonsensical. Irregardless we were down 2-0. Incredibly embarrassed, I drove constantly on the next few possessions- at one point I beat my defender on the transition, got a wet pass from the deep wing, swam up to the goal, spun to get my defender out of the way and beat the goalie strong side low. Every other pass to a drive for the rest of the quarter resulted in a turnover, but at least we were on the board.

I went back into goal for the third quarter for a little active rest. Almost immediately the defense was out of position. I gave up another goal off an overhead pass to a driver. But really, there is no excuse for getting beat strong side low. Annoyed with the overpasses I resolved to come out on every possible steal. The next possession was a pass into the set player but sure enough, I went for it. There was a tussle for the ball and TWEET, the ref called another 5M penalty. She was outside 2M so it should have been a foul, maybe an ejection, but it’s not everyday you see a goalie rough up the 2M player and this ref’s policy seemed to be- when in doubt, call a penalty. Over eighty percent of penalty shots go strong side low because it is the spot the shooter is least likely to miss. As a result, goalies are taught to lunge out and sweep low to high. But this girl lobbed it right over my head as I jumped forward. Unorthodox approach, but mortifying none the less. The Loughborough student body went nuts. Raucous cheering reverberated off the walls of the indoor auditorium, taunting me. Now I was seriously piqued  The next possession we got beat on yet another drive but when the shot went cross-cage, I swatted it away. The ball landed on the far post and another girl fired off a shot. Blocked again. Loughborough recovered the ball yet again and passed it across the cage for a hasty shot and a smooth pull-down block from me. This time I managed to hold onto the ball rather than hoping the defenders would recover it. Our bench finally had an excuse to go nuts. The momentum back in our favor, we converted on a lob shot to end the quarter down 4-2. Our confidence increased going into the 4^th quarter and I went back in the field. We earned a penalty shot of our own off a drive (maybe the ref was feeling guilty for some dubious calls). The coach let me take it. True to the averages, I fired it cross-cage low. Worked like a charm. We capitalized on a drive for another goal to even it up. In the final minutes of the game I posted up at 2M and the wing passed it in even with three defenders swarming. I managed to get a hand on the ball and fire off a backhand before the defenders got a hold of my arm. Just before the defenders dragged me under water, I watched it sail over the goalies shoulder. We all lost track of the score in the midst of all the excitement of the second half and when we went to the scorer’s table at the end of the game we were shocked to learn that we won 5-4. Loughborough is one of the best teams in the league so this bodes well for our record and was an important confidence boost for a very young team. 

Most abusive sport of the week- Rowing: 1, Water Polo: 1

Triumph and Disaster on the Isis

Unidentified Men's Novice boat on the Isis

Today was one of Triumph and Disaster, and trying to live up to Rudyard Kipling’s adage to “treat those two imposters just the same.” It was the novice rowers' prelude regatta, Nephthys (named because the Oxford section of the River Thames is called the Isis and Nephthys is Isis’s sister in Egyptian mythology), which is something of a warm-up for next week’s annual Christ Church regatta, where all the colleges’ novice boats will complete to be king of the river. Most of the St. John's Women's A's had never seen a rowing race, much less competed in one so there was quite a bit of tension as we walked down to the boathouse. Two of our regular rowers were out of town so we would be borrowing girls from other boats throughout the day as availability permitted. We arrived just in time to see the Men’s Novice B’s and the Women’s Novice B’s win their races. By the time we stepped out onto the dock, all three of St. John’s boats had won so the pressure was on. Our start was a bit, shall we say, erratic. This was largely my fault, as I sit in the stroke position and it is my job to set the tempo for the rest of the boat. For the first twenty strokes we only made it to half slide, which is probably because I sped everything up in response to the uneven momentum radiating up the boat. But eventually we settled down and over the course of a 400M course, we beat New College C’s by several boat lengths without ever really using our full power. The second race against Wolfson B’s was considerably smoother and won in equally decisive fashion. One of the girls caught a crab (the oar gets caught in the water and goes flying out of your hands) in the home stretch but she managed to regain control of it and we didn’t sacrifice too much of our lead. Somehow I managed to get two enormous blisters under my calluses- how that happens in the span of three minutes is beyond me but in the afterglow of victory it seemed like a trivial concern.

