tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82910971682414373172024-03-14T09:31:31.872+00:00Viaggiatory: The View From Abroad[f. It. viaggiare to travel]
[adj] on the move; given to traveling around [n] a journeyRebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.comBlogger296125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-71909099997546841472011-06-06T03:51:00.000+01:002011-06-06T03:51:54.569+01:00Ch-ch-changes<div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Viaggiatory: The View From Abroad </span></i><span style="font-size: x-large;">has moved...Check it out at <a href="http://www.viaggiatory.com/home">the NEW website!!!</a></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-53671075508930283102011-06-03T19:46:00.001+01:002011-06-03T21:19:52.341+01:00Summer Jobs, Summer Fun, Summer HeatMy 'vacation' is over and I've been occupying myself with several projects, one of which is my dissertation. Unfortunately for my academic career, the dissertation has taken a back seat to another project that is more interesting to me and will be revealed shortly. Check back tomorrow for more details! <br />
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I've also been applying to temporary jobs for the summer. My dreams of idling away this summer were smashed less than an hour after landing on American soil when, on my drive home from BWI, I saw gas being advertised for $4.05. (Parents: sorry for frightening you with my wail of despair.)<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://0.tqn.com/d/politicalhumor/1/0/X/R/gasprices.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://0.tqn.com/d/politicalhumor/1/0/X/R/gasprices.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://0.tqn.com/d/politicalhumor/1/0/X/R/gasprices.jpg">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>In the end, it is for the best that I try to find a temporary job. I haven't had a summer 'free' since I was 12. From ages 13 to 19 I worked as first a camp counselor and then later camp riding instructor and barn manager at Columbia Horse Center. The following summer I took several economics courses at the local community college and served a journalism internship with <a href="http://www.athgo.org/">ATHGO</a> at the World Bank. The next two summers were spent with the Department of State in Arlington and Edinburgh. And now...I am unemployed and drifting. In addition to some 'serious position' applications, I've also filled out a few for the local health food stores, an eco-living store, an organic farm,<a href="http://www.williamsburg.com/"> Colonial Williamsburg</a>, and the <a href="http://www.rennfest.com/">Maryland Renaissance Festival</a>.<br />
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Confession: I would be more than happy to get a job at the MD Renaissance Festival. When I was 7, my life's ambition was to be a historical re-enactor at Colonial Williamsburg. It could be argued that I fulfilled this goal in my sophomore year at SMCM when I worked at Historic St. Mary's City sorting lead type for the print house, raising flags aboard the Dove, and climbing trees behind Smith's Ordinary in order to hack off an invasive form of ivy growing upon them. And while I long ago abandoned such career goals for more loftier ambitions (foreign correspondent, foreign service officer, analyst to name but a few), I will admit that there is a large part of me that would be chuffed to work at the Ren Fest. Especially since I have attended it every single year since birth. (True fact.)Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-88269793504636007442011-05-31T23:37:00.002+01:002011-05-31T23:37:55.662+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.nycjog.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/RD_Logo_NoDate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.nycjog.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/RD_Logo_NoDate.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.nycjog.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/RD_Logo_NoDate.jpg">Source</a></td></tr>
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Tomorrow is National Running Day! So strap on a pair of trainers, grab a buddy, and go out for a run!Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-33794994819575836202011-05-29T19:49:00.000+01:002011-05-29T19:49:47.708+01:00Running on the Sun (Or in Maryland during the summer)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here is the post that I know everyone (aka Alex) has been eagerly awaiting: my tips for running in summer. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">**Disclaimer: I am not a doctor (obviously), licensed professional, gym trainer, etc. of any kind. (Although the sheer amount of Discovery Health channel (RIP) programming that I watched while in undergrad might suggest otherwise.) The advice I provide derives from my own personal experiences and, let's face it, is pretty commonsensical. Just covering my bases here.**</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Having spent the past year training in the cold/mild weather of the UK, it was something of a rude shock to come back to Maryland, where both the temperature and humidity levels have been rising ever higher over the past few weeks. While last year I was able to escape the heat by moving to Edinburgh for the summer (where a 'intolerably hot day' is considered 75F or above), I am going to have to muddle through it this year. Since it does me no good to spend <i>all</i> of my time complaining about the weather, I've decided to share some of my favorite tips for running in the heat. They have helped me in the past and I hope that they will be of use to others. (Don't get me wrong though, I am still going to complain about the heat.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><ul><li><b>It takes roughly 2-3 weeks to acclimatize to hot weather.</b> Re-adjust your personal goals and times accordingly. </li>
