Underground in Scotland

We are staying at the University of Edinburgh. More specifically, we are snuggled into the very modern Pollack Hall with its sliding doors, key card entries and all-you-can-eat buffet breakfast and dinner. We are a long way from Oxford.  I can fit in my shower and, once I figured out how the super modern taps worked, I had excellent water pressure.

I am going to put it out there right now: this will be the first trip with Global Journeys in which I have gained weight. The thing is, these damn residences are always buffet and consisting of UK fare like potatos, roast beef, boiled vegetables, chips, broiled chicken, and assorted fattening deserts with words like “curd” and “pasty” and “fatty” associated them. And then it became ridiculous with six words: all-you-can-eat Yorkshire pudding. And don’t even get me started on the fact that the national motto for cooking in the UK is “When All Else Fails, Wrap It In Bacon.”

I will be lucky if they let me in the plane for the trip home. I’ll be lucky if I fit into the plane!

When I first looked at the city of Edinburgh I was struck by how stark it seemed. Solid, brown, stone buildings collected together to form a mass of dark windows, pointed roofs, and heavy architecture. There was little opulence and absolutely no sense of ostentation. I don’t believe this city can ever be accused of being a jewel, but that is okay. Once my initial impression passed I saw a comfortable, reliable and proud city that offers no artifice. It is what it is, and to be anything else would not be Edinburgh. I cannot claim that I found the city to be pretty, but she is handsome!

We took the kids on a haunted walk of the underground vaults. Built within the archways of a bridge, the original purpose of this section of the city was to create a centre of commerce protected from the elements. An underground mall, if you will. When the damp and mould prevailed after the constant flooding, this idea was eventually abandoned. Moving in after the shops all left were the most desperate and most vile people of the city. Those who not afford to live anywhere else had to find refuge in this area rife with thieves, murderers, and human traffickers. Children growing up here had to play around the drug dealers, the prostitutes, the violence and the fear. It is a dark and dreary place, to be sure. But it is also spooky! Oh yeah…and let us not forget the body snatchers!

Enter nineteen teenage girls, two teenage boys and three tired adults. What could possibly go wrong?

Our guide, who looked like Judy Dench, was an excellent storyteller. She had the kids wrapped around her finger. At one point, before entering the vaults, we were discussing the murder of a judge while huddled in one of the city’s many closes (very narrow alleyways) when someone abruptly strode into the close and startled us.  He happened to come at the most intense part of the tale. I don’t know who was more shocked, our group or this poor guy who had obviously gone out to get some milk or something.

As we walked through the cavernous depths, with its dampness and stench, I tried to keep my claustrophobia at bay. The ground was uneven and I found it difficult to walk. I had hurt my knee in London and had been working with a bit of a limp since. This slowed me down and, always being at the end of the line I began to fall a bit behind. This allowed me to see the kids as one clump, clustered together for protection and feeding each other’s fear. It was like a Most Haunted episode on steroids.

I felt it on my legs at first. A gust of wind that swept the floor around us. It scampered on the floor of the room we were in and caused the girls to lift up their feet and hop about. As the screaming began I realized that this wind did not touch the upper part of our bodies, only from the knees down to the ground. It was like an invisible wave had swept into the room. The screaming subsided and for an brief moment there was almost silence. I say almost, because it was then that we heard the voices. They echoed and ricocheted off the uneven walls and empty passageways. They were low and deep.

The girls screamed again and my colleagues and our guide tried to calm them down. As they started to settle down and walked back towards the darkness to see if I can hear the voices again. I thought I did, very faintly and far away into the darkness. I think what happened was another group had entered the vault and the wind was the result of a single door letting air in from the outside. I am pretty sure that had we not screamed like we were in a slasher movie we would have heard a number of different voices at first.

Pretty sure. In any case, the kids were having none of my theory and the mood for spooky fun was set in stone.

We learned of a spirit named “Mr. Boots” who strode about the place and made threats. He apparently didn’t like being called Mr. Boots and has been known to inform visitors aggressively that his name is actually Edward. When the tour guide told of this story, she went on to describe some of the experiences others have had and referred to him by his nickname. At this point a number of kids asked her to please call him Edward as they did not wish to upset him.

Afterwards we walked home and the kids were on a post-scare high. They were convinced that they had experienced a true haunting in the tour. Who was I to argue? They paid good money for a true haunting.