We advanced to the quarterfinals to go head to head with the Merton A boat. Not only were the stakes higher, but a fellow American Rhodie sits stoke for Merton so there was some added pride on the line there. Unfortunately, the St. John’s Novice B’s had the race immediately before us and since we normally share a boat, the A’s had to improvise. At first this didn’t seem like such a big problem, but then we met Carol. All of the boats are named for the donors (or wives of donors) and Joyce, our trusty vessel of choice, is a sleek carbon composite shell- she’s not the racing boat used by our senior team but she is a reliable ride and we have gotten to know her quite well. Carol is more like a bathtub, a bathtub that hadn’t seen action in many months, and for good reason. She weights about twice as much as Joyce and I’m fairly certain the frame is lead posing as wood. As we heaved her into the water I think we all sensed that rowing her was going to be like pulling a barge up the river, but as soon as we settled in we realized that wasn’t the half of it. The runners jabbed into my legs and the seat was fitted for someone much shorter. I reached down to adjust the footplates but the screws wouldn’t budge. I was a few inches short of full leg extension but there wasn’t much I could do so I slid my bum a few inches further back on the seat and hoped for the best. Then I realized that the Velcro on the shoes didn’t stick well and the gate that holds the oar in place didn’t lock properly. And as soon as the cox stepped on board it became clear that we were several inches deeper in the water than usual- that means less clearance when you pull the oars out of the water, and since even Joyce is usually tilted so far to my side that I have trouble clearing the water, I knew that was going to be a problem. All of the rowers have to take a swim test in order to participate but obviously the vessels we use don’t get an annual check to make sure they are seaworthy (or Isis-worthy, as the case would be.) But with no other alternative we shoved off from the dock and slowly made our way to the start line, making jokes at Carol’s expense to lighten the mood.

As we neared the start line, the speakers that transmit the cox’s voice down a boat over fifty feet long kept cutting out. Soon they essentially stopped working all together. No one would be able to hear Ian count off the starting strokes, call for more power or ask for a higher rate. Not that we could measure the rate either, because, of course, the sensor that registers the stroke cadence was broken too. Everything that could go wrong with a boat was and I was increasingly worried about how low we were in the water so I turned around and told Melissa and Gaelle, the two rowers behind me, that, if my oar got stuck in the water, they should keep on rowing as best they could. Just as we lined up for the start someone realized that Harriet, one of our borrowed rowers, didn’t know the stroke sequence for the start so the coach hastily shouted instructions from the bank. God help us. And the gun went off.

“Draw 1. Draw 2. Draw 3. Wind 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.” We hit maximum rate within the first eight strokes and began to lengthen the pulls for race cadence. Carol bounced around quite a bit and the my oar was rattling loose in the gate but we were neck and neck with Merton as we rounded Boathouse Island. Just as we pulled within view of the spectators I felt my blade slip in the gate and the momentum of the boat wrenched the oar violently through the water. I managed to keep hold of the handle as it whizzed past my head and lay on my back working furiously to clear it from the water and bring it back into position. Meanwhile the girls behind me struggled to maintain speed and Merton quickly overtook us. Finally the oar was back in position and I tried to get back into sync with the other rowers. After a series of choppy strokes we settled into a rhythm and the cox began calling for power. Merton practically had a full boat length lead and we had already eaten up half the course. One of the guy rowers told me afterward, “Your face was priceless! You looked straight at the Merton boat, glared at them as if to say ‘F#ck this!’ and then opened up the throttle.” We drove with the legs and lengthened out our stroke, maximizing our power for the first time all day. “Catch! Finish! Catch! Finish!” We soared through the water and quickly began eating into Merton’s lead. By the home stretch we had not only pulled even, we were leading by a few meters. Then déjà vu. My oar slipped in the gate a second time and I was once again on my back struggling to bring my oar down past my head and into position again. We righted the boat more quickly this time but Merton had pulled ahead again and there were only meters to go. We hit full power and sailed across the finish line neck and neck. Viewers on the bank had mixed reports but most agreed it was too close to call. The race marshal sided with Merton.