<li><b>Slow down! </b>As noted above, it takes 2-3 weeks to adjust to hotter weather. Even then, many runners fall into the trap of starting off too fast (i.e. at a 'normal' pace) too soon. Even if it does not feel 'too hot' outside when you start your run, once your core temperature rises due to physical exertion it will feel much warmer. Starting off your run at a slower pace will allow your body to adjust and prevent you from exhausting yourself too soon. </li>
<li><b>Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate!!!!</b> I can't stress this enough. It seems like common sense, but when push comes to shove, many runners forget to bring adequate fluids (water, sports drinks, etc.) to support their summer runs. I run into this problem all of the time because many times it seems cool enough outside that I will be able to 'make do' on whatever fluids I imbibed prior to running. Once I get a few miles into the run, however, I almost always regret this decision. How do you combat this problem? Most sports physicians recommend drinking adequate fluid (8-16oz) 30-45 minutes prior to exercise and then 6-8ozs every 10-15 minutes while running. If you absolutely cannot tolerate carrying a water bottle, try a hydration backpack or pre-position water bottles around your running route. </li>
</ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.nataliedee.com/052811/come-on-do-you-want-to-get-dehydrated.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.nataliedee.com/052811/come-on-do-you-want-to-get-dehydrated.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.nataliedee.com/052811/come-on-do-you-want-to-get-dehydrated.jpg">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><ul><li><b>Learn to recognize the early signs of dehydration and heat exhaustion</b>. These include: nausea, chills, dizziness, cessation of sweating, disorientation, hallucination. If you experience any of these symptoms, stop immediately, seek a shady area, drink cold water, and rest. Pushing through these symptoms could lead to heat stroke (a condition that requires emergency medical attention). No run (training or race) is worth risking that. </li>
<li><b>Run early or late</b>. These are the times of the day when the temperature and humidity levels are likely to be lower, thus making for a more pleasant run. It also decreases your chances of heat stroke and sunburn. If you must run during the day, try to run along shady routes. </li>
<li><b>Wear light-colored, moisture-wicking running clothes</b>. Avoid cotton clothing, which soaks up sweat. If you can tolerate it, wear a hat. </li>
<li><b>Don't forget sunscreen</b>! </li>
<li><b>Try alternative forms of exercise to running</b>. Go <a href="http://www.runnersworld.com/article/1,7120,s6-238-263-266-5536-0,00.html">pool running</a>. Hop on a treadmill. Cross train. </li>
<li><b>Be sensible</b>. If the weather channel has issued a heat advisory (which they usually do for a good reason), don't go for a run. To sound horribly cliche, it is better to be safe than sorry. </li>
</ul><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">**The title of this post refers to the documentary by the same name. It covers the <a href="http://youtu.be/rFAnSCyN6cc">1999 Badwater Ultramarathon</a>, a 135-mile summer race through Death Valley that ends on a mountain. I highly recommend it!**</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-1109627370092729912011-05-29T02:05:00.002+01:002011-05-29T18:36:02.218+01:00Several things:<br />
<br />
1. I've applied for another job. I must not like freedom or something. I told myself (and everyone else) that I would RELAX this summer and enjoy my last bit of 'me' time before plunging into the real world. That lasted all of about a week before I submitted my first job application. I'd <i>really really</i> like to get this job, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. <br />
<br />
2. Being back in Maryland and in the brief 'off' period before I start training for my next marathon, I've been able to get back into barefoot running. It has made me realize just how much I missed running in my <a href="http://www.vibramfivefingerskaufen.com/images/Vibram-Five-Fingers-Bikila-Light-Grey-Palm-Dark-Grey.jpg">Vibrams</a>. <br />
<br />
3. I experienced the wonder that is the Georgetown Cupcake bakery yesterday. I went down to DC to have dinner/happy hour with my friend Brad and he bought me a cupcake from this famous bakery! (It has it's own show on TLC - the true measure of success). I got a chocolate cupcake with chocolate ganache. Delicious.<br />
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4. Alex and I went to Great Sage restaurant in Clarksville, one of Maryland's best vegetarian establishments. I highly recommend it as it was absolutely wonderful. We also saw the Hangover 2. Considering that I hadn't seen Hangover 1, I felt like I missed out on some of the jokes. However, it was not a bad movie, all things considered. <br />
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5. Tomorrow I am heading up to Catonsville to run the Patapsco Trail race. The race organizers describe it as 'difficult'. I would consider it 'hellish'. Last year, I finished the race crying due to the sheer number of steep uphills in the 7 mile race. If I don't finish in the same state tomorrow, I'll consider it a success.<br />
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Hot weather running tips coming tomorrow! Also: does anyone know what is the easiest/cheapest way to travel around in Canada?<br />
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Edit: Just realized that I am seriously going to have to start proof-reading these things. I seem to have developed the annoying habit of picking a word and then reusing it at every possible opportunity. This needs to change ASAP. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-55248746062296034222011-05-26T04:02:00.000+01:002011-05-26T04:02:27.237+01:00Since when did Maryland get so hot?<br />