My colleague, Joe, and I took a side trip on another day to Roslyn Chapel. This is a small medieval church that had a major role in Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code. Part of the movie was also filmed here.

It’s very small, but the carvings are intricate and covers the entire building. No where within these walls is there a blank space.

One of the pillars, the Apprentice Piller, has an interesting story attached to it. It seems the Master asked his apprentice, as they were building the chapel, to wait for his return from a trip before working on the next column. The apprentice, with a lot of time on his hands, decides to work on the column anyways. Upon his return, the Master found the column not only completed, but extraordinarily beautiful and inspiring. Much better than the Master could ever do. The Master became angry and jealous of the genius and  skill that the apprentice demonstrate, so he killed him. The Master was tried and executed for his crime but that was not all. On the other end of the sactuary, up in opposite corners and facing the Apprentice Column are the carved renditions of the Master and the apprentice. Both are forced to look upon this column together for all eternity. The apprentice can bask in the glory of his creating forever. While the Master is forced to look upon his shame and humiliation.

This place is considered a special place for many reaons. Some think it holds, or held, the Holy Grail. Or the skull of St. Matthew or Jesus. It has  accused of being the final resting place of Mary Magdalene or another saint. Some feel that ley lines, like those found at Stonehenge, cross through this chapel bringing the earth based energy of the universe with them. Still others think it might be part of a larger complex involving a landing pad for aliens.

I just found the place to beautiful, quiet, serene and inspiring.

While I was able to see Edinburgh a bit more, including the castle, I have to admit it was a brief stop. I will have to return here again in order to truly understand the Scotland.

 

The Long and Winding Road, the Sanctuary, and Something Completely Different.

I love the time I spend with the kids, I really do. But it is important to take some time away from them during these trips if you can do so. It is an intense job so it is really good when you can figure out a way to do some adult stuff.

Joe, the other teacher on this trip with me, is a huge Beatles fan. As we walked back from our required visit to the London Eye he noticed that A Hard Day’s Night was playing at the British Film Institute the following day. He asked me if I wanted to join him. Me? See a movie? Absolutely!

I have often said that I would have considered living in England had things been different and I had remained single. The preferred alternative having occurred I never really gave it much thought outside of the casual reference every so often. However, this movie experience has forced to me to re-evaluate this concept.

There was no popcorn at this movie. No popcorn, no soft drinks, no candies and no insultingly obvious price-gouging. I then remembered that all we had on offer when I saw the last Harry Potter movie in Cannes a couple of years ago was a vending machine.

Quite frankly, this movie lover cannot abide living in such conditions.

Despite this hardship, we managed to make it to the cinema and enjoyed ourselves.

The movie wasn’t great, to be honest. The acting was sketchy, the plot was thinner than Twiggy (all you young people, look her up!), and the direction was spastic.

But it was a time capsule to a different era. Both Joe and I were left with a sense of melancholy. So much had happened with the Beatles since this had been filmed. So much water under the bridge. Seeing John Lennon and George Harrison at the beginning of their careers was a textured experience to be sure. Every once in a while you would see Paul McCartney stand a certain way at the microphone and it looked just as you imagine him in your mind’s eye.

Joe and I walked along the Thames and talked about the deaths of John and George, the marriages of Paul, and the acting chops of Ringo and agreed we felt a little older. I wasn’t born yet when this movie came out and Joe was just an infant, but this band had its mark on our generation. I have said before that I truly believe that John Lennon is as close to a prophet as we are going to get in these modern times.

But this movie was before Imagine and Yoko Ono and trips to India and George coming into his own. This movie was before the beards and the marijuana and the Blue Meanies and the (somewhat) amicable breakup. Seeing these fresh young men at the very beginning of their long and winding road connected us with a bygone era that may or may not have actually existed outside the media.

The next day, our last, Joe and I went to visit Abbey Road Studios. It was a pilgrimage for Joe and I felt privileged to have been able to bear witness to it. As we approached the intersection we started to laugh. A large group of people were taking turns posing at the crosswalk. They, of course, were imitating the famous Abbey Road album cover. I guess this had been going on for some time because horns began honking and a rather long line of vehicles had already gathered on each side.

We watched the action for awhile, marveling at the spectacle. Finally, Joe wanted to get up closer to the building itself. I asked him if he wanted to pose on the crosswalk but he said no. I let him walk on ahead and took photos of him crossing. I would later take photos of him as he walked up to the front door of the studio building and then walk back.

