The Burns Night

In commemoration of their endearing poet Robert Burns, the British host annual gatherings to celebrate the author’s legacy through song, dance, poetry recitation, and…haggis. That’s right, the renowned Scottish delicacy of goat intestines and heart is just as central to “The Burns Night” as the bagpipes which lead it to the “top table.” Midway through the ceremony, after several folk songs and dedicational litanies, the haggis is piped in and placed before the enthusiastic, kilt-adorned chairman. Thereafter, the said overseer unsheathes a miniature dagger and proceeds to splice the seemingly rotted loaf with several fell flicks of the wrist whilst reciting an ancient Scottish chant to the spectators beyond.

I had the fortunate opportunity of witnessing this singular ceremony first-hand. I was, somewhat awkwardly, seated at the top table—thanks to Kathryn’s shrewd persuasive skills—with the Wilkinsin Dance Company, the group which performed traditional Highland dance throughout the evening. Seated on the end of what was a rigid, U-shaped table, I was surprisingly acknowledged by the chairman himself at the beginning of the evening. After graciously lauding the dancers for their annual dedication, the president concluded his address with a “And lastly, please welcome our transatlantic guest, Michael.” It was quite a shock, for me at least, and as I uncomfortably watched the sea of parishioners curiously shift in their seats to observe the newcomer, it was rather difficult to hold back the rushing blood in my face.

The unnecessary embarrassment subsided, however, as I became joyously distracted by the captivating dance routines of the company. They clogged, they skipped, they shuffled, and they even danced atop swords while executing every step with relentless precision. They were adroitly skilled in their technique and as I became mesmerized by their flawless routine and the harmonious drone of the accompanying bagpipes, I was only slightly disappointed when the dancing finally ceased. Had the interruption not been in the name of food (haggis time) I would have been equally pleased watching the dancers for the remainder of the evening.

As I said before, the haggis was led into the church hall by a piper—my seat at the table was fortuitously positioned precisely where the piper stopped, about-faced, and continued blowing while the instrument’s melodious squeals and jets of concentrated air blew straight into my face and ear drum. It was carried atop a silver tray by a lady in, perceivably, traditional attire. She placed it before the chairman and the haggis ceremony continued. The haggis was then served with “neeps” and “tatties” (swede and potatoes). I drowned my entire plate in gravy and devoured it like a starved Viking berserker.

I will conclude with the following: Give haggis a shot. It’s amazing. It’s like eating corned beef hash, ground beef, Spam, liver and onions, hot roast beef, slow-cooked pork, and minced kebab meat—all mixed together with a pleasurable gritty texture, if you can imagine that.

Oslo, Norway

Visiting Norway most definitely appealed to my inner child, for their emphasis on vikings, dragons, trolls, and fantastical lands left me ecstatic throughout the entire duration of our stay. Despite its ridiculously awesome value of Norse mythology, however, Oslo remains one of the most expensive cities in the world--an aspect of which my wallet was reluctant to acknowledge. I bought sixty-five British pounds worth of Norwegian Krones, which converted to approximately five hundred fifty units of currency. The enormous values in which Norway's currency is expressed also made everything seem ridiculously expensive, especially when I paid seventy Krones for a McDonald's meal. I never expected to pay seventy units of anything for McDonald's. On a side note, I never fully realized how small a Big Mac really is. I was displeased to know that my horrifically gluttonous appetite would only subsist off of mediocre McDonald's meals for the next day and a half. We managed, however, to save enough money for a traditional meal during our final night's stay. In fact, we only ate McDonald's once. Allow me to recount for you the entirety of our meals:

- McDonald's (70 Kr).

-Two pieces of toast--one lathered with a dollop of jam and another providing a fine pallet for a cold piece of cheese (40 Kr).

-Lefse bread (25 Kr).

-The traditional Norwegian Christmas dinner. The meal consisted of a medium-sized sausage, a variation of meat loaf, two cutlets of virtual fat, some type of syrup-saturated prunes, purple cabbage, sauerkraut, potatoes, lettuce, and tomatoes. I spoiled everything, probably, by dousing it all with an unnecessary heavy drizzle of Tobasco sauce. I couldn't resist when I saw the red bottle. (175 Kr).

I wish I had been able to experience their notorious seafood dishes, but perhaps I'll save that for when I visit the fjords. The night we arrived, or the day rather--for it was only four o'clock but the sun had completely disappeared, the city welcomed us with brisk weather. We managed to find our hostel rather quickly, thanks to Talia--who had thoroughly researched our entire itinerary prior to arrival, and proceeded to situate ourselves until we felt comfortable leaving. We walked around Oslo for the remainder of the night. The city's urban development surprised me the most. I never expected Norway to boast such tall high-rises but Oslo's business sector was full of them. It was quite a modern city to say the least, but it also had its historical city center. Most of the streets were laid out in that European-esque flagstone, or that mystical cobble-stone that everyone familiarly fantasizes about when they dream of quaint European towns. The buildings were beautiful and although I neglected to note their age, I sensed a range from the eighteenth to twentieth century. We went back to the hostel later that night, exhausted from our day of travel (why does the mere process of travelling induce so much exhaustion?) and discussed a topic inspired by one of the magical proclivities of Norway: dragons. Our avid discussion lulled us to sleep until we were awoken by the light of the warm Norwegian sun. Kidding, we were awoken by an alarm clock.