<br />
I went for a run around Centennial Lake this morning and almost began to experience complications from the heat halfway through the first 2.5 mile lap. I guess that living in the UK for the past year or so has made me soft. :( They say that it takes about 3 weeks to properly acclimatize to the heat, so I imagine that the next few weeks of running are going to be quite rough indeed. In lieu of this realization, I've decided to refrain from racing in the next few weeks. I'll run the Patapsco Trail Run on Sunday, but that's it. No sense in pushing myself in this heat.<br />
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Need some tips for running in the heat? Look for my next post!<br />
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Saw this on Pinterest and though it was relevant:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://fc09.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2010/035/5/4/Missing_Someone_by_HahaaCakes.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="326" src="http://fc09.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2010/035/5/4/Missing_Someone_by_HahaaCakes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://fc09.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2010/035/5/4/Missing_Someone_by_HahaaCakes.jpg">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-8313177207001649602011-05-25T02:57:00.001+01:002011-05-25T03:00:12.688+01:00O' CanadaFor much of my life, I've been accused of being a 'secret' Canadian. I'm not, of course, but I take this as a huge compliment. There are not many people who actually dislike the Canadians, except, perhaps the Russians and First Peoples (Don't even get them started on the topic of the Arctic). <br />
<br />
I remember one distinct occasion in high school when, in the middle of an audition for the madrigals, the director stopped and asked when I had moved to the US. 'Er...at birth?' I replied, confused as to what exactly he meant. 'Are your parents Canadian then? Because you've got quite the Canadian accent.' Cue awkward pause after I told him that they were not and that I had never been to Canada. To confirm: I've never been to Canada. Neither of my parents are from Canada. I don't have any friends from Canada. I don't watch large amounts of Canadian television. Nope, my 'Canadian' accent has developed on its own accord. Who knows where it comes from? Such scenarios have been the norm throughout most of my adolescence and have occurred even as recently as this past April. <br />
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Of course, the accent isn't quite as strong as it used to be, no doubt from having been diffused during my time living abroad. I pick up accents quite easily and occasionally slip into different accents depending on my mood. In fact, on one memorable occasion in senior year of college, I slipped into a Scottish accent without knowing it while giving a presentation. I became increasingly flustered as I watched my classmates expressions change into ones of confusion, believing it to be due to some mistake on my part. It was only later after the class had ended that a friend approached me and asked if my change in accent had been intentional (I was discussing a 14th century plague outbreak in Scotland, after all) that I discovered what had happened. Thankfully, this only happened a few times when I was in Edinburgh in April and not when I was in London since it would have proven quite embarrassing for me. I don't do it on purpose, I swear!<br />
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Anyway, a few of you may be aware that I have been studying Scottish Gaelic since my senior year of high school when my Dad and I visited Oban. I fell in love with the language and, despite the fact that my progress is limited at best, have been trying to learn it. I actively began studying it again last summer while in Edinburgh and was able to have a few (basic) conversations with people when I was on Mull and Iona in August. Attending grad school this past year meant that my skills dropped off considerably. However, since my mission this summer is to learn how to relax again, I've decided to pick it up again. (Side note: How can someone forget how to relax? Is that even possible? Well, apparently it is possible since I've spent the past week at home not being able to simply sit down and <i>enjoy life</i>. My idea of relaxing has been to go running, which isn't actually all that relaxing. Go figure.)<br />
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<br />
So what is the purpose of this post? Mainly to announce my intention to go to Cape Breton, Nova Scotia this summer, home of the largest number of Scots Gaelic speakers in North America. I spent my 22nd birthday (my best birthday ever) in Edinburgh, Scotland and so it is only fitting that I spend birthday number 23 in the 'Scotland of North America' - Cape Breton Island. What does Cape Breton have to offer? An entire fiddle school (omg!), native gaelic speakers, hiking, cycling, ceilidhs, and scenery like this:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.canada-maps.org/nova-scotia/images/cape-breton-highlands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://www.canada-maps.org/nova-scotia/images/cape-breton-highlands.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.canada-maps.org/nova-scotia/images/cape-breton-highlands.jpg">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://top10places.com/theme/images/places/cape_breton_island.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="http://top10places.com/theme/images/places/cape_breton_island.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://top10places.com/theme/images/places/cape_breton_island.jpg">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.overseasattractions.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/lolloet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="286" src="http://www.overseasattractions.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/lolloet.jpg" width="400" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.overseasattractions.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/lolloet.jpg">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Is that awesome or what? I think I'm sold. All that's left is to pick a date, find a way to get up there, and figure out where on earth my camping gear has gone. (I've a sneaking suspicion that it may have been 'borrowed' by my Dad's Boy Scout troop...in which case I will never see it again.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/FrN82jaX7PA?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-25871709741979103802011-05-22T16:48:00.002+01:002011-05-22T23:37:33.853+01:00I'm back in the US. Life is going.<br />
