Fischberg Flashback 24: Ivory Towers

Note: this was originally posted to Fisch and Chips on November 29, 2013.  Along with the usual grammatical cleanup, I've added captions to some of the photos.

I leave England in sixteen days.

I have three papers due in two weeks.

I still have places I want to see for my Criminal Justice Pilgrimage.

My time abroad is coming to a close-time for me to step it up!

Alright, that’s enough nervousness for one post.  Let’s talk about today’s adventure!

Today, the AHA group and I traveled by bus to Oxford, home of the massive Oxford University, a collection of thirty-nine different colleges, all sharing considerable prestige (It’s the oldest university in the English-speaking world.).  It’s also where several scenes in the Harry Potter movies were filmed (guess which aspect was more interesting for a good deal of the group).  The whole day was one big whirlwind of museums, libraries, chapels (more beautiful church décor!), stairs (more climbing!), and potato crisps.  It would take too long if I tried to elaborate on everything, so here’s a large collection of pictures.  As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.  Enjoy this gratuitous antique university porn, and try to guess which of these settings are where Harry Potter was filmed!

Christ Church College

Christ Church College dining hall

Chirst Church Cathedral

The Radcliffe Camera, a private library at the center of campus

Pitt Rivers Museum

Pitt Rivers anthropology exhibit

Ashmolean Museum

interior of Bodleian Library

I hope that was fun.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to buckle down and get to work.  These papers aren’t going to write themselves, and I still want to take a trip to Tyburn…

Happy 3rd night of Hanukkah!

Modern reflections:

I don't remember much of Oxford aside from the gorgeous architecture/scenery.  This post was mostly an excuse to show off the photos I took.

For those curious, I loosely based the title of this post off the British sitcom Fawlty Towers.  A lot of my blog post titles are very loosely based off of really obscure pop culture references.  My posts' contents are meant to entertain/inform you, dear reader, but my posts' titles are often a challenge to myself in clever creativity.

Fischberg Flashback 23: The Crazy Place with the Hookers in the Windows

Original date of post: November 28, 2013

Over the course of the last two months, I’ve seen my fair share of national capitals: London in England, Edinburgh in Scotland, Paris in France.  Since one can never get too much traveling, it was time to round it off with one more: Amsterdam in the Netherlands, which I visited this most recent weekend with a few fellow travelers in the AHA program!

(One final note before I commence: I couldn’t take as many pictures as I wanted, as many stores in Amsterdam have a policy about not taking photos of displays or merchandise.  As such, you’ll have to take my word on everything I’m about to describe.  Also, even though I’ll use white text to mask the most risqué of my observations, consider this entire post to be rated PG-13.)

After one heck of a trip over from London to Amsterdam (which involved trains, buses, and sleeping in an airport with minimal success) my traveling companions and I finally arrived on Friday morning in this fabled city of vice, where marijuana and prostitution are both totally legal, the local flag has three Xs, and the Christmas decorations are borderline racist by American standards.  BTW, a few quick notes about Christmas in the Netherlands: They don’t celebrate Christmas per se, but St. Nicholas Day on December 5th.  Their equivalent of Santa Claus, St. Nicholas, is thin and dresses like the Pope, but he totally has the same facial features and beard of Santa.  He also travels around with a posse of black men led by his personal sidekick, Black Pete, whose job is to beat up naughty children.  All members of St. Nicholas’ posse are shown having pitch-black skin and somewhat exaggerated lips.  We settled down at the apartment that we had rented out for the weekend and spent a good portion of the afternoon stocking up on supplies and napping.

After cooking and eating dinner for the night, my companions and I decided to wander the streets of Amsterdam, hoping to find a bar or cannabis café.  At night, Amsterdam truly gets to show its beauty--the canals reflect light wondrously, the streets quiet down, and the buildings are only illuminated by a handful of street lights.  As we roamed from street to street, we slowly gravitated towards an area of the city with more light and people, like moths to a flame, passing through a crowded market at one point (containing a man in a snowman costume dancing in a giant snow globe) and ducking into a series of alleys.  White text commencing now: I believe it was after I saw the third scantily clad woman pressing her breasts from behind a storefront window and smiling at me in an alley filled with red fluorescent lights when I thought, Hold on, I think I’m being solicited by prostitutes!

