About 10 years ago, I saw a movie that would partly shape who I was all throughout high school and even some in college. It was the first rated "R" movie I ever saw. If I remember correctly, it was a random day off school and a friend of mine was sleeping over. I got permission from my mom to watch this film and I was inspired. The film, as many who know me can probably guess, was Braveheart. It is, as most people know, the story of a Scottish hero called William Wallace. He fought for the freedom of the Scottish people, and all the he personally did not win a lasting Scottish independence, he started a movement which shortly after his life did win the country of Scotland independence from the rule of the English. But, I was not so enamored by the plight of the Scottish people under English rule, as I was with the idea that a man like William Wallace would do all this for the idea of Freedom. As in his famous last scene, the king asks him if he would like to ask for mercy and give up his ideal of freedom for himself and for his people, Mel Gibson (William Wallace) yells FREEEEEDOM! A man that would give up his life for his ideals and for love of his people is a person worth admiring. So, I bought a kilt. And, did further research on the man. I came to realize that the real William Wallace was not as pure of a hero as the movie claimed but many of the things it portrayed did happen. I am not here to write an historical analysis of the man, but just to say that I was absolutely inspired by the story, the man, and of course his country.
So, this Easter weekend, my dad and my brother met me in Edinburgh. (I have an amazing job, I only work on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, so I just left on a Thursday night and we were back by monday night). I was only able to spend 5 days but they were an enchanting 5 days. My dad brother and I went out our first night for dinner at an old inn and restaurant that had been in business for over 250 years. I had a delicious fish and chips with a pint of McEwans 80 shilling and it was maybe the best beer I have ever had (I used to be partial to a Scottish ale called Belhaven, but I think the McEwans 80 shilling tops it, at least on draught in a 250 year old inn with fish and chips in front of me).
The first day we spent in Edinburgh. I have pictures to add as well, because I will hardly be able to write well enough to describe how picturesque this city truly is. It just has a medieval feel to it. Everything is done in stone. It has a crisp sea breeze always blowing in on it. The weather is constantly changing from sun, to rain, to snow, and to clouds. It was home to the Scottish Reformation and the great reformation preacher John Knox. We were able to see his house and the church St. Giles were delivered his fiery sermons that condemned many of the practices of the Catholic Church and stirred a devotion to Scripture and Reformed theology that eventually led to the establishment of the Presbyterian church being the official church of the Scottish people. Its no wonder I love Scotland. Fiery, Biblical, Reformed preaching and a national hero who gave his life for his ideals, could there be a greater combination?
My dad may differ from me on the Presbyterian point, but one of the most influential writers on economics was also from Edinburgh and is buried here, Adam Smith. So, there was a little history for everybody in our group here in Scotland.
After Edinburgh, we set out for the Highlands. The weather conditions were to hostile to attempt a climb of Ben Nevis without technical ice climbing gear so we decided to hike at a slightly lower elevation and around a few lochs. It was cold and windy, and snowy at times, but it wasn't brutal for Scottish Highland conditions. In fact, it felt pretty perfect to me. We climbed through sheep pastures, heather, and wooded forests. We climbed a ben, walked along a loch and gazed across a beautiful green glen (I think that covers all the Scottish geological terms).
On Sunday, Easter, we attended St. Giles Kirk (the High and First Kirk of Scotland). It was a short service that mostly focused around their long way of doing communion, and the preaching was especially short. The pastor spoke for about 3 minutes and delivered a well worded short little sermon about the picture of Jesus throughout the ages. I wasn't expecting a reincarnation of John Knox, but a slightly longer more challenging sermon would have been nice. (I don't think John Knox would be too proud of the current state of preaching in his Kirk).
The afternoon, we visited Stirling and were able to see where the battle of Stirling Bridge took place when William Wallace defeated the English in 1297. We toured the Castle which dates back to the period not long after Robert the Bruce's grandson was in power in the 1500s. The city and Castle of Stirling are both extremely important strategic points in the country of Scotland for their position in between the Lowlands and the Highlands. So, when Wallace defeated the English there, he in effect, had taken back control of the country even though the independence of the nation would not be recognized until about 20 years later when Robert the Bruce would defeat the English at Bannockburn.