This was so much fun for me. Joe was so joyful and proud of himself for his audacity that I couldn’t help but get swept up in the moment. As we walked but to St. John’s Root Station we were buzzed with excitement and pure glee.

For a brief moment I thought of another Beatles fan. My brother Mark would have loved this afternoon in London.

After dinner we took the kids to see the tower of London. Afterwards I wanted to take them to a special place nearby that is not so famous. The church of St. Dunstan’s-in-the-East was bombed during World War II. Afterwards the rubble was clear and the remaining structure was reinforced. Today, it is an inner city garden that brings comfort and solitude and quiet and respite in a different way than it did for centuries. You sit within what was once the sanctuary and you find yourself within a beautiful and fertile garden bright with colour and drama. The hollow frames that once held stained glass let in the sunshine and the remains of the stone structure bring protection from the outside noises.

I talk to the kids about the renegotiating of sacred space in this beautiful place. A centre of worship that has centuries of tradition and continuity is destroyed in one night, but in its place is a new space that is just as spiritual, just as awe-inspiring as the one before. There is still sacredness in this space, I tell them. Hieros gamos can be found among the vines in the middle of downtown London, I assure them. This is still very much a sactuary. It is still a holy place.

Some of you have heard the story of my first visit to the Tower of London twenty years ago. My mother, who had died seven years earlier, had always wanted to see this historic building, so when I saw it my thoughts immediately turned to her. As a result of this I began to cry. A lot. In fact, I had to sit down on a bench and when I tried to collect my thoughts my sobs turned into that heaving, gasping, desperate cry we reach when we are at our most despairing.

When my mother died, I was living in Toronto and nobody I knew there had ever actually met her. When I returned home from the funeral I was working as an actor in a play and rehearsals took up about three months of my time. It was like her death had never happened. Seven years later, my failure to actually deal with my grief finally came to the surface. And it was messy.

An old woman eventually sat next to me and handed me tissues. You can imagine the sight as this dear, little lady sat next to a six foot man who was hunched over in tears. Not my most shining moment to be sure. I kept trying to apologise for my behavior and she kept tapping me on the knee.

“Better out than in, dear,” was the only thing she said to me. When I finally stopped and was able to see and speak again she was gone.

Shocked from this experience I staggered away from the tower and made my way down Great Tower Road. Feeling like I might be overwhelmed I ducked into a small street and stumbled into St. Dunstan’s Garden. It was in this place that I managed to fully recover myself.

I believe that this garden is a representation of hope growing out of the ruins of depair. Londoners took the loss of a church and turned it into a fertile and blooming reminder that life grows out of the ashes of despair. At least, that is what it means to me.

I would return to the tower and take part in the tour. I would also return home and deal with my grief at last. Because that is what we are all called to do when the time comes.

And this was the last thing I showed my kids in London.

On our walk back I straggled a little behind. After crossing Tower Bridge I saw the most amazing thing. In Potter’s Field Park, surrounded by onlookers, was an art installation that looked like a large blue parrot lying on its back.  While I thought it was so very odd I reminded myself that I asked the kids to meet under the giant blue rooster statue in Trafalgar Square (part of a revolving art exhibit). So odd was not so unusual in London.

It wasn’t until later that I realized what I had seen. London was celebrating the Monty Python Reunion activities and what I saw was the Norwegian Blue Parrot, with its beautiful plumage, sleeping in Potter’s Field Park.

Or maybe it was just stunned. Or pining for the fjords. Or….something.

Anyway, I made it back home to pack before things got too silly.

London Impresses

We left Oxford with some sadness in our hearts. We, all of us, had grown attached to the small college with its quaint graveyard, white-gloved breakfast and dinner service, and easy availability of what was possibly the best lemon curd cheesecake known to man just a block away. While my room was so small that I had to squeeze into the bathroom because the door only opened a little bit before it banged up against my bed, it was nevertheless a teeny room in Oxford and probably housed somebody important at some time.

Besides, the door eventually banged up against the back of my heel when I had to pee in the night and the whole thing came off the hinges. Once the searing pain stopped and I had my pee, I looked upon it as a bit of a blessing really. I am sure that the staff at St. Edmund’s will understand.

London welcomed me back after two years with rain and gusts of wind that shook the bus as it made its way across Blackfriar’s Bridge. This was very similar to the rains I experienced during my last visit when I was almost blown off this same bridge and into the Thames. Had this happened I was pretty sure I would have ended up on the northern shores of France.