That’s right, we had officially strolled into De Wallen, the oldest and most notorious of Amsterdam’s red-light districts (yes, there are more than one)!  Along with the hundred or so prostitutes in shop windows (all scantily clad and sporting comically sized boobs of anime-like proportions), there were bars, sex stores, casinos, and cannabis cafes as far as the eyes could see-all completely legal!  The whole place looked like a bored vice detective’s wet dream, spanned several canals, was filled with more red and pink lights than Las Vegas on steroids, had street vendors of every kind all over the place, and was easily the most crowded part of Amsterdam that I saw (surprise of the century right there).  We made the most of our time there by ducking into a bar for a drink (Dutch beer is quite refreshing and is almost soda-like) between cannabis cafes.  I didn’t smoke any weed throughout this trip--holding a burning object inches away from my face and breathing in thick smelly smoke isn’t my mug of cocoa--but I was fascinated by its (completely legal) consumption and how…ordinary and respectable many of the cafes seemed to be.  To be honest, this applies to all of De Wallen, as most of the people on the streets--the johns, gamblers, junkies, barflies, and lechers who would usually be considered dregs of society--actually seemed normal, no different from the dozens of men and women one would find anywhere in London or Paris (with a noticeable lack of children).  Maybe things are different in Amsterdam…or I’ve just gotten less judgmental…or more naïve.  Either way, I was mesmerized by the bright lights and casual vice and went to bed excited for what Saturday would hold.

After that walk on the wild side, it was time to indulge in something a little more wholesome.  It was time to do something more fun than all the pot, booze, and whores in the world: bicycling (yes, I still live with my parents; please don’t take my lunch money)!  We biked all around the city, not with any real destinations in mind.  Because Amsterdam has amazingly well-kept bike paths and plenty of places to lock up your bike, the bicycle truly is the best vehicle in the city, as you can get plenty of amazing views around the city (no one wears bike helmets; that’s how lawless this place is).  As luck would have it (after I almost got smashed to bits by a trolley--just kidding, I was perfectly safe, though it didn’t look that way to observers), we stumbled across a market filled with street vendors, selling goods such as waffles, chocolate penises, winter clothing, chocolate boobies, bongs, chocolate vaginas, postcards, chocolate buttocks (Noticing a pattern here?), towels, fudge, and lewd t-shirts (One of which featured the catchy slogan, “Ass: The Other Vagina.”).  We stuffed our faces with waffles (which were thin and stuffed with caramel and covered in chocolate) and fudge, bought a few postcards and plenty of towels, and marveled at the rest of the…unique merchandise.  After being all market-ed out, we bicycled some more enjoying the scenic Amsterdam canals along the way.

That night, after making dinner, my companions decided to go out clubbing, as Amsterdam is widely renowned for its dance clubs.  Since waiting in line to get into an exclusive crowded club filled with casual drug use isn’t exactly my scene, I decided to take a long walk around Amsterdam instead.  Since it had easily been the most vibrant part of the city at night and had been filled with street vendors, I decided to start my random excursion in De Wallen.  However, I became lost along the way and found myself in a quieter neighborhood, filled with canals and illuminated by giant rose-shaped lights.  After all the vibrancy of the day and the prior night, it felt good to see the quaint, peaceful side of Amsterdam, far from the vice, bright lights, and the usual bustle one encounters in a major city.  Along with this sense of tranquility I felt, the most memorable aspect of that night was a statue of Anne Frank (I’m pretty sure I was close to the Anne Frank House, but I can’t say so with absolute certainty).  As in the case with Tower Green two months ago, I felt myself becoming pensive, reflecting on how lucky I am as an individual, not only to be traveling all over Western Europe and enjoying sights, but to be able to live free from fear of religious and ethnic persecution, unlike many people, including my ancestors, in past centuries.  I wouldn’t say that these reflections made me happy per se, but I’m glad I had them.  I went back to the apartment, satisfied with my simple, yet refreshing, walk around this grand old city.