The whole country seemed to be built for me. If they could place baseball there, and I could move all my family and my friends there (and change their accents to Scottish accents) I think I would be in heaven.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Trains and stuff
(Disclaimer - these thoughts I didn't all have on the 27th of March. It is sort of a catch all of several different thoughts I have had over the last several weeks in which I didn't really write because well I will just let you read it.)
I have not written in this blog for quite some time. I find it quite ironic that I was talking in one of my last entries about more people finding out about my blog and then suddenly I just completely stop writing in it. As soon as I have readers, I lost the will to write. Maybe its some deep seeded fear that my writing really isn't any good and I don't really have anything worthwhile to say. Or, maybe, as I thought the other day, it is because I have been in France for over 6 months now, and I am just not as inspired to write as much as I was at the beginning. I write for myself still, but as to the specific mission and project of this blog, I haven't had as much to say. I have grown accustomed to this life in France that I have. It has become the norm for me, and as such, the experiences aren't new anymore. That being said, I am still having a great time. But, it is just not as novel. I am more comfortable. I feel more comfortable speaking French then I ever have been. This is certainly not to say that I am fluent or should stop working on my French, but when asked questions in French, I can usually utter some response back in French. Also, I have made many friends at the school and at the American Church in Paris. I have two communities that I am a part of. I still love riding the train in and out of the city, but the excitement and intrigue of that has somewhat given way to the hassle of riding the train an hour to hang out with my friends in the city. I am not complaining, but I think these are sentiments of someone who is now more familiar with life in a city as large as Paris.
I still love trains, especially subways and commuter trains. When my friend JD was here, I started calling the transport network, the suburban trains (RER) and the subway the Metro, the Great Equalizer. We were talking about all the different types of people who ride the train and even what their different purposes are. There are students who ride the trains to school and back home. There are business people who ride the trains back and forth to work. There are gypsies who walk up and down isles begging for money every single day. There are other homeless (Sans Domicile Fixe) people who ride the trains to sleep and find a warm resting place. There are mothers and fathers who cart their kids around to do their shopping and errands. Each type of person not only looks and acts different, but they smell different. No matter who you are (unless you don't have an olfactory sense) you smell EVERYONE. It doesn't matter what you reason for being on the train, your socio-economic background, or your age, you cannot avoid the stench of that homeless gypsy who hasn't showered in weeks. Every person makes different noises. From the guy who never gets off his phone to your left, to the stupid French teenager who plays his obnoxious American rap music as loud as he can on his phone without any idea what the lyrics of the music he is playing are, to that mother who can't control her crying baby and the shrieks and moans from that child echo down the car, so it doesn't matter where you are sitting in that giant car you can still hear it crying. You can try to mask these sounds with headphones, but even still the sounds seeps in. Sometimes you find the strangest things on those seats as well, some sticky substance that you don't even want to know what it is, left over vomit from a drunken night before, or a gift from a homeless guy who has used the gap in the two seats as a toilet (and I don't mean number 1).
Yet, EVERYONE uses these trains. And, EVERYONE should at some point in their lives. This is where the world is. No one can escape the trains and subways. They are a necessary part of Parisian and big city life. Humanity exists in the tunnels (or rat's maze as my mom likes to call it) and on the trains. You see the good and bad of all forms of life. The prettiest Parisian model and the crazy old homeless French man yelling about the government's new policy. No matter how special you think you are, you smell all the smells, you hear all the sounds, you see all the sights, you feel all the substances, and taste the staleness in the air. You come face to face with every type of person living on this giant planet and you cannot ignore the grandeur that the rich live in, or the poverty that the rest live in. You cannot avoid it and you should not avoid it.