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Friday was really, really rough. History repeated itself and I literally felt like I was experiencing some horrific form of deja vu. <br />
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Anyway, life will return to normal eventually. What doesn't kill us only makes us stronger and I have become adept at forgetting the past. I'm currently distracting myself by studying for the Foreign Service Officer Test. I'll be taking it on June 7th at the community college in Catonsville. We will see how it goes this time around.<br />
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More later.<br />
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EDIT: On Sunday, May 29th I'm running the Patapsco Trail Race in Catonsville. It is a '6-7 mile trail run' that involves fording a river, crossing a swinging bridge, climbing mountains (not really but the hills are killer), and traversing train tracks. I finished crying last year. BUT...it's fun, really. Anyone want to tag along? Or if anyone wants to join for the May 30th Remembrance Run in Columbia...Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-92074124537516112252011-05-16T21:15:00.001+01:002011-05-16T21:24:41.846+01:00The Hardest Part of Ending is Starting All AgainLess than 24 hours to go before I make the 3000 mile journey back to the US. (Such a figure would probably be more impressive if I were making the journey in, say, a covered wagon as opposed to a British Airways plane.) As I sit here in my tiny room, surrounded by my piles of luggage, I can't help but reflect on the year that I've spent here. Indeed, it has been almost a year since I moved to the UK to spend the summer in my favorite place, Edinburgh, working for the Dept. of State. I moved to London in September and here I have remained ever since. And now it is time to say my goodbyes for the last time, at least for the foreseeable future.<br />
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Will I miss the UK? <br />
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Yes and no.<br />
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It has been a challenging year for me, both academically and personally. Academics-wise, King's (and the UK higher educational system in general) is more rigorous than my undergrad university was. I was forced to stretch my abilities further than ever before just to make ends meet here. I expected this, of course, having studied previously in Oxford and Edinburgh, but I was surprised by just how difficult KCL turned out to be. It was the most challenging (and stressful) educational experience that I've had in the UK. (Wish I could say that it was over but, alas, I still have a dissertation to write over the summer. But I am going to de-stress for a week or so before even attempting to tackle that.)<br />
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Personally, life changed too. My relationship ended as a result of my time abroad. I lost contact with friends. A close friend fell ill and almost died and another was killed in a tragic car accident. I was hit by a car. My grandmother was (and is) in hospice. I earned 'merits' on my coursework. I competed in the British Universities & Colleges Cross Country Championships for the University of London. I ran a marathon. <br />
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I will not miss the buses, the masses on Oxford street, the weekly shootings and murders that occur here in Southwark. I will not miss having to dodge tourists whilst running. I won't miss the apathy that one develops from living in a large, impersonal city. (I have the same complaint about DC). Most importantly, I won't miss the ridiculous exchange rate (currently $1.65 to the pound) which means that my Diet Coke a<strike>ddiction</strike> habit is too expensive to rationally justify. (I still indulge anyway. If it is my consumption of aspartame that ultimately kills me, so be it.) <br />
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Still, I will miss the people, for it is the individuals that I have met and the friends I've made that have truly made this a worthwhile experience.I will miss heading out to random parks in London to run ridiculously muddy/hilly/snowy races with the KCL cross country team. I can guarantee that I won't be running '8-10 miles' on a Wednesday or receiving the same caliber of nutritional advice as that I received from Des - :) . I'll miss walking over the Millennium Bridge as the sun sets and being able to see St. Paul's Cathedral on the north bank, Shakespeare's Globe on the south, and the Tower of London to the east. I'll miss running over Tower Bridge with the early morning commuters and seeing the sun rise over the Thames. And I'll miss buying my 'veg' at Elsey & Brent's in Borough Market (who knew me by name due to my frequent visits there). I won't get these same experiences back in Maryland. (Running over the small Bollman Truss Bridge in Savage doesn't quite generate the same thrill as Tower Bridge, I'm afraid.)<br />