I was furious! To catch a crab and then take the lead in such spectacular fashion only to be stymied by Carol’s low sit once again. And yet it was still my fault. I slammed my oar handle against the hull and positively shook with rage. In the moments while we waited to spin and paddle back to the boathouse, the adrenaline began to subside and my hands began to sting. I looked down to see that what had been blisters a few minutes before were now flaps of skin hanging loosely over raw flesh. I bit back a moan. The 200M paddle back seemed like the longest of my life. It felt like a fitting penance at the time. When we got back to the dock most of my teammates were in good spirits. No one faulted me, except me. My two crabs aside, it had been an excellent show of strength and everyone decided to blame Carol for the mishaps. “What could we do,” said Gaelle, as we hoisted her back onto a rack in the boathouse. “She’s fat. She’s a fat b!tch!” Laughing felt good and I suggested that we scuttle her- just drill a hole in the hull to save any other crew from similar mishap and misery. But that was a project for another day. For now we are going to focus on dominating at the Christ Church Regatta next week. We have a chip on our shoulder and with Joyce as our trusty steed Merton better watch out. 

Novice Water Polo

Sunday night was the first match for Oxford’s club water polo team. About half of the 13 girls who suited up for the game are novices and although I am an eight-year veteran of the sport, it was a series of firsts for me as well. Normally the pre-game talk is for reviewing the scouting report and reminders about special plays. I have never reviewed the rules in the moments before a game. But there we were, discussing what a shot clock is, where to go on a penalty and how offsides works. The game was four 7-minute quarters of running time with 30-second shot clocks (that is a new one on me). The coach called for an offense with six drivers and no center/2M player, which is a set-up that I have never heard of. But no one seemed to be going to any particular position anyway, so I suppose it didn’t really matter. Some of the novices kept trying to catch the ball with two hands and earned everyone a trip back to the defense for their troubles. We were transitioning down the pool without looking for the ball, getting caught behind on defense, turning the ball over every other possession and committing all sorts of classic mistakes that would have driven Coach Burgess or Coach Klatt to cardiac arrest.

And yet, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the pluck and tenacity of the new girls. This may have been the most jumbled game I have ever seen, but it was also the first time I have ever witnessed a team with as many novices as veterans prepare to compete in under six weeks. Most of these girls have no aquatic experience and learned to eggbeater, swim head’s up free style, throw a ball, guard a drive and set up a man-up offense in less time than it takes for a course to proctor midterms. We still have a long way to go before we can even come close to the level of junior varsity high school teams in California but I am eager to see the team improve.

And in the meantime, it is a relief to see that we are at least on par with one other team in England, in fact we are better, as the match was a 7-1 rout. Our performance may have been a comedy of errors, but our opponents were more baffled than we were. They couldn’t seem to execute on their drives, got turned around constantly on defense and by the fourth quarter they were completely gassed. I played the first half in goal and each of the four shots on goal was a relatively easy pull-down block. The coach put me in field during the second half, with the warning “Try not to kill anyone” (I can’t imagine why she thought she needed to say that). Ok, well I did turn the ball over once when the ref called me for pushing off but seeing as I stole the ball in the first place and stole it back again a few minutes later, I think it all worked out in the wash. Quite frankly, if the level of play persists, it may be a lot more entertaining to play field but I guess it all depends on where the team needs me. We have another five matches in the two and a half weeks before term ends so it will be interesting to see how it works out.  

Remembrance Sunday

Church bells have been ringing with even greater regularity than usual this today and I can hear the echo of an amplified sound system from my desk. It is Remembrance Sunday in the UK. Although the country observes two minutes of silence at 11AM on November 11^th, the actual Remembrance Day, most of the major ceremonies are observed on the second Sunday of November.  Local branches of the Royal British Legions arrange local ceremonies at war memorials across the country, there is a brief parade of veterans and people place wreaths of poppies at the base of the monument. Unfortunately, I had rowing at 11AM this morning so I wasn’t able to attend the main ceremony but I biked past the memorial on my way to practice. I was quite clearly going against the tide, as throngs of people walked towards the memorial. Most of them were smartly dressed, with poppies in their lapels, and looked to be coming straight from church.