Having enjoyed two wonderful days in Amsterdam, it was time to return home.  On Sunday, we headed out to the airport…only to miss our flight and wait in the airport for five hours before we could board the next available flight.  Wheee.  Negativity aside, we made it home safe and sound, ready for the week’s challenges…

…And that was my time in Amsterdam!  Incredibly enough, in a city filled with every manner of legalized vice, I had the time of my life avoiding it all and cycling around like a maniac.  In fact, I had so much fun cycling, I’m seriously considering taking it up when I get back to the U.S. of A!  One day, I’d like to return to Amsterdam, as there was much I didn’t get to see properly (the Anne Frank House during the day, for one).  When I do, maybe I’ll finally give in to the dark side and smoke the wacky tobaccy…

Knowing me, I’ll probably just go cycling.

 

Modern reflections:

Well, this was a fun weekend!  I still vividly remember most of the highlights of my Amsterdam trip, but rereading this account reminds me how crazy everything was.  Amsterdam was a beautiful city, and I would like to go back there some day.  There's a lot about this trip that's worthy of reflecting on, but I've limited it to the main highlights.

The legal marijuana was an interesting detail, but it wasn't something I got excited about.  My marijuana-smoking friends were much more interested; the Facebook chat we used to plan the excursion was titled "We GET HIGH."  They politely offered it to me plenty, but I always politely refused.  As such, I was the "designated thinker" for a good chunk of the trip; I sometimes helped plan where to go when everyone was coming off their buzz.  I'm glad I was traveling with such amiable amigos; they never once peer-pressured me into trying and consistently respected my desire to abstain.  Their continuous weed consumption took us to sever cannabis cafés, one of which served the greatest cup of hot chocolate I've ever had.

Having lived in the Portland area for the better part of a decade and seen the gradual legalization of marijuana across America (and recent decriminalization of all drugs in Oregon), I'm definitely more desensitized to vice than I was ten years ago.  Still, De Wallen stands out; you never forget your first time (or first few times) being solicited by window prostitutes.

Unfortunately, I never got around to taking up cycling after returning stateside.  That has less to do with me and more to do with infrastructure; while casual biking is a reliable means of transportation in Amsterdam, it absolutely isn't anywhere I've been in America.  Biking is definitely one thing I'll look into if/when I return to Amsterdam.

I have still not smoked marijuana to this day, and I have no intention to in the future.  My psychoactive poisons are limited to alcohol and caffeine...both of which I picked up during my time abroad, now that I think of it.  I guess I'm not above picking up vices while traveling after all!

Fischberg Flashback 22: Benjamin Fischberg Is a Skinny Fool and Other Casual Observations

Original date of post: November 23, 2013

On most days, when I put up a new blog post, it’s a documentation of something exciting that I’ve seen or done, filled with pictures and attempts at witty writing.

This is not one of those days.

Instead, I’ve decided to put together a compilation of several various little things I’ve noticed during my time in Great Britain.  There will be few, if any, pictures, but I’ll still make a few attempts at humor.  Enjoy!

Observation #1: Smoking is REALLY common in London (and in Paris, to a somewhat lesser extent).  Seriously, everywhere I go in the city, at least a few people are lighting up.  Even though cigarettes are really expensive here (twice the price of cigs in Salem, according to one of my smoker friends) and smoking laws are fairly strong (you aren’t allowed to smoke anywhere where someone works and may be forced to inhale the smoke; the only exception to this rule as far as I can tell are prisons and the stages of theaters), that doesn’t seem to stop the general populace from ducking outside for a smoke (neither does the fact that cigarette cartons in the U.K. have “SMOKING KILLS” printed noticeably on them).  Rolling one’s own cigarettes also seem to be popular--on at least four separate occasions, I have seen someone break out rolling papers and tobacco leaves on the Tube.  I know that big cities tend to have a lot of smokers, but I’ve never seen as many as London or Paris in my travels to New York, Philadelphia, Portland, Seattle, and San Francisco.

Quick additional vice-related note: Gambling is also surprisingly prevalent in London.  Casinos and the like are advertised on the radio, lots of people play the lottery, and gambling arcades have been at almost EVERY mall and shopping center I’ve visited.