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Despite this, it is time to return to the US. They say that you never can fully appreciate what you have until you no longer possess it. I find that the same holds true in regards to one's opinion about one's country. I've always been aware of the US's faults and, believe me, I still have my apprehensions in returning to a country where Sarah Palin is taken seriously as a politician and the Tea Party has a following. In the past, I couldn't wait to leave Maryland for somewhere new. And yet my experiences this past year have shown me that the US and Maryland have their merits. I look back fondly on my time at St. Mary's College now that I have my experience at King's to compare it to. Oddly enough, I find myself eager to return to Howard County and experience a more permanent lifestyle for a change. Perhaps this is simply because I've matured. Or perhaps it is because the personal costs of living abroad have become all too evident over the course of the past year. As to which it is, I am not sure. All I know is that I am entering a new chapter of life, which is both exciting and terrifying. <br />
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Either way, if I get 'homesick' for London I can always pop down to Harris Teeters market in Fulton and grab a box of Weetabix or a can of Heinz beans.Or watch <i>Are You Being Served? </i>or <i>Father Ted</i> on television. And, of course, there is always my graduation in January and the London Marathon in April that might bring me back...<br />
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To my team-mates, course mates, friends, family, blog readers, and any other category of individual that I may have omitted: thanks for supporting me, putting up with my ridiculousness, and reading this blog over the past year. It's been a hell of an experience and one that I will never forget.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIMF51en_7YJGfXYnNMdmjCNwMGRCMcN25kXgndHIyuavO_9kTy_l2ulrMT_4Sw5lw3g63ctJ33_EJ8JNPx2zWHH8xtk5F_JmWLDwX87mpOxRGplJX1Nv49W2_KHn_RHvvsm38nd3VH88/s1600/oxfordpic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIMF51en_7YJGfXYnNMdmjCNwMGRCMcN25kXgndHIyuavO_9kTy_l2ulrMT_4Sw5lw3g63ctJ33_EJ8JNPx2zWHH8xtk5F_JmWLDwX87mpOxRGplJX1Nv49W2_KHn_RHvvsm38nd3VH88/s640/oxfordpic.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Veronica and me at CMRS, Oxford in March when we <strike>annoyed</strike> caught up with Dr. Philpott and generally were creepers in St. Michael's Hall. Definitely freaked out a few undergrads when burst into the JCR and began taking pictures. </td></tr>
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<br />
<div style="color: black; font-size: 10px; line-height: 130%; margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; text-align: left; word-wrap: break-word;"></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-70367728579649756502011-05-16T20:54:00.000+01:002011-05-16T20:54:57.887+01:00I said that I was going to post two days ago, but, well, life happens. Besides, I was back in 'exam stress' mode and dealing with some familial issues that are waiting for me when I come home in...1 DAY!<br />
<br />
So, I had my first exam, Theories of International Relations, on Thursday. Yeah, an exam for the class that ended back in December. I was nervous going into it, nervous taking it, and then positively fried afterwards. In fact, I think I could safely classify myself as 'pretty pathetic' afterward considering that I was sick and then went to Westminster Abbey and cried for 45 minutes. Yeah, it was that bad. (I've attended weekly services at the Abbey since September and so the staff recognizes me. I think this is probably the only reason that I didn't get thrown out because, let's face it, 45 minutes is a ridiculous amount of time to spend crying.) And today I had my second (and last ever!) exam, which turned out a little better than the first, mainly because I had predicted that there would be a question on Hardt & Negri's 'Empire' and I was right. <br />
<br />
By Friday evening, I had recovered from my post-exam 'funk' enough to drag myself out of my flat and up to Finsbury Park where my friend Natasha made me my first (vegetarian) Shepherd's Pie. It was absolutely delicious and I fully plan on recreating this (albeit probably not as nicely) at home in the future. <br />
<br />
Afterward, we headed down to Covent Garden to Foundations Bar, a new underground venue that opened in February, for a final cross country get-together before I left. From the website description, I was expecting something a bit quaint. The reality was a huge surprise: graffiti (intentional) on the walls, Lego doors and tables, nice music remixes. It had a great vibe and I was a bit bummed that I hadn't heard of the place earlier. Over the course of the night, I got to say goodbye to Francesca, Frankie, Emily, Penny, Natasha, and Tom from the cross country team. It was these people who helped make my running experience so great this year. Not all running groups are so welcoming (as I myself have experienced in the past) or supportive. I will really miss them. <br />
<br />
I was incredibly touched that everyone came down to say goodbye! It's exam time and so everyone is super-stressed (I know that I am), and I know how hard it is to find time in the schedule to get out. I really appreciate it and it was an absolutely lovely evening. (If anyone fancies a visit to Washington DC, simply drop me a message! I'd be more than happy to have you!) <br />
<br />
I also had one of the best cocktails I've ever tasted. Now, I'm not a heavy drinker, by any mean. But when I do drink, I tend to stick to what I am comfortable with: cider, whisky, and rum. (Yes, my drink preferences are more characteristic of an 80-year old man. I refuse to recognize that there is a problem with this until the moment comes when I start carrying a hip flask.) I don't really <i>do</i> cocktails. But the drink options on the Foundation's menu sounded intriguing (especially as they come served in jam jars and teapots), and so I opted for the Fortune Tea (Gin with peach, lemon, and Earl Grey tea) and the Eternal Flower (Hibiscus Syrup and Prosecco).The Eternal Flower was merely ok, but the Fortune Tea was wonderful. It combined the best elements of well-made Jungle Juice - it did not taste like alcohol and was an intriguing color - without being served in a sketchy plastic bucket (as Jungle Juice typically is). <br />