What little I did observe impressed me as a solemn commemoration of sacrifice and a thoughtful reflection on the costs of war. The British have clearly managed to avoid the outpouring of nationalist pride that pervades so many American holidays. Perhaps our country’s short history, the myth of American Exceptionalism and the absence of a truly existential struggle for survival causes the United States to act with the hubris of youthful exuberance- we wave flags, dress in gaudy colors and toast to the glory of America’s might. But Britain seems more subdued. Theirs is a contemplative reflection on the costs of empire, the lost generations and the burden of leadership. America participated in both World Wars but I think we tend to forget how deeply personal these wars were for Europe. Many families lost brothers, fathers, uncles and sons on a scale that we cannot appreciate. Whole city blocks in London were razed to the ground and parts of the British countryside still bear the scars of Axis bombing campaigns, while the US has never endured a sustained attack on its homeland. For us the wars were a right of passage and we emerged politically and economically stronger, while Britain relinquished its role as the world’s leading power. Once upon a time the sun never set on the British Empire and now she lives in the shadow of America. The common arc of history is the rise and fall of empires and America would be wise to remember that our power is not inherent, our morals are not necessarily superior and our future is not guaranteed. The sober and staid reflection of our principal ally should serve as an example of humility and a lesson in the cycle of empires. 

The Better Angels of our Nature

“I am loath to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

I recently attended a book talk by Stephen Pinker, a renowned evolutionary psychologist from Harvard, who draws his title, “The Better Angels of our Nature,” from Lincoln’s First Inaugural Address. Pinker’s central argument is that over the last several centuries and indeed, even the last few years, human society has become less violent. He claims that while people have a tendency to privilege traumatic memories, making violent episodes particularly impressionable, when we step back from our prejudices, statistical data shows a dramatic decrease in the rate of violent killing. Unfortunately, the Sheldonian Theatre was built before the development of overhead projectors, so he was not able to utilize a power point presentation to display his quantitative evidence, but allegedly 5,000 years ago among Paleolithic humans the rate of violent death was 15%. More recently, analysis of 27 studies by ethnographers suggest a death rate of less than 0.5%. I’m a bit skeptical of these numbers because I have read books that suggest that rates of violence were far lower before mankind established complex civilizations and modern-hunter gather tribes continue to have lower rates of violence. Also, to what extent can archaeological evidence differentiate between violent death by saber-tooth tiger as opposed to murder, and did Pinker attempt to control for the degree to which recent advancements in medicine may artificially suppress the death rates in modern society? However, his numbers do suggest a decline that is substantially large so as to offset these quibbles, and I haven’t had time to pour through his 700-page book, so for now, I will grant his intermediary conclusion. The more interesting part of his claim is the causal argument he advances.

Pinker cites a number of contributing factors in what he calls the Pacification process. Namely, the Civilizing Process, whereby the state asserts a monopoly on the use of violence within society (35 violent deaths per 100,000 in Medieval England as opposed to 1/100,000 today), the Humanification Process, in which we did away with judicial torture and capital punishment in the 19^th century and the Rights Revolution, after which we see a dramatic reduction in targeted killings of women, children and ethnic minorities. He even argues, the despite the immense bloodshed of the First and Second World Wars, the twentieth century can be describes as The Long Peace because in previous centuries the great powers were constantly at war, whereas we have recently seen a marked decline in the incidence of inter-state warfare and the duration of wars. He argues that many of the causes for this can be traced back to Kant’s “Perpetual Peace,” namely democracy, trade and international institutions. While human nature has not changed (2-year olds, the most violent section of the population, still hit, bite and kick) but adults have learned to channel aggression through vicarious expressions of violence and new emphasis on restraint. Morality, reason and empathy mediate our violent impulses while the state acts as an arbiter in disputes and the threat of government punishment inhibits excessive aggression. How can we account for the enhanced roles of reason and empathy? The rise in literacy, access to education and growth of the public discourse encourages us to the better assess fairness and recognize the futility of violence. Meanwhile, globalization and cross-cultural interactions have expanded our previously narrow circle of empathy by allowing us to recognize the paradigms of others. Thus, we are to conclude that rather than fostering depravity, modern society actually promotes the “better angels of our nature.”