The Bankside House Residence for the London School of Economics was exactly as I remembered it. The food was okay and plentiful, the staff were a bit more cheerful this time around, and the spirit of the place reminded me of the brutal, blunt architecture still present in the eastern portion of Berlin. No spirit, no joy, and no warmth. It was redecorated in the 1970s so the décor looks like an ABBA video but without the voulez-vous. Remember Space:1999 from the 1970s? It had an all-white décor and everyone walked around in bell bottomed track suits with a splash of colour in one arm? And the acting was stiff and the plots were so weird you really couldn’t connect with it? And yet it still had the potential to be interesting if it could just get over itself for a minute or two?

Add splashes of burnt orange and French’s mustard yellow, carpets made out of vinyl, and approximately seven thousand big-haired, screaming tweens from Barcelona filling up the elevators with too much perfume and hairdos that were so big they required their own postal codes and you will have a clear understanding of the Bankside Residences of the London School of Economics during the summer.

London is a busy place. I know this sounds like an obvious statement, but I was really made aware of it this time around. The first time I came here was twenty years ago and it was my first trip to Europe, so I found the whole experience new and exciting and big. Two years ago the whole city was heaving as it prepared for the Olympics which would begin within a matter of weeks. So this was the first time I really observed the city as an entity. New York is packed with people navigating through the tight grid that is determined by the buildings that make up the famous skyline. There is very little extra space. London has broader avenues and is much more spacious in general when it comes to the streets outside of the oldest parts of London.

And yet the people move. By bike, cab, bus, car, or foot, there are masses of people moving and weaving and navigating through the streets. And London makes sure that her inhabitants move pretty quickly and easily. I enjoy walking the south bank along the Thames. Once a dubious industrial blight, Southwark, with its London Eye, British Film Institute, National Theatre, Tate Modern Art Gallery and countless restaurants, pubs, and condos has changed the landscape considerably. The Jubilee and Queen’s Walks are always full of people, but the walking is easy and the sights are spectacular.

We, of course, took the kids to the usual places that are required when in London. I always find it fascinating how some are so enthusiastic while others just look up from their phone and note the scenery. I admit to sometimes feeling despair during these moments. I look out onto the faces of my students who look up at the architecture of Westminster Abbey as I speak of flying buttresses and the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II and I sometimes wonder if they are really listening. If they aren’t just politely looking towards the direction my finger is pointing while they sing a Justin Beiber song in their head.

And then they remind me not to lose hope.

We took them to see Buckingham Palace. After explaining the standard waving from a mast on the roof and some of the history of the building and those who live in it, I like to take them to the Canada Gate that is nearby. Photos are taken and the kids make a big show of their national pride that is never seen during the national anthem at school or during Remembrance Day assemblies. Then I took them to the Canadian War Memorial.

Consisting of two triangle-shaped slopes at about twenty degree angles standing next to each other, the monument is a set of two waterfalls that has the water gently flowing from the stylized pointed tops of the piece (about seven feet high) to the wider bottom which is about two feet below the street level. The water is calm and almost imperceptible as it washes over bronze embossed maple leaves that seem to have fallen on the surface. The further you look down the flow you will see these leaves gather at the bottom. A few real leaves from nearby maple trees have floated down and nestled among these bronze images.

As I approached the memorial I cursed myself for not remembering to remind my charges that this was a memorial and proper behavior was required. When I turned around I realized that this particular direction was not necessary for this day. They were somber, quiet, reflective and respectful. They broke apart and wandered about the memorial on their own. There were no phones, no pictures (at least at first) and no speaking. Eventually I heard them whispering to each other about relatives and loved ones who had served in past and present wars and conflicts. At one point, one of the girls pulled on my sleeve and in a quiet and cracked voice said “Sir,” and pointed to a nearby shrine to the fallen RCMP officers who had been shot in New Brunswick this past spring.

I didn’t need to explain the imagery and metaphors found within the memorial. These kids knew it. I didn’t need to connect the events of last spring to the events of World War II. These kids knew it.  For a while we sat around the memorial and discussed service to one’s country and the many forms this took.  We talked about the need to support our troops when they come back as well as when they go away to serve. We talked about how you can be against war but supportive of soldiers. And we talked about how it is important to recognize, and observe, and not forget.