We managed to pack a day's worth of activities into a relentless morning. Our itinerary consisted of the Viking Ship Museum, the Folklore Museum, and Vigeland Sculpture Park. We reached all of these locations by the extremely efficient Oslo bus system. I think the twenty four hour bus passes were the best investment we made the entire trip. The viking ship museum was incredible. The building itself, I thought, was quite an innovative design. It was laid out in the form of a large cross, wherein the main wing displayed a nearly pristine viking ship and the adjoining wings held two ships in far worse condition--especially one whose hull was almost entirely deteriorated. The museum also featured a collection of artifacts from the ships' excavation sites. The detail that went into all of the wood carvings was incredible; even the ships' masts and sterns were intricately carved.

From the ship museum we walked down the street to the folklore museum, which had to be the most engaging part of the trip. Here, several viking villages were recreated. We were able to walk around and pretend we were actual vikings, which we happily did. Two Norwegian women reenacted oppressed viking bakers as they gave us warm lefse bread from their small hovel. The lefse bread was good, but not as good as asiago. From the village we proceeded to the indoor section of the museum, which featured a variety of Norwegian antiques from across the centuries. What especially interested me was the presentation on Norwegian fifties culture, which was closely akin to that of America's. I think I merely liked dancing to the jukebox in the corner. As we continued through the museum, the displays became more and more grueling, in my opinion anyway. The basement held an array of glass display cases that suspended various Norwegian cultural attire. It became quite monotonous after a while and I believe the only thing that could've wrenched me from that drowsy boredom was what came next.

I've never been to a more obscure setting than the Vigeland Sculpture Park. After entering the wrought iron gates, we were ushered across a bridge--the sides of which supported a variety of naked stone sculptures. Most of them were naked men performing various acrobatics with young naked children. Some of the sculptures were actually quite discomforting. The bridge ended at a large fountain whose sides were adorned with copper templates showing more naked children. The center of the fountain featured a group of naked men supporting a large bowl from where, I'm presuming, water is supposed to spout in theory. After trekking the entire length of an adjacent staircase, we observed the enormous, obelisk-like pillar of crushed naked people. Yes, this pillar consisted of, I'm assuming, one hundred intertwined nude people. It was outrageous, but interesting.

I wish I could've spent more time in Norway itself. I'd like to go back and revisit the countryside in the summer; perhaps see the beautiful fjords, but I think the day's visit yielded great results no less.

Apologies

I won't make any promises--seeing as I've been quite an unreliable informant and have egregiously failed to uphold the original intentions for my blog--but I'll try to write as much as I can this week before I depart for Norway this Friday...that's right, Norway. I've done a lot of things and have been a lot of places since my last post, but have also been overwhelmed, unnecessarily, with school work--which I suppose is the primary reason for my lack of writing. Nevertheless, I'd love nothing more than to get these recent experiences down on paper (computer) and share them with my THIRTEEN followers! By the way, take a look at this tuna/mayo/red onion jacket potato with a side salad I purchased for only two pounds:

Bonfire Night

"Remember remember the fifth of November?" Well, I certainly will; especially considering the astonishing firework displays the British put on to commemorate the day Guy Fawkes attempted to blow up British Parliament in 1605. Partaking in bonfire night gave V for Vendetta, for me, a different significance; not in the sense that it made the film more comprehensible, but, rather, gave it more meaning. I was surprised to discover the lack of British people who'dactually seen the film. Despite their enthusiasm towards the traditional holiday, many had never even heard of the movie. I can actually recall viewing, prior to coming to England, a brief documentary on bonfire night--or Guy Fawkes Night as Wikipedia terms it. I vaguely remember watching clips of people roll barrels around a giant flaming pyre, on top of which sat a burning Guy Fawkes manikin. Contrary to what you might see on television, however, there were unfortunately no tribal-like dances or effigy conflagrations--no matter how much I longed to see one. I was also disappointed in the lack of those ominous-looking Guy Fawkes masks. I expected to see a sea of white faces with wry smiles but instead, among the bright explosions of those phenomenal lighting displays, I observed a mass of ordinary faces who were just as captivated as I was. It recalled that awe-inspiring, tearful, final scene in V for Vendetta wherein the cloned multitudes divest themselves of their masks and watch, in rapt attention, their most prominent legislative structure be demolished by V's subterranean, fertilizer-laden plastic explosives. Fortunately, the firework displays were in no way related to any insidious terrorist attack. They were wonderful no less, and I'm glad I had the opportunity to participate in the tradition twice, once on Friday and once again on Sunday.