Two things that I think are worth bearing in mind: First, the dramatic population growth enabled by industrialization and modernization mean that even if the percentage of violent death is decreasing, the absolute numbers are not. Some studies suggest that in the last decade five-million people have died from violent conflicts in Africa alone. Second, while formal inter-state warfare is declining, violence has found new ways of manifesting itself. A few days after seeing Pinker, I was at another talk by Keith Krause, where he rejected Pinker’s claims (admittedly without even seriously looking at the book) and argued that inter-state violence is being replaced by new forms of political violence, much of it within the state through civil war, state sponsored purges, drug wars, genocide, etc. So while the development of the state has constrained the number/type of agents who can make legitimate claims to the use of force, it has also allowed for more centralized, bureaucratized and effective mass killings in societies where ethical and legal controls have failed to keep pace with advancements in political organization. Thus, we need to continue to strengthen what Lincoln called the “bonds of affection” and “mystic chords of memory” before we can recognize that men are not enemies but friends. We can only hope that the world will produce leaders with his wisdom and integrity to lead us through the infighting that lies ahead and usher in the prosperity and fraternity that has graced our formerly war-torn Union.

Crew Dates

Tonight I was introduced to another unique tradition of the UK university system called a crew date. These are exchange dinners between men’s and women’s sports teams. Usually they involve a dinner at one of the college formal halls or a local restaurant. Fancy dress (i.e. themed costumes) is common, but fortunately for me, was not required on this particular occasion. I envisioned it as an opportunity to socialize with students at other colleges and infuse your Facebook friend circle with a 20 person boost. Silly me. The Oxford women’s water polo club did an exchange dinner with the New College rugby team at New College’s formal hall and so far as I can tell, the objective of the evening was to drink copious amounts of alcohol, brag about one’s sexual exploits and recruit new hook-up buddies. While it was slightly embarrassing to be associated with this debauchery and my decision to refrain from almost all of the shenanigans may have hurt the water polo club’s social reputation, it was a fascinating social study. I assumed that Americans took the cake on organized drinking games- from beer pong, to flip cup and quarters, our competitiveness is hard to beat. But you have to give the English props for developing strategies for getting absolutely smashed at formal hall. Much of the trick involves surreptitiously dropping pennies or golf balls in people’s drink whilst they aren’t paying attention and they then have to chug the entire contents of their class. Pennies can also be dropped into pitchers of water and the golf ball often makes it way into disgusting combinations of ketchup, celery soup and other odd bits. I’ve even heard of people being forced to drink out of a shoe. The other element is publicly ridiculing other people at the table. You stand up, tap your knife against your class and say “I sconce anyone who…” Sometimes it targets classes of people like “anyone who is a club fresher” but more often they are pointed attacks like “anyone who hooked up with someone as a result of their last crew date.” Then there are the traditional punishments for pointing, saying the word “drink,” referring to people by name, etc. One of the boys on the rugby the rugby team doesn’t drink so his penalty for party fouls was holding the plank (ab exercise) on the table of the bar for two minutes while his teammates tickled him. As the night progressed the antics became even more provocative but this is all the exposition that is fit for public consumption. But let’s just say that by 9PM, most of the graduate students decided that the safest way to retain our dignity would be to retire for the evening and leave the undergraduates to their indecorous exploits. Needless to say, I think this is one of those cultural traditions that only needs to be experienced once. 

Guy Fawkes Night

Remember, remember the fifth of November,

Gunpowder treason and plot.

We see no reason

Why gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot!