Sometimes, not often anymore, I am asked why I would want to work with teenagers all day long. But these people are thinking about those annoying jerks at the mall. Or the group of young people who act stupid because they are young and stupid (like we were). These people who ask me these questions don’t see these moments. They don’t see the quiet understanding, the hint of a tear as they look at photos of men they never knew, the subtle touching of arms and elbows and shoulders as they support each other while taking in these hard realities.

Yes, these young people can drive me to distraction. Yes, there are times when I wonder if I should have pursued my goal to become an Egyptologist and deal with relics of the past instead. But I chose something else. I chose the future.

Whatever their failings, my kids…your kids…will inherit the world in which we live. More often than not, I have been reminded that this is not even remotely a bad thing.

The Sacred Spaces

I love taking my students through the great museums of Europe.

               Whenever I take them to a museum I have yet to visit on my own, I am faced with the challenge of making the visit meaningful, truthful, and authentic as I can without any preparation. I want to honour the curators as well as the artists whose work are on display. But, truth be told, this challenge excites me!

               As I enter each room, I look around for items that easily demonstrate my over-arching theme. I tell the kids about the term hieros gamos, or ‘sacred marriage’ between the earth and the sky, which refers to the concept of obtaining and maintaining balance. While it is a complicated term to understand when you are a teenager, it is eventually understood. More importantly, though, it is so universal that it is guaranteed to be recognizable in any room in any museum anywhere.

               So, in each room I choose a number of specific pieces and discuss them as pertaining to my theme. If I don’t know the painter, or when it was painted, it hardly matters as that is not my topic. Hieros gamos is. After discussing each of them I move on to the next room and find my next examples. This goes on for about 30 – 45 minutes and then I release the kids and ask them to look for specific examples of concepts I want them to explore and we meet up in a half hour or so.

               If I can be honest for a moment I will admit that I am absolutely brilliant at this! I look really smart and educated in a wide array of fields and mediums, when all I am really doing is discussing my topic.

               The only time I faltered was when I took kids to the Neus Museum in Berlin a few years ago. I faltered and got teary eyed when my gaze fell upon the bust of Nefertiti. I kind of fell in love with her in front of everyone. I could not rip my eyes away from her!

               I took our kids in this fashion through the ancient Egyptian, Greek and Roman art and artifacts and hieros gamosed the hell out of them. After we were all done we wandered about the museum alone and I overheard a couple of the girls.

               “Do you think he knows all this stuff by heart?”

               “Obviously. It was his first time here. You could tell.”

               “Yeah. He got lost in the section with the mummies. He knows a lot.”

               “Yeah. He does. It’s kinda weird, actually.”

               I’ll take it! It means they were listening. Not necessarily awestruck, but listening.

               When we arrived at Stonehenge we were alone. Not only that, we were granted access to the inner circle of the monument. Our group, along with our guide, followed the marked path until we reached a spot where the rope was undone and the space this created was the threshold to our ability to wander about the stones in the early morning dew on Salisbury’s plains. 

               We were quiet at first as we wandered about and soaked in the energy of the place. The stones become massive at such proximity. They tower above you as the sun rises behind them and the wind whistles around. Stonehenge, inside, is both protection from the elements as well as an amplifier. For this visit there was not the downpour I experienced last time. Nor were there so many people.  On this day, the stones provide respite from the wind even as it playfully whips about you.

               Our guide spoke fondly of the site. She obviously had a personal relationship with this place. And who can blame her? The pictures of Stonehenge belie the spiritual nature of the place. Whether it was a calendar, a burial ground, or holy ground, there can be no argument over the sacredness of this place.

               When the dowsing rods came out the excitement grew. Our guide walked with them loosely in her hands and when she crossed a certain spot, the rods spun and pointed to each other. Most kids, and all of the adults, tried this out as well with the same response.

               That early morning in that amazing space we shared with each other…and nobody else…bonded our group. We were getting along, but since our return to our group seems to have become more cohesive, more comfortable with each other.

               Perhaps the old gods are smiling upon us this year.

Across from the Buttery and very near Narnia

 

I am in Oxford. Or, more specifically, I am in St. Edmund’s College in Oxford University.

St. Edmund’s is quite small and is the only one of the original Masters of Arts communities, called “Halls”, that survives from the very early days of this school. This little college, with its reputation for having fun and being very good at sports, is the school’s last remaining link to its medieval beginnings. There is an old Dining Hall used for special occasions, a new dining hall that looks out of place, an old chapel, and a medieval church that has been refitted as the library. It also has a Buttery (a pub), a Gate House that locks the place up at night, and the ghost of a former student who hanged himself and now wanders about in one of the staircases. I am not sure which one, but I doubt it is mine as I already have a haunted bathroom. The door keeps opening and bangs against my bed (it is a very small room) despite my latching it. I believe it is haunted by a larger man who died of claustrophobia in the shower section of the mini-potty and whose body was never claimed.