Observation #2: This isn’t so true now, but two months ago, there were advertisements for Grand Theft Auto V ALL OVER Great Britain, including in every single Tube station and on the side of every bus.  Why the GTA love (according to the Guinness Book of World Records, it’s the best selling video game series there)?  Simple: it’s actually a British game.  Its developer, Rockstar North, is based in Scotland, meaning that this game series about being a professional criminal in urban America, where the police are corrupt, prostitutes (along with street musicians, burger joints, street vendors, vending machines, and your bed) give out health, and anyone can escape the law by going to sleep in his apartment, is apparently a British take on American life.  Nowhere is GTA pride stronger than in Scotland, as this actual billboard from Edinburgh shows:

 

Super-fast note here: Remember how Billy Boyd (aka Pippin Took) played Banquo when I saw Macbeth (AT THE GLOBE)?  Well, in the Wednesday of that week, this was matched by my trip to Westminster Abbey, where the audio tour I took was narrated by Jeremy Irons, aka Scar from The Lion King.  Hearing the voice of a Disney villain showing me around ornate tombs in a massive church was one heck of an experience!

Observation #3: People in London speak ALL KINDS of languages with ALL KINDS of accents.  While it’s true that English accents are undoubtedly the most common in this city (all the radio and YouTube ads over here feature them prominently), it’s also quite common to hear Scottish, Irish, French, German, Indian, and even American accents throughout the boroughs-and those are just the ones I recognize!  Along with that, it’s not uncommon to hear people in London to have detailed conversations in languages I’ve never even heard of.  As a result, it’s really easy to see why London has a well-deserved reputation for being a truly global city.

Observation #4: The Tube is REALLY clean and REALLY efficient (I’m using a lot of capitalization here, aren’t I?).  Though Londoners love to grumble about the Tube, it has got to be the most reliable system of public transportation that I’ve ever seen and is a model of perfection!…that’s what I would have said a month ago.  Unfortunately, due to several cases of people winding up on the tracks (which tend to back up lines), there have been occasional delays and occasions where entire lines are unusable for the day.  I’m not sure why, but these delays tend to occur on the days when I either really want to get to the AHA center early (in order to study/print papers out) or have a theater obligation.  That being said, I still consider the Tube to be a very effective and reliable way to travel long distances in a short amount of time.  To top it off, most of the stations I’ve seen (Baker Street being the sole exception so far) are incredibly clean and well-lit, a complete contrast to the dark, dingy New York City Subway I grew up with.  I’ll be sure to keep using it until the end of my time in London!

I hope you’re satisfied with this blog post, dear reader.  For those disappointed in my lack of grisly stories, don’t worry!  I’ve still got plenty of time here in England, and as long as I draw breath, I’ll continue to seek out elements of London’s dark past…but for those who still feel ripped off, I’ve included an addendum to one of my previous posts (in white).  Enjoy!: Remember what I said in my post on Smithfield (“Octoberfest,” in case you haven’t seen it) about poisoners being boiled alive there in the Tudor Era?  Well, the first such execution was especially nasty.  The convict in question was Richard Rouse (his last name isn’t perfectly recorded--sources I’ve read about him also call him Richard Rice or Richard Roose), a cook who was convicted of petty treason, double murder, and attempted murder after he poisoned a batch of porridge meant for his master, the Bishop of Rochester, but which was eaten by members of the bishop’s family, resulting in sickness and death.  According to one account (there are several, and they’re all nice and gruesome), he was placed in a cauldron of cold water, which was slung over a roaring fire.  It took two hours for him to finally croak and several pregnant women present at the execution became violently sick.  For future executions by boiling, authorities decided to show some “mercy” by having the water be already boiling when the condemned person was thrown in the pot.  Justice, Tudor England style.

Modern reflections:

For those who can't tell, the title of this blog post is an homage to Rush Limbaugh Is a Big Fat Idiot and Other Observations by Al Franken.  Given that Rush Limbaugh is now dead and Al Franken is now a somewhat disgraced former U.S. senator, this choice of reference is an interesting relic of the past.