<br />
It was a wonderful night and really helped lift my spirits up in advance of my second exam. A great way to spend one of my final nights in London. Thanks everyone!<br />
<br />
<br />
(All photos taken by Natasha)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Natasha, Francesca, and Me</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Francesca, Tom, and Tom's friend Ben</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-22455237831554645552011-05-14T13:56:00.001+01:002011-05-14T13:58:04.080+01:00A Message to the Class of 2011I know I said that I was taking a blogging hiatus until Monday, but a) I'm a liar, b) I've sufficiently recovered from crying about my first exam that I can type, c) I had a wonderful send-off from my cross country team last night that I wish to write about, and d) I am bored.All of the aforementioned will be discussed in my post later on.<br />
<br />
First, I wish to acknowledge an event that is taking place at this very moment 3000 miles away. In rural Southern Maryland, the St. Mary's College of Maryland Class of 2011 is getting ready to graduate. Not only does this ceremony mark a wonderful achievement on their part, but it officially pushes me from 'recent grad' into the category of 'creepy older alumni' the next time I visit SMCM. Seriously. I now have no friends left attending St. Mary's and thus will have to find sufficient reasons to justify my presence on campus for fear of being hauled off by Public Safety. <br />
<br />
Although my participation in the 'real world' is questionable at best since I am a graduate student and, therefore, exist in the limbo that is the stage between undergrad and full-time employment, I wish to pass on a few lessons that I have learned in this past year.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn.someecards.com/someecards/usercards/4b28272f8c7c750cb3f2448011b895bf03.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://cdn.someecards.com/someecards/usercards/4b28272f8c7c750cb3f2448011b895bf03.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn.someecards.com/someecards/usercards/4b28272f8c7c750cb3f2448011b895bf03.png">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>1. You must wear shoes out in public. Yes, SMCM was a special place where you could go to class without shoes, but the real world is much less forgiving. Indeed, I can only imagine the looks that I would have gotten had I attempted such a stunt here at King's.<br />
<br />
2. Starting forest fires is not cool. Ever. (I am referring to the Point fire that occurred on the evening of the 13th. Not cool guys, not cool.)<br />
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3. Nostalgia sets in quickly. I did not have the ideal undergrad experience and, indeed, for the first 2 years at SMCM I was pretty miserable. Yet now I look back on my four years of college with fondness and, come next week, will find myself back down on the river for a visit.<br />
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4. Keeping friendships takes work. In college, especially at one as compact as St. Mary's, maintaining friendships was relatively easy. You saw people every day around campus, at the Great Room, at parties, in your apartment/suite/townhouse. Once you graduate, people disperse across the state, country, and globe. Work schedules prevent get-togethers and real life quickly gets in the way. Before you know it, a whole year has passed and you find yourself realizing that you have only talked to some of your closest friends from undergrad maybe once or twice. Keeping in touch requires an effort - on both sides. But it is worth it, believe me.<br />
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5. Grades are not the most important thing - and never were. Despite what your teachers and parents told you for the past 15 years of your life, grades are not the most important thing. A single bad grade in undergrad, while upsetting, is not the end of the world - although it seems like it at the time. Once you get out of undergrad, you realize that these things no longer have importance. While good grades in undergrad can get you into a good grad school or possibly earn you a job interview, they no longer matter in the grand scheme. No one asks if you graduated 'cum laude' or not. <br />
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6. 'Jungle Juice' does not exist outside of college. Now that you're 'grown up' you either have to stick with beer/wine or order an actual cocktail. (Likewise, you will probably never experience the mixture of excitement and apprehension that comes from attending a party and scooping your drink out of a large tubberware bucket containing said Jungle Juice. Such scenarios in the 'real world' occur only in cult gatherings.)<br />
<br />
7. Your friends are going to start getting married and having children. This will be depressing and possibly frightening, especially if you are not involved in a relationship. It may seem like everyone around you is growing up and becoming responsible, but this is not entirely true. You will always have one friend/acquaintance who remains single well into their sixties (i.e. most likely me). <br />