My desk looks out the little window, with its medieval latches, onto the small quad. I can see classrooms and flats across the way quite clearly. Sometimes I can see the old medieval well in the centre of the square and anyone who passes by it as they make their way to the Buttery or the passageway to the Library. I hear the chiming of the bells every fifteen minutes, voices of others in the college speaking, and the morning and evensong of the birds that live in the many bushes and trees immediately outside my window. Sound is carried in this place and scattered about, ricocheting off the stone walls and tiled gables. When it is particularly quiet I can hear the cling cling of bicycle bells warning of their approach towards a particularly sharp turn in the street just past the porter. It is very peaceful in this college, a great contrast to the bustle outside.

When I was a little boy I wanted to go to a place like this. I found the quest for greater knowledge and the challenge to excel in academics (rather than sports) very appealing. I loved the thought of the pomp, the traditions, the ceremonies and the pageantry of it all. It was so different than the world in which I lived. I have seen the graduates wondering about in their formal robes and their families in tow, constant smiles and cameras at the ready, and I admit to feeling just a slight pang of jealousy. If there are multiple universes, then I hope I am an Oxford scholar in one of them. In the meantime, I will enjoy my time here as I teach my students and the St. Edmund’s fleece jacket, tie and mug (sorry, Eric) will have to suffice. I am fully prepared to state with authority in the very near future something like “When I taught at Oxford…”

Outside of the gated passageway, the streets of Oxford heave with tourists during the day. This is the ultimate campus community with the many colleges scattered about, each with its own museum, chapel and library. The Bodleian is here, housing Shakespeare’s first folio, the Magna Carta and a Gutenburg Bible. Some of my students were thrilled to visit where some of the Harry Potter movies were filmed. I tried to convince them that there was so much to this great place but I fear they were merely being polite as I spoke what seemed like gibberish to them.

And yet it became clear to all of us how Oxford has inspired its fair share of literature. This week is the Alice’s Day festival, where the origin of Alice in Wonderland is celebrated. Literally hundreds of activities to be done and everyone dresses up as characters from the stories. I saw many girls dressed up as Alice, a few Tweedle Dees and/or Dums, one Cheshire cat and two Queens of Hearts (a pair?) walking down the street talking on their cellphones. They were very intense as you can well imagine! I even saw a rabbit who was, funnily enough, in a hurry.

It was an interesting experience, but I must admit that I have always had an uncomfortable feeling about Alice and her falling through mirrors. The thought of this terrified me as a kid. The Cheshire Cat guy, with his long pipe, sweaty demeanor, and a seemingly endless supply of pamphlets to a dramatic reading, kind of creeped me out. The little kids running down the street dressed as chess pieces was cute though. I had to smile when a black pawn helped out a white rook when he tripped over a curb. World peace at last!

Another literary influence that I enjoyed was the connection to Narnia. Having walked through St. Mary’s Passage by the Radcliffe Camera (Oxford’s famous round building) during a wintery day, C.S. Lewis regarded a lantern on a pole and was inspired to include a key element to his concept of Narnia. Fans of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe will recognize this lantern as the spot where Lucy first enters Narnia from her hiding place. It is in this scene that she meets kindly Mr. Tumnus. You will find his origins on sculptures that bracket a nearby door.

Having overcome some technical issues recently, I hope to post pictures of these items very soon. They will only be available at the blog, though, not in the mailing list.

Our stay in Oxford is for just a week. We will be seeing Stonehenge and Bath during this time as well as the Ashmolean Museum. In the meantime, classes have begun and I have found myself easily settling in to academic life here at the university.

I will pretend, for the next few days anyways, that I did, indeed, make my way to Oxford after all.

 

 

The Beginning, The Beckoning, and The Boar

The Beginning, The Beckoning, and The Boar.

You may recall, almost a year ago, I claimed boldly in a hotel room in Rome that I would not be returning for another summer trip with Global Journeys for awhile. It was not because I didn’t enjoy the job. In fact, I not only love it...I am in love with it. It plays to my strengths and it challenges me as I introduce young people to European art and culture. But, I wrote that night in Rome, I was getting tired. I needed some time off from travelling.