My observations of British acceptance of gambling is a little funny now; due to the proliferation of fantasy sports betting (and Oregon's continued expansion of the local lottery), I've seen gambling-promotion billboards all over the roads from Tillamook to Salem and Portland.  At this point, it feels that America  (or at least Oregon) has more or less caught up with Britain in regards to gambling prevalence.

In retrospect, there's one more observation I didn't record here but could have.  As such, here's a retroactive Observation #5: Armistice Day (November 11) was kind of a big deal in London.  A lot of Londoners wore poppies as symbols of remembrance and there was a national moment of silence at 11am (the time of the formal WWI armistice) that a lot of people took seriously.  I could have blogged about it in more detail on that date, but I felt that I didn't have what it took to reflect the sombre attitude of the day.  The facts that I used self-deprecating blog post titles and wrote ghoulishly about executions gone wrong assure me that I made the right call.

Fischberg Flashback 21: I Love London

Note: this was originally posted to Fisch and Chips on November 20, 2013.  I would title it "I <3 London," but I can't due to Blogspot's HTML limitations.

Remember way back in September (“Vertigo,” for those who missed it), when I observed that class-filled Wednesdays were most likely to be uneventful and would result in virtually no blog posts (and then promptly wrote a blog post about my adventures with the Monument that particular Wedenesday)?  Well, as today showed, I am terrible at predicting the future, as I became a lot more familiar with London in two equally engrossing ways on this busy Wednesday: politically and visually!

I woke up early this morning and headed to City Hall, where I was scheduled to meet with my politics class.  Being my usual extra-cautious self (three words: King’s Cross fiasco), I arrived an hour early and spent a good deal of time stuffing my face with potato crisps and mocha.  We were there to watch the Mayor’s Question Time meeting, where members of the London Assembly sat down with the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson (known to many Londoners as “Boris” or “Bojo”) and ruthlessly questioned him about the recent rise in cyclist fatalities and what he was planning to do about it.  It was more in-your-face British politics (coupled with an interesting discussion/debate with a dedicated supporter of Boris I had before Question Time) and I loved every minute of it!

City Hall

Question Time with Bojo

One last thing I’d like to throw out there: Of all the feisty antagonists grilling Bojo today, the one that stood out the most was a woman by the name of Jenny Jones, a Green Party politician who, as I later found out through research, is a baroness in the House of Lords.  She was the definition of both tenacity (for never backing down) and nuisance (for the exact same reason), constantly hounding Bojo and demanding apologies for his uncivil behavior.  Because of this…performance, my AHA friends and I have now decided to make “Jenny Jones” a colloquial phrase to describe a tenacious scrapper who doesn’t know when to quit.  To anyone reading this, please start using this phrase and spread the word.  Alright, I’ll stop being a Jenny Jones and return to the story.

After returning from City Hall and sitting through theater class (which was especially excellent today, as I got a smiley face on my second quiz and learned that Shakespeare may have had an American accent), I was off with history to visit one of London’s most iconic buildings, St. Paul’s Cathedral!  I had already seen the outside of this impressive structure, but this time, we actually got to go inside.  I must say, in regards to interior quality, St. Paul’s actually comes pretty close to Notre Dame--it’s absolutely huge and everything seems to be made of gold and marble.  Unfortunately, photography of any kind was forbidden inside, so you’ll have to take my word for it (You’ll also have to take my word that there is a giant nude statue of Napoleon ins…I’m just kidding--that’s at Apsley House, the Duke of Wellington’s residence).  It was here, at St. Paul’s Cathedral, where I embarked on my next ambitious climb…the cathedral itself!  Along the way, we passed the Whispering Gallery, a circular chamber where two people with their faces up to the wall can communicate entirely through whispers, even if they are quite far from each other (it's really trippy; ou’ll have to take my word for it).  This meant A LOT of stairs.  REALLY, A LOT (you’ll have to take my word for it)!  There was no certificate this time, but I was rewarded…with breathtaking views of the London skyline (which I was allowed to photograph)!

the Thames and the Globe

the Old Bailey

panorama

After climbing down from the cathedral’s upper levels (more stairs…whee), our group went downwards, into the cathedral’s nicely lit crypt, containing the tombs of the Duke of Wellington, Horatio Nelson, and Sir Christopher Wren, the architect behind the cathedral (he had no monument; a plaque in Latin claimed that the cathedral itself was his monument), along with others.  My head filled with fascination, my heart filled with wonder, and my legs filled with soreness, I left the cathedral thrilled, having enjoyed yet another one-of-a-kind experience.