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8. It's never to late to redefine yourself. Your family, friends, and graduation cards are going to inform you that this is 'your' time. This is not just a Hallmark gimmick, but is actually based in truth. You've just graduated and the whole world is yours. With no ties to bind you (other than, perhaps, paying off ridiculous student loans), you can go wherever and be whomever you want. Travel. Go to graduate/law/medical school. Take up a new hobby. Pursue a lifelong dream. Run a marathon ( :) ). Once you start full-time work, enter a serious relationship, get married, have kids...it becomes a bit harder (although I refuse to believe impossible) to do this. Even if it is just for a week, take some time to yourself to enjoy your freedom. <br />
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9. Great Room food was never as bad as you made it out to be. Seriously. While it is entirely possible that you can cook a better tasting meal than Bon Appetite, it is unlikely that you, upon coming home from grad school/work, you are going to want to cook pizza/lasagna/hamburgers/chicken dishes/etc. Especially if you are cooking for just yourself. I could probably rustle up a pretty good vegetarian lasagna - certainly better than anything the Great Room ever prepared - but I just don't have the time or the inclination. Usually my go-to meal is couscous with vegetables. This is why, over the course of the past year, I've always relished a trip down to SMCM since I know that it will mean a trip to the Great Room and an acceptable quality (and variety) of food. (Note: Obviously this does not apply for anyone graduating and going on to culinary school. If this is the case, get in touch! My diet of couscous is getting mighty old these days.)<br />
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10. Enjoy life. I'm not going to lie, it's going to be tough. I've only been graduated for a year and I've already seen what challenges the future might bring. Still, as a friend recently told me, 'Life is not a dress rehearsal'. I'd heard this saying before but, at this particular time in my life, it has really hit home. This is it. This is life. It is most likely going to be more challenging than rewarding, but isn't that the point in the end? Without the challenges, you can never really appreciate the rewarding bits, at least not fully. Experiencing difficulty makes the times of 'smooth sailing' all the sweeter. And it is in the process of overcoming these challenges that we ultimately help define who we are. It shows us that we are tougher than we ever thought. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIi7Bk002cuns9fxUmq6zVRti_51-_wCB7CMYaM0WScNgqlMDxIOcwrn3XZtgHcmRvwv6Ct2VLFzwxtydjm-UQiNajeuEUoAZADTL8gmQbuB2tKIOkEKZP8RHEYvOour5mJ-erVua_K6E/s1600/chrisandme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIi7Bk002cuns9fxUmq6zVRti_51-_wCB7CMYaM0WScNgqlMDxIOcwrn3XZtgHcmRvwv6Ct2VLFzwxtydjm-UQiNajeuEUoAZADTL8gmQbuB2tKIOkEKZP8RHEYvOour5mJ-erVua_K6E/s400/chrisandme.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
By the way, this post is dedicated to Chris 'Ingrahammer' Ingraham, recent SMCM graduate and the only man who knows how to properly push a lime in a Corona. Congrats Chris!Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-61256881149822390852011-05-11T15:31:00.001+01:002011-05-11T15:32:26.534+01:00A Brief Hiatus<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.zuckersystems.com/images/stress.jpg">Source</a></td></tr>
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It's that time of year again! Exams! Which means that the stress levels are through the roof, my tolerance levels are zilch, and my daily interactions with other humans has been limited to the person operating the til at Elsey & Brent when I buy my daily veg. The atmosphere of tension and misery is palpable when you enter my room. In sum: I'm currently not much fun to be around, not for myself and most definitely not for other people. <br />
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Thankfully, this is the last time that I have to go through an exam period. Unfortunately, the 2 exams that I will be sitting within the next 5 days each count for 50% of my core module grades. So there is a lot at stake at the moment. The pressure is intense and, to be honest, I am just doing everything that I can to make it through the next week in a reasonable physical and emotional state. (Current success status: dismal.)<br />
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Since I don't assume that any of you particularly want to hear about how I fluctuate between indifference and freaking out that I am going to fail, I've decided to take a brief hiatus from blogging until Monday night when I've finished both exams. If I don't return by the middle of next week then it is safe to assume that the stress was too much and I simply imploded.<br />
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Ok...feeling incredibly guilty for having taken the time to even write this. Back to reading about Foucalt and Habermas. (Gag)Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-38921998012236535512011-05-09T22:15:00.003+01:002011-05-09T22:53:52.971+01:00This is Not the End, This is Not the Beginning (Race Report for the Shakespeare Marathon)The marathon is over. My minimum goal was survival. That met, I hoped to finish somewhere around the 4 hour mark. Suffice it to say, I did not finish in 4 hours.<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
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I finished in 3 hours, 37 minutes, and 15 seconds!<br />