And here I am. In Italy. Again.

This is not my fault. This is the fault of two people. Deb Pedersen, owner of Global Journeys, and Eric. Deb seduced me with Malta. I haven’t been to Malta and she knew that I would find it very difficult to turn down. She is a Travel Vixen. I didn’t stand a chance. And Eric...well...I said to Eric that if I were to do another trip like this there could be no road trip in August like years before.  Anyone who knows Eric know full well that he would never agree to such a thing. Then he agreed to such a thing.  Then, I thought, I wanted a smaller class. Fourteen was too much for my tired self. No problem, claimed Vixen Deb, teach the Classical Civilisations course. The numbers are always smaller when you don’t teach English.  Fine, I thought, I will do it again.

Fifteen students later here I am teaching kids about the ancient world.

Oh well...it’s still an awesome job and my original plan for the summer of 2013 was a trip to Egypt. Yeesh.

Oh yeah, and Eric is working for Global Journeys this year. He is the team leader for the trip to France. I think that this was his way of letting go of the road trip this summer. Ha! When he comes back, the only road trip he’ll be in the mood for is to end of the driveway to pick up the recyclables container.

You may have also noted, or not, that I have not been keeping up with the blog for the past few months. I had decided to try to push the blog further throughout the year and had limited success. I have learned a few lessons about myself and will try again in the fall. In the meantime, we have returned to a travel blog once again.

Our first stop on this trip has been Florence.

I don’t exactly know when it happened, but I fell madly in love with Florence during one of my visits. I love the fact that you can walk in a mostly car-free environment throughout the old city centre and that everywhere you look there is testament to the artistry of the old Italian masters. This trip I have walked within the church and home of Dante, followed the footsteps of Machiavelli, and gazed upon the works of Il Sodomi,  Caravaggio, and da Vinci. I also love the soft bustle of the people as they move about the streets. It’s busy, to be sure, but it seems more...intimate...than the hustle of Rome. Tonight, as I write this I can hear the people walking by as music wanders around the cobbled streets, being carried around stone walls and old engravings of the Virgin Mary with the soft evening wind. The city is not revelling, like you expect New York or London to do. But it’s still awake and alive after Sunday midnight gives way to early Monday morning. I hear voices, but they laugh and speak to each other with intent. They do not yell or scream or simply make noise because it is possible.

Tonight, as a I said goodbye to this fair city, I walked down a main thoroughfare and shared it with literally thousands of people. But the noise was muted. It reminded me of the evening walks that we witnessed in Gander, Newfoundland a few years ago. It was like the entire town had just finished dinner and had all decided to go for a walk to ease digestion. It was like that....only in hundreds.

Our hotel , the Hotel de Lanzie, is one block away from the Duomo and we can hear the bells chime. There are a lot of bells and they chime on the hour, the half hour and whenever the hell someone feels like ringing the bells. And it’s not just the Duomo. Today, Sunday, the pealing of the bells filled the late morning air for a great long time. It seemed to last forever. And then it did it again. Never has a disruption in my class been so openly welcomed. The window in the room I taught this week looked out onto a street that ran perpendicular to ours and ended at the front door of the hotel. Down this street, between the narrow stone buildings you can see the southern facade of the Duomo rise up towards the sky. This is my view as I try to inspire my kids about the birth place of the Remaissance.

And I get paid to do this.

We took the kids to the Uffizi and I did my best to give them a meaningful tour. I spoke of Boticelli, and Vasari, and Rembrandt. I introduced them to St. Sebastian, Laocoon, and Cosimo de Medici. I told them the stories of Eros and Psyche, Marsyas and Apollo, and Salome and St. John the Baptist. We took pictures of the Pont dell Vecchio and the Arno from the south facade and marveled at the Medici secret passageway that connects the Uffizi to Pitti Palace. Every time I go to the Uffizi I discover new things. This time I appreciated the room with the sculptures of Niobe and her children. Having boasted that her children were better than even the twins Apollo and Artemis, Niobe was forced to watch all of her children die at the hands of these two gods. The statues are spread around the room, each one of them writhing in desperate pain as their mother watches from one side, clinging to her youngest in desperation.

But it is not all about the art.