I have not written in this blog for quite some time. I find it quite ironic that I was talking in one of my last entries about more people finding out about my blog and then suddenly I just completely stop writing in it. As soon as I have readers, I lost the will to write. Maybe its some deep seeded fear that my writing really isn't any good and I don't really have anything worthwhile to say. Or, maybe, as I thought the other day, it is because I have been in France for over 6 months now, and I am just not as inspired to write as much as I was at the beginning. I write for myself still, but as to the specific mission and project of this blog, I haven't had as much to say. I have grown accustomed to this life in France that I have. It has become the norm for me, and as such, the experiences aren't new anymore. That being said, I am still having a great time. But, it is just not as novel. I am more comfortable. I feel more comfortable speaking French then I ever have been. This is certainly not to say that I am fluent or should stop working on my French, but when asked questions in French, I can usually utter some response back in French. Also, I have made many friends at the school and at the American Church in Paris. I have two communities that I am a part of. I still love riding the train in and out of the city, but the excitement and intrigue of that has somewhat given way to the hassle of riding the train an hour to hang out with my friends in the city. I am not complaining, but I think these are sentiments of someone who is now more familiar with life in a city as large as Paris.
I still love trains, especially subways and commuter trains. When my friend JD was here, I started calling the transport network, the suburban trains (RER) and the subway the Metro, the Great Equalizer. We were talking about all the different types of people who ride the train and even what their different purposes are. There are students who ride the trains to school and back home. There are business people who ride the trains back and forth to work. There are gypsies who walk up and down isles begging for money every single day. There are other homeless (Sans Domicile Fixe) people who ride the trains to sleep and find a warm resting place. There are mothers and fathers who cart their kids around to do their shopping and errands. Each type of person not only looks and acts different, but they smell different. No matter who you are (unless you don't have an olfactory sense) you smell EVERYONE. It doesn't matter what you reason for being on the train, your socio-economic background, or your age, you cannot avoid the stench of that homeless gypsy who hasn't showered in weeks. Every person makes different noises. From the guy who never gets off his phone to your left, to the stupid French teenager who plays his obnoxious American rap music as loud as he can on his phone without any idea what the lyrics of the music he is playing are, to that mother who can't control her crying baby and the shrieks and moans from that child echo down the car, so it doesn't matter where you are sitting in that giant car you can still hear it crying. You can try to mask these sounds with headphones, but even still the sounds seeps in. Sometimes you find the strangest things on those seats as well, some sticky substance that you don't even want to know what it is, left over vomit from a drunken night before, or a gift from a homeless guy who has used the gap in the two seats as a toilet (and I don't mean number 1).
Yet, EVERYONE uses these trains. And, EVERYONE should at some point in their lives. This is where the world is. No one can escape the trains and subways. They are a necessary part of Parisian and big city life. Humanity exists in the tunnels (or rat's maze as my mom likes to call it) and on the trains. You see the good and bad of all forms of life. The prettiest Parisian model and the crazy old homeless French man yelling about the government's new policy. No matter how special you think you are, you smell all the smells, you hear all the sounds, you see all the sights, you feel all the substances, and taste the staleness in the air. You come face to face with every type of person living on this giant planet and you cannot ignore the grandeur that the rich live in, or the poverty that the rest live in. You cannot avoid it and you should not avoid it.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Multumesc
Thursday, I flew into Bucharest, Romania from Paris, France. I brought my snowboard in hopes that we might be able to snowboard when I arrived in Baia Mare. The only problem with taking a snowboard to Romania, was trying to get the snowboard from my room in my Lycee all the way to Charles de Gaulle Airport. I had to carry my pack of clothes and my huge snowboard bag quite some distance without my own vehicle. Once I arrived at the airport, my troubles were only just beginning. I was in the farthest terminal from the train station and it took me almost an hour to find my ticket that happened to be a paper ticket, instead of the now normally issued electronic ticket. After having gone to 5 different counters, I finally went to the last and only place it could possibly. The worker there from Tarom Air, told me that he did not have my ticket either and that he didn't know what I should. I thought my trip was over before it started. However, after taking another look around, he found it sitting on his desk where he had looked once before, but just overlooked. So, I had my ticket, but my plane was leaving in 30 minutes and I still had to check my bag. Luckily, everything went smoothly from here on out. On the flight from Paris to Bucharest, I played with a little French kid for probably an hour and a half. He came and sat beside and decided that I would be his playmate for the flight. He was probably 5 years old and spoke only French. I fooled him for about 15 minutes by merely responding, "oui," "non," and "C'est vrai," to his questions in French. Then, he realized that I didn't speak French fluently. But, we had fun together for a while.