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Let's rewind...I arrived in Stratford-upon-Avon on Friday afternoon. After catching a bite to eat at McKechnie's Cafe, I headed to Henley Street to take the tour of Shakespeare's birthplace. It was a bit awkward walking round this tiny Tudor home carrying my huge duffel race bag, but I enjoyed the visit. I always find it interesting to see how the curators interpret these sites. Having worked at Historic St. Mary's City and gone through the Museum Studies curriculum, I am well-versed in the meticulous planning that goes into site interpretation and exhibit planning. Still, it amuses me when Tudor-era homes, especially smaller ones such as the Shakespeare house, are portrayed as being light and airy. With 5-6 inhabitants living and working (John Shakespeare's glove workshop was located in the home) in that relatively confined space, it would have been anything but. Still, it is easier to promote a nostalgic view of the past as opposed to one that is grimmer and smellier, albeit more accurate.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrM5qfD2_gO4SuX3I5WsHqHfpNPioIBMbn0mkSkYyJvlQWh-RSVy_USR5-ZbBSdQ-Fdx95RCpsnbCBAn7-naTN_Sez1OzhEWcywP7G8FOlEzrrwsnCfmY2DLOXEeCvft3dg5t2v1Vefc/s1600/IMG_2443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrM5qfD2_gO4SuX3I5WsHqHfpNPioIBMbn0mkSkYyJvlQWh-RSVy_USR5-ZbBSdQ-Fdx95RCpsnbCBAn7-naTN_Sez1OzhEWcywP7G8FOlEzrrwsnCfmY2DLOXEeCvft3dg5t2v1Vefc/s320/IMG_2443.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shakespeare's birthplace</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_PIha0qtkwLKPsyDwiq0IPSt4h7F3J065DkaHH6ZjTH9zNj3kwv09FENdfeTvdg0YRAiJYCZinAZmN_4bmGPXVLseQaFcDb9hNsdXwpyZLU6tF3TQeNd89bMC9qJN4UbMVGqZ6XtxYA/s1600/IMG_2454.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_PIha0qtkwLKPsyDwiq0IPSt4h7F3J065DkaHH6ZjTH9zNj3kwv09FENdfeTvdg0YRAiJYCZinAZmN_4bmGPXVLseQaFcDb9hNsdXwpyZLU6tF3TQeNd89bMC9qJN4UbMVGqZ6XtxYA/s320/IMG_2454.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Historic buildings in the town center</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObpTRayonu3dW7laThzF7jnxtrjlUD6GZ6PnLnu5WBU370uHHTdn0TBP-MY3XlWfg1zxLvaniD2erop6z5SEcmRZt2ztqzE2hFRYRqO7j_Gujka0vFl1dS6_XBYRfq6ewqQ7PTlOosR4/s1600/IMG_2459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiObpTRayonu3dW7laThzF7jnxtrjlUD6GZ6PnLnu5WBU370uHHTdn0TBP-MY3XlWfg1zxLvaniD2erop6z5SEcmRZt2ztqzE2hFRYRqO7j_Gujka0vFl1dS6_XBYRfq6ewqQ7PTlOosR4/s320/IMG_2459.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">River Avon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Afterward, I checked in to my B&B, located a convenient 5 minutes walk from the town center, and went off to get my hair cut. The prices in London for a standard cut are so high that I have spent the past six months defiantly holding out until I returned to Maryland. However, with the weather getting warmer, it was simply too much to bear and so I caved. Unfortunately, 'take 3 inches off' to me apparently wasn't the same for the hairdresser. The result isn't bad, but not certainly not what I had anticipated. My hair looks nice when it's straightened. Too bad that it is naturally curly and so, once left to its own devices, it immediately bunches up into Shirley Temple-esque ringlets. I feel like a poodle. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFF9ivOo-Tt2mMqHyrZQqvKzJ1UQhveP2k7HdJqwX5kh03Wqh-MuF8trxr_RDTEIlYtLlnhYAt4A-t33VGdgYO6-sn112WppgHyyrOlmwrHT34wkuleJdd4H4mgC-0ASDldnzhShaV-y8/s1600/IMG_2468.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFF9ivOo-Tt2mMqHyrZQqvKzJ1UQhveP2k7HdJqwX5kh03Wqh-MuF8trxr_RDTEIlYtLlnhYAt4A-t33VGdgYO6-sn112WppgHyyrOlmwrHT34wkuleJdd4H4mgC-0ASDldnzhShaV-y8/s320/IMG_2468.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It looks good now, but just wait 5 minutes </td></tr>
</tbody></table>After a carbo-loading dinner of insalata di pasta at Carluccio's, I spent an hour walking in the countryside along the River Avon. It was pleasant, especially since at some points I was the only person around. It made for a nice change after the hustle and bustle that has dominated by life in London this past year.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhveFlBeCsSP9hCo9nFH1TIGt4TeXPM0zO9BwNSg1fG1taAZ-0MlgYTKkb8or4_v5pNeuUwSbIHVJEYbfPluxdqtXEcxLIeyF0hYTezwvAQeNX_S2Mup5GvNRC2jr2JJhdrqx2tucszfN0/s1600/IMG_2476.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhveFlBeCsSP9hCo9nFH1TIGt4TeXPM0zO9BwNSg1fG1taAZ-0MlgYTKkb8or4_v5pNeuUwSbIHVJEYbfPluxdqtXEcxLIeyF0hYTezwvAQeNX_S2Mup5GvNRC2jr2JJhdrqx2tucszfN0/s320/IMG_2476.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I find nothing more enjoyable than walking in the countryside. I guess my aunt was right - I'm just a country girl at heart. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2o2ykAhKPHi3cS00LngVgo7inIUFe5jU5SB68r0mwjSoP8RZbR-3WyddhMJ1Ubo95MPkeOS87oXhNz6C805QXiTnTX-qqTiKaq19F_DN-3E16tvx7g0u0uIbZKdt-RMEVKM9ZQqPbNXk/s1600/IMG_2472.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2o2ykAhKPHi3cS00LngVgo7inIUFe5jU5SB68r0mwjSoP8RZbR-3WyddhMJ1Ubo95MPkeOS87oXhNz6C805QXiTnTX-qqTiKaq19F_DN-3E16tvx7g0u0uIbZKdt-RMEVKM9ZQqPbNXk/s320/IMG_2472.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">River Avon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The next morning it was off to Anne Hathaway's house, where Shakespeare courted her prior to their marriage. Lovely.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpwtClHeAWnWR7ezMYVkF8bFeSKDMolSCuznehqeg_8D-kVmWasiCKGzAyF3QkY2HzZrpOLdlKfvuHpuImO7U63yj5x9UAegYedgiA_0pv9sTj3a0WUnFpBepaz0wqEvkmcUYhe62FAQ/s1600/IMG_2484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpwtClHeAWnWR7ezMYVkF8bFeSKDMolSCuznehqeg_8D-kVmWasiCKGzAyF3QkY2HzZrpOLdlKfvuHpuImO7U63yj5x9UAegYedgiA_0pv9sTj3a0WUnFpBepaz0wqEvkmcUYhe62FAQ/s320/IMG_2484.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Next stop was the Holy Trinity Church, burial spot of Shakespeare. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQh6LnqYBaOMnUM3b9cd4Qrho3hZLjRzXVa8XEJnaGlnzmM5wbezydKAlmMRXAUQGt4tTWSXbq3gd3E0PAeznfvI2Tj-vyYBd4INI191MEMDBa4j_KddxGEoT-1n-ocj8vgCEb-RDSYk/s1600/IMG_2492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQh6LnqYBaOMnUM3b9cd4Qrho3hZLjRzXVa8XEJnaGlnzmM5wbezydKAlmMRXAUQGt4tTWSXbq3gd3E0PAeznfvI2Tj-vyYBd4INI191MEMDBa4j_KddxGEoT-1n-ocj8vgCEb-RDSYk/s320/IMG_2492.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holy Trinity</td></tr>
</tbody></table>That night, I met up with Francesca from my cross country team, who was running the marathon (also her first) with her boyfriend's brother. We ate one final carbo-loaded (ugh) dinner at Pizza Express. Not having had pizza in about 2 years, it was marvelous. But perhaps not the