All in all, this was a lovely day!…

…Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to need to rest my legs.  I’ve got a big weekend coming up…

Modern reflections:

Ah, innocent 2013.  When I spoke with Boris Johnson's social media manager (the dedicated supporter I mention here), she boasted that Boris was an amazing politician to work for and predicted that he would be Prime Minister one day.  After watching his spat with Jenny Jones, I returned to the university center and relayed parts of this conversations to some Londoners.  They laughed off the idea of Boris becoming Prime Minister because (1) he'd need to run for Parliament first and (2) the Conservative Party would likely keep his national ambitions in check.  Obviously, none of us could have predicted that over the next ten years Bojo would rise to national prominence, get elected to Parliament, spearhead Britain's exit from the European Union, become Prime Minister as part of a global trend of populist demagogues rising to power, mishandle a global pandemic through reckless partying, and resign in shame.  The future is hard to predict, and it can be absolutely insane when you take a step back.

Unlike Bojo, The Right Honourable Baroness Jenny Jones has mostly remained in obscurity.  Given that she isn't synonymous with borderline authoritarianism and incompetent governance, I think she came out ahead here.  I'm still trying to get her name to catch on as a colloquial phrase.

Fischberg Flashback 20: Ripper's Believe It or Not

This was originally posted to Fisch and Chips on November 17, 2013.  As per usual, I have made modifications to create grammatical consistency and preserve privacy.

Lock your doors, turn out your lights, and have your mouse at the ready-we’re about to get a lot more murder-y than usual.  Today, it’s all about Jack the Ripper, who dominated the non-theatrical elements of this past week!

This week’s highly anticipated Ripper-fest started on Wednesday, when my history class took an excursion to the East End of London, particularly Whitechapel, where Jack the Ripper’s killing spree took place.  In the Victorian Era, it was a horrible slum filled with crime and populated chiefly by Irish and Jewish immigrants.  Today, it is 80% Bangladeshi and is still somewhat poor, but conditions have improved and it has several vibrant markets.  As we wandered the streets, our professor mentioned in passing various details about the place, including a few Ripper details…

…which were expanded greatly the next day, as my classmate M gave a presentation on the Ripper killings in class.  For those who aren’t familiar with the notorious serial killer Jack the Ripper, here’s more than everything you need to know.  WARNING: THIS IS GOING TO GET GRUSOME.  WHITE TEXT DEPLOYED.  Still reading?  OK, here we go: In the autumn of 1888, 5 prostitutes, all with drinking problems, were savagely murdered in Whitechapel.  All five victims were slashed twice in the throat, and their bodies were mutilated in various ways.  The first victim, Mary Ann Nichols, was slashed up in her abdomen.  The second victim, Annie Chapman, had had her intestines slashed about and her uterus torn from her body.  The third victim, Elizabeth Stride, had a slit throat like the others, but no other mutilations, as it appears the killer had been interrupted and had been forced to abandon her remains.  He (despite my use of the masculine pronoun, keep in mind that the killer could have been a woman; I use the masculine pronoun because virtually all known suspects have been men) made up for it later that night by quickly murdering the fourth victim, Catherine Eddowes, whose uterus and left kidney were slashed out (this gets extra creepy, as a police officer had patrolled the murder scene previously a mere 15 minutes before he found her dismembered remains there upon his return, meaning that the killer had been extremely determined and extremely quick).  At this point, London was in a panic about these murders, the Metropolitan Police and the City of London Police were interfering with each other’s investigation (Eddowes was murdered in the Square Mile, right on the border with the East End.), and the media was whipped into a frenzy.  An anonymous letter from a person claiming to be the killer caused quite a stir, as it was signed “Jack the Ripper,” leading to the popular nickname for the killer (although most historians and Ripperologists--yes there are fanatics called Ripperologists--consider the letter a hoax).  The fifth (and officially final) victim was Mary Jane Kelley, who was found horrendously cut up in her apartment and missing a heart.  After this, the killings stopped, and wild speculation took over regarding the perpetrator.  To this day, no one has any clear idea who this monster was (M suspects that he was Kermit the Frog--considering how mysterious the case is, he may as well been.), why he did what he did, what happened to him, or whether or not he claimed more victims.  Barring some miracle discovery or use of time travel, no one will ever know…