After we unloaded into the Bucharest airport, I began to realize that I couldn't have been a stranger sight to the Romania people then had I been Chinese. They had no idea why an American coming from Paris would want to go to Baia Mare. The lady at customs hardly believed that my final destination was actually Baia Mare. Baia Mare is a small town in the north of Romania. Spirit of St. Louis airport seemed gigantic compared to the little airport in Baia Mare, but more of that later. The lady who inspected me at the security gate was quite a curious lady. As I approached her, she looked me up and down without the least bit of sheepishness. She was a tall thin woman with long black hair. She looked like she was maybe in her early thirties. While I was taking my computer out of my backpack, my two books fell out of the front of my back. Quickly, she picked them up. She looked at the first one like a child inspecting a foreign food they had never seen. She read the title out loud to herself, "The Memory of Old Jack." Following the title, she said, "yes very old." Setting that book down, she picked up the other. It is an entirely blank red book, so she searched the first few pages trying to find the title, "Northanger Abbey and Pers... Ok. Go through." She couldn't pronounce persuasion, so I guess that was sufficient for her.
The plane was about the size of a regional jet we might have in the United States only a little bit older. I wasn't the least bit afraid because it was full, and I figured, if that many people trusted the plane, I would be willing to trust the plane. I walked from the tarmac into the airport and saw a bunch of people waiting. I was praying that Dorin and Aurelia hadn't forgot about me and I would be in Baia Mare, Romania without a backup plan or a mode of escape. After waiting around for a few minutes, a tall man who had recognized from time here approached through the front doors. Without hesitation, I called out, "Dorin!" I walked up to him, and almost without thinking, just gave him a big hug. Never in my life had I been I felt so relieved to have found someone I had only met one other time in my life.
After we unloaded into the Bucharest airport, I began to realize that I couldn't have been a stranger sight to the Romania people then had I been Chinese. They had no idea why an American coming from Paris would want to go to Baia Mare. The lady at customs hardly believed that my final destination was actually Baia Mare. Baia Mare is a small town in the north of Romania. Spirit of St. Louis airport seemed gigantic compared to the little airport in Baia Mare, but more of that later. The lady who inspected me at the security gate was quite a curious lady. As I approached her, she looked me up and down without the least bit of sheepishness. She was a tall thin woman with long black hair. She looked like she was maybe in her early thirties. While I was taking my computer out of my backpack, my two books fell out of the front of my back. Quickly, she picked them up. She looked at the first one like a child inspecting a foreign food they had never seen. She read the title out loud to herself, "The Memory of Old Jack." Following the title, she said, "yes very old." Setting that book down, she picked up the other. It is an entirely blank red book, so she searched the first few pages trying to find the title, "Northanger Abbey and Pers... Ok. Go through." She couldn't pronounce persuasion, so I guess that was sufficient for her.
The plane was about the size of a regional jet we might have in the United States only a little bit older. I wasn't the least bit afraid because it was full, and I figured, if that many people trusted the plane, I would be willing to trust the plane. I walked from the tarmac into the airport and saw a bunch of people waiting. I was praying that Dorin and Aurelia hadn't forgot about me and I would be in Baia Mare, Romania without a backup plan or a mode of escape. After waiting around for a few minutes, a tall man who had recognized from time here approached through the front doors. Without hesitation, I called out, "Dorin!" I walked up to him, and almost without thinking, just gave him a big hug. Never in my life had I been I felt so relieved to have found someone I had only met one other time in my life.
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