Across the tiny street there is Grom, a very popular and well regarded gelateria. This is not the gelato that is brightly coloured and piled up high in the cooler so that those walking by cannot help but notice. This is the real thing. The soft, creamy gelato that must be protected from the light so it is kept in metal drums with covers. This gelato is not scooped, it is moulded onto the cone or into the cup.

And they had Liquorizia. My favourite flavour that is so very difficult to find. Can this be anything else but a sign?

So I am filled to the rim with this gelato on this last night before leaving Florence.

We also showed the kids the markets, packed solidly with leather and scarves and trinkets that glitter and glow. We taught the kids the beginner’s approach to haggling, and made them rub the nose of the statue of the boar. While the copper of the statue has been green for  generations, the nose is still bright from the rubbing of thousands of visitors who believe that doing this will guarantee a return to Florence. We all dutifully committed ourselves to coming back and building on this experience.

Tonight I walked the main thoroughfare before I had to go to my hotel for bed check and said my good bye to the Uffizie and Piazza dell Vecchio. I had realised a few days ago that I really didn’t know when I would come back.  In trips before I could estimate at least a general time period of my next visit to Florence. But not this time.

I definitely won’t be going with Global Journeys next year. (Really. We have plans with our godchildren and their parents.) And once I am in administration...whenever that happens...my ability to commit becomes a bit more complicated. Eric isn’t called to Italy like I am so he wants to see other things in the world...and so do I, really.

I don’t know when I will return to this beautiful, wonderful, artistic city that calls to be from the beginnings of the Renaissance. And this makes me very sad as I head of to bed.

I don’t know when I will be back. But I will be back. Someday.  After all, I rubbed the nose of the boar.

A Return, A Funeral, And A Trip Back

 Greetings from Hamilton.

The fact that it has almost been two months since I last blogged is shameful.

September start up for me has always been hectic. As a teacher so many things are going on in so many areas in all different directions. Then suddenly it’s October. Then it’s almost November.

The bottom line is quite simple: I must make the time to blog if this is going to continue. I find the time when I am on the road, which can be challenging, so I can find it when I am at home. It’s ironic that I have finally made the time while away from home yet again.

Eric and I are in Hamilton to celebrate the life of Veronica Marchildon. The mother of Eric’s step-mother, I was introduced to Roni along with all of my other in-laws when I was first introduced to the Héberts those many years ago. I cannot claim to have known her intimately, but I have spent many hours in conversation with her and have watched her live out her life with quiet dignity that suggested an impish humour that I enjoyed witnessing every once in a while.

When I attend visitations at the funeral home, I have always enjoyed the photos that the family spreads out for all to see. This is a focus on the life lived rather than the life left. For Roni I recognised many of the photos and the people in them. Moments of my in-laws frozen in time during celebrations and visiting, youthful versions of those I know smiling at me from the past, and people who I met once and have left us all behind. These photos, this evidence of a life, create a narrative you can spin on your own as you eavesdrop on those who knew her longer than you did, or better.

When I met Roni she was in her seventies. She was the older generation of this new family into which I was beginning to insert myself. She, and her husband Bernie, were always kind and respectful to me. I didn’t know a lot about her, but I liked her a lot.

I knew that she had met her husband when performing for the troops in WWII. Tonight I found pictures of her as one of the ‘beauties’ of the “Carry On Dance Troupe” that toured and entertained Canadian soldiers in a song and dance revue. Seeing her glamour shots and examples of the posters and flyers gave me a glimpse of this vibrant young woman who was born to perform. She was beautiful, she oozed confidence, and she had the most amazing gams!

This was not the Roni I was privy to. But in those photographs of her posing, smiling, holding her husband, presenting her children,  and hamming it up I saw the same impish humour sparkling in her eyes that I saw when we had many of our conversations. I wish I had asked her about her dancing. She was right there at my convenience for just over twenty years. But I didn’t and it is my loss.

We return home after the funeral tomorrow and I am hoping that Tropical Storm Sandy has had her way with us and will have moved on. The trip out here last night was the most harrowing 401 yet! The fierce winds laced with blowing rain as we drove among sliding transport trailers and idiot SUVs made for a tense few hours. From Kingston to Toronto is seemed like we were driving the car Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and would be swept off to Baffin Island at any moment.

I hate the 401.

I am looking forward to getting back to routine by the end of the week. I brought some marking with me but getting it done while attending to things in Hamilton was a very silly fantasy. It will be hectic upon my return, but it will also be comfortable.

In the meantime, I am off to bed so that we can start early on a day of memorial, family and the trip 

home.