Anyhoo, I was fascinated by the presentation--so fascinated, that I decided that I wasn’t done with Jack the Ripper quite yet.  After digging around, I found a walking tour that visited some of the actual murder locations.  As such, on Friday night, within two days of visiting Whitechapel during the day, I visited Whitechapel (and part of the City of London) at night!  With fellow AHA student J, I got to absorb Whitechapel’s spooky nighttime atmosphere, visit the square where Eddowes was murdered (second photo below), see Kelley’s apartment complex (third photo below), view the site where a bloody cloth believed to connect to Eddowes’ murder was found (fourth photo below, at the site of the hilariously named Happy Days restaurant), and have an overall wonderful time!

All in all, it was a fantastically homicidal week for me, fulfilling a visit to one of my most anticipated CJP stops…and then some!

One final note: I meant to have this blog post up yesterday, but I accidentally slept in late and felt pressured to work on upcoming assignments.  How late did I sleep in?  Until 1pm.  My late-nighters are starting to catch up to me…

Modern reflections:

My walks around Whitechapel were some of the most memorable stops on the CJP.  As the wall of white text shows, I ate up every grisly detail of the Ripper killings back then.  My inner historian is pleased that I recorded all these details for posterity.

London very much feels different at night, and it becomes eerily quiet in many neighbourhoods.  However, I've noticed that that seems to be the case with many European and American cities (aside from red-light districts).  I guess I'm used to seeing cities bustling at night thanks to being born in New York, "The City That Never Sleeps."  It's taken nearly thirty years for me to understand that nickname, but there you go.

I meant to repost this entry on the ten-year anniversary (yesterday) but was off by one day.  Clearly, I still have occasional delays when posting blog entries.

Fischberg Flashback 19: A Yank Lad in Stratford and Warwick

Note: this was originally posted to Fisch and Chips on November 9, 2013.  Some photos and passages have been edited or omitted to preserve the privacy of friends I haven't seen in a while or for the sake of coherence.

There are some days when I get the creeping suspicion that the AHA program was specifically tailored for someone like me (that is, a socially awkward young man who wants to absorb cultural and occasionally macabre history in a leisurely fashion).  This week consisted of at least three of those days: Monday, Thursday, and Friday.  Monday featured a trip to Parliament and was awesome in its own right.  Today’s entry is about the other two days, which contained a sweet two-day excursion to Stratford-upon-Avon and Warwick, complete with castles, churches, and Shakespeare!

In preparation for the excursion, I set multiple alarms on Wednesday night to make sure I would wake up at an appropriate time (I still remember King’s Cross) on Thursday morning.  I got to the Marylebone station early and all went smoothly…at first.  When approaching the ticket gate, ticket in hand, a strap on my duffel bag became caught in one of the zippers of my parka, prompting me to fiddle with it.  In the process, I dropped my ticket…which I did not notice had gone missing until I was at the ticket barriers before the platforms.  A frantic five-minute search found my ticket on the floor a noticeable distance away.  After that tragicomic little incident (which could have ended a lot more tragically), I enjoyed a two-hour train ride into Stratford-upon-Avon, the hometown of one William Shakespeare!

After arriving at Stratford-upon-Avon (which I will be referring to primarily as Stratford, because I do not like typing long names over and over) and settling into a local bed and breakfast, we set out for the day’s events.  First up on the docket was the Holy Trinity Church, where Shakespeare was baptized, married, and buried (and where his grave was located).  This was followed by the house Shakespeare was born and raised in.  It was quite the sizable, yet somewhat cozy, abode, complete with a giant fireplace.