Today is Guy Fawkes Night in the United Kingdom. Also known as Bonfire Night, it commemorates the Gunpowder Plot of 1605 in which a group of Catholics attempted to kill the protestant King James I and replace him with a Catholic head of state. The plot included an attempt to blow up the House of Lords and Guy Fawkes was the conspirator designated to guard the explosives cache. Authorities received an anonymous tip and arrested Fawkes in Westminster Abbey. They then preceded to torture him until he revealed the rest of the conspirators. In the aftermath, the King granted permission for the people of London to build bonfires in thanksgiving for his survival. England continues to commemorate the occasion by burning an effigy of Fawkes on a bonfire and setting off fireworks. This seems to be the only holiday where the British celebrates the existence of the state so it is a bit like the Fourth of July in that respect, however the tensions between Catholicism and the Church of England are a marked difference from the largely secular Independence day. Fireworks have been going off around Oxford intermittently from about 6PM-10PM. I assumed that they were personal fireworks that people set off in the streets and as these are illegal in CA I was eager to see the general hubbub. But as it turns out, they are fairly small scale professional shows hosted by the colleges. They can’t rival the Fourth of July in altitude, duration or pyrotechnics. But there is something exhilarating about watching the fireworks get shot off from less than a hundred yards away and watching the occasional misfire that spirals precariously close to nearby trees before sputtering out. 

Lake District- Part II

Base of the stream

The next morning Jeff  and I decided to explore some of the local trails before grabbing the first bus out of town. After staring out the window during breakfast at a stream bisecting a nearby hill, we decided it was worth seeing up close. Twenty minutes later we were at the base of it and decided that the series of barren patches in the vegetation might constitute a path, so we should find out where it went. After forty minutes of scrambling up rocks and through decaying ferns, I feel comfortable concluding that it was not supposed to be a trail but we may have successful bushwhacked a route for others to follow in the future. Although boots would be in order, as the springy vegetation that looks like a cross between moss and grass often turned out to be disguising several inches of standing water. By the time we got to the top, we were dripping with sweat and running late for the outbound bus so we hastily slipped and slid out way down. I must admit that after walking all the way from Keswick to Buttermere it was a bit aggravating that we had to take a bus back to Keswick before we could catch another bus to Windermere. But at least the bus was dry and warm and we got to a scenic tour of a new section of the Lake District.

Buttermere from above

Windermere is a rather substantial town and obviously a hot tourist destination during the summer. In addition to water sports and hiking it boasts many coveted attractions such as the World of Beatrix Potter, which must be giving stiff competition to Keswick’s Pencil Museum. Clearly this part of England is making an effort to target the 18-29 year-old demographic. Upon arriving we made the tough choice to pass up seeing Beatrix Potter and popped into a café just in time for the post-church Sunday lunch rush. We manages to secure a tiny table in the corner that provided the perfect vantage point for people-watching and an intimate look into small-town England. The 80-year-old woman at the table across from us appeared to be having her weekly lunch date with her son and his wife.  It was fascinating to watch as she slowly dissected her quiche with the precision of a surgeon and rearranged her chips (i.e. French fries) with the concentration of a general assembling his troops for battle. On the other side of us there were six women dressed to the nines who took turns venting about the aggravating behavior of their grown-children and yet lamenting how infrequently their children come to visit. Elements of the environment were decidedly foreign but I imagine that mothers have these conversations all over the world.

We spent the afternoon wandering around Lake Windermere and headed out of town with the last hour of sunshine. The hostel was a good 50-minute walk outside of Windermere and the driveway alone must have been longer than Orange Avenue. But it was a beautiful walk- crisscrossing tree boughs and mossy stone walls formed a primeval tunnel that eventually opened up onto on overlook of intersecting hedge groves rolling across the surrounding hills. Fortunately, we had the foresight to buy dinner provisions before leaving town and made tortellini in the hostel’s self-catering kitchen. For dessert, Jeff introduced me to Hob Knobs, a delightful and addicting cross between a tea biscuit and an oatmeal cookie. There must be something very relaxing about staying in rural areas, or perhaps it is the lack of access to a computer, because normally I struggle to go to bed before midnight and in the Lake District it was hard to keep my eyes open past 9:30. The next morning was Monday so it was time to head back to Oxford, Of course, it was raining again, but in the first display of true hospitality I have seen in England, some kind soul pulled over to the side of the road about 15 minutes into our walk back to Windermere and offered us a ride to the train station. Three train changes and a few screaming children later and we were back in Oxford in time for lunch. All in all it was a great weekend but I think the next time I feel the need to get out of Oxford, I will take a page from Elizabeth Bennet’s playbook and try the Peak District instead.