Futility in Fashion

Disclaimer: This post is a useless snippet and waste of blog space, but the recent encounter with my reflection compelled me to write about the sickly image that stared back at me.

Earlier today, I chatted with my sister and discussed the highly-prioritized British realm of fashion. I didn't actually acknowledge this revelation until I verbalized it, but living in England has made me care less about what I wear than before I came here. Don't, however, think it's indifference that's forsaken my fashion standards; it's the sense of unattainability I feel as I observe the vast wardrobes adorned by all of these intentionally disheveled beatniks. First of all, my unfortunate inability to grow substantial facial hair inhibits me from resembling any type of Kerouac-figure, and second, I am constantly forced to squander my money between two things: food or clothes. Which would you pick? The future of an all-comfortable and contented wardrobe seems, to me, unrealistic and, therefore, I give up. I'll have to remain satisfied with my generic, stone-like attire.

Again, until Tuesday.

I realize I haven't posted in several days. I'll have been to Hadrian's Wall by Tuesday, a visit that will most certainly yield a longer post than this one. It's not that nothing exciting hasn't happened, I just don't think anyone wants to read about the aimless gallivanting that has characterized much of my time here. There are, however, a few points I'd like to bring up. I noticed, and am overjoyed, that I have accrued several more readers, an aspect of this blog that fuels encouragement and support. I also wanted to discuss a blatant topic that, I'm sure, everyone's thought about at some point. The country of England, as in the actual size, is small enough, I believe, to fit within the state of Georgia. It's a phenomenon, then, that this island seems to contain such a rich history that seems, to me, much more vast than the United States'. Granted, England obviously is a much older country, but it's not only the history that seems more dense, but the geography of its culture. There seems to be just as many distinctive cultural groups here as there are in the United States--which is nearly fifty times its size. I listened to my roommate the other day as he described the various dialects throughout England: Geordie, Brummie, Cockney, Scouse, Welsh, Scottish, and so on, all contained within a relatively small country. I don't know how else to expand on that, but I do want you to observe the great, golden man I found crawling on the wall of the civic center:

Romeo and Juliet

Last night I attended a production of Romeo and Juliet put on by the Royal Shakespeare Company. They hail from the Bard's hometown in Stratford Upon Avon and visit, annually, Newcastle in early Fall. I saw--for free, might I add--the first play in their Autumn series; this includes Romeo & Juliet, King Lear, Antony & Cleopatra, and Hamlet. The play featured in the Theatre Royal, a magnificent, Georgian building that seems central to the historical Haymarket district in Newcastle. We sat in the second from the last row in the precipitous third-balcony region, towering considerably high above the stage and the rest of the audience. I once thought that I was in the steepest theater when I saw a play, in the last row, in the Imperial Theater in Augusta, GA. These seats, however, proved me wrong. But again, they were generously given to us English majors free of charge, so I won't complain. I wonder how many other perks the humanities department offers.

I realize it's almost sacrilegious to profess an apathy towards Shakespeare, but he's just never done it for me; it could just be my complete ignorance, or incompetence for that matter. This particular production, however, was the most stimulating play of which I've ever attended. The opening scene, where all of the men are biting their thumbs and such, was so intense and quite abrupt. There were pyrotechnics involved and lots of slashing around with swords. It was...intense, for lack of a better word. I was almost certain the play would take place in the traditional, sixteenth-century context, seeing as the characters were outfitted with traditional dress, but as several other characters ran on stage wielding active fire extinguishers I knew I was in for something different. Moreover, Romeo and Juliet wore complete modern clothing as well--Romeo, a hoodie and Juliet, some skinny jeans and a blouse. Their families and friends, however, remained in traditional attire.

My favorite part, probably because it resembled so closely the dance sequence in A Knight's Tale, was the scene wherein Romeo meets Juliet at the ball. The scene took on an almost tribal-like dance appearance. Most of the cast ran around in a spastic cyclone while Juliet belly danced in the middle...crazy.

The end of the play was surprising as well. As Romeo and Juliet lay dead, both of their families and several police officers appear on stage, all dressed in modern clothing, as if all of this was some alternate fantasy dreamed by two flippant teens. To me, the end suggested that this tragedy, and Shakespeare himself, is just as relevant to contemporary society as it was four hundred years ago. The familiar story of impassioned love, familial strife, vengeance, obsession, sacrifice, etc. remains applicable to our chaotic modern age, and it is Shakespeare who still manages to suspend our preoccupations with another one of his classic tales. It's hard for me, as I'm sure it is for many, to perceive the immense influence Shakespeare has had on the collective of literature, films, story-telling, etc. The basis of his plays and poems have historically become ingrained in post-sixteenth century societies to the point where current artists unconsciously draw from the same themes and subject matter. I suppose this is a perfect example of the intertexuality we see studied so often in literature, it still amazes me!