After enjoying Shakespeare’s church and birth house (along with Hall’s Croft, where Shakespeare’s son-in-law lived), we passed through beautiful meadows to the cottage that belonged to Anne Hathaway, Shakespeare’s wife (he was not married to the Anne Hathaway that played Catwoman, as awesome as that would be).  Like the Bard’s birthplace, it was a cute, quaint little place filled with an old-timey vibe.  Unlike the Bard’s birthplace, it was isolated from the rest of Stratford and was surrounded by such natural beauty as an orchard filled with apple and pear trees, a calf-high lavender maze, and a nearby forest with nice little paths running through it.  Given the hustle and bustle I had become accustomed to in London, Edinburgh, and Paris, this was a lovely bucolic break from my usual routine.

Shakespeare's supposed deathbed

While the day was dedicated to sightseeing, the evening was dedicated to the theater.  At the Royal Shakespeare Theater, we saw The Tragedy of Richard II, starring none other than David Tennant as the titular character!  For those who haven’t seen Richard II, it’s one of Shakespeare’s historical plays, filled with political intrigue, backstory lost on American audiences, archaic cultural practices, creative language, and (in the case of this particular production) religious imagery.  When I was initially reading it last month, I found it to be fairly dry and much less interesting than any of Shakespeare’s other works that I am familiar with.  However, I was mesmerized by this performance and am now certain of this: of all of Shakespeare’s plays, Richard II is to be seen and heard, not read (technically, this applies to most, if not all, of Shakespeare’s plays, but I think Richard II is a special case in this regard).  The acting, the dialogue delivery, the accompanying music, the stagework--everything was fantastic!  I still enjoyed Macbeth at the Globe a tad more, but this was still Shakespeare at an amazing level.  Along with being in awe of greatness, I found myself extraordinarily tired after the performance, and retired to the bed and breakfast immediately afterward.

After sleeping in a surprisingly comfortable bed, I awoke, had breakfast with most of the group, and then headed to the nearby town of Warwick via train with all of the group.  There isn’t too much in Warwick, outside of the local castle (which I’ll get to in a little bit), but it was a pleasant town to walk around, and the local church was beautiful (and contained an old-timey ducking stool in its crypt).

Saint Mary's Parish Church

the crypt of St. Mary's

ducking stool

After enjoying (yet another) lovely church, our next stop was Warwick Castle, one of the most iconic and well-preserved castles in all of England.  I was struck by its amazing construction and imposing form, which were emphasized nicely in the rain.  Approaching the castle, I suddenly became an unwilling participant in the Criminal Justice Pilgrimage, as I was branded (figuratively) a malefactor and mercilessly pilloried (literally)!

After serving my sentence (one grueling minute, as people took photos), I explored with some fellow students what we could of the castle (it was rainy and as a result, there were few people and many exhibits were closed).  Still, we were able to duck indoors and chill out with some wax figures, explore the castle grounds (peacocks included), and locate the castle gaol. Note that I’ve been using the word “gaol” every now and then.  Given how archaic it is, I should clarify: it’s the original British spelling for the word “jail.”  It’s outdated even here in the United Kingdom, but I think it gives British detention centers and dungeons a poetic touch.

I wasn't kidding about those peacocks.

All finished with the castle (and beset by the rain), our group vacated the castle premises, had a wonderful lunch with tea at a cozy nearby restaurant, and then headed back to London via train (where, thankfully, there were no ticket issues this time).  I’ve had an awesome event-packed week, so I think I’ll take it somewhat easy this weekend.  Between my CJP progress so far this semester and the month I have left, there will be plenty of opportunities up ahead.

Besides, it’s wet and rainy outside and the great indoors are calling me.

Modern reflections:

Compared to other posts, my classmates were more involved in my adventures this time around (note that there are more pictures of me taken by others), helped me come up with the title for this post, and were originally featured in several additional pictures that have been excised due to my concerns about updated consent to publish.  I think my friends had as much fun as I did on this excursion, as there were a lot of pretty landscapes and awesome siege engines to see.

I've noticed that I pretty much look the same in my pictures 10 years ago as I do now (maybe I was a little skinnier then).  This means that I looked 30 when I was 20 or that I look 20 now as a 30-year-old.  I'm not sure which is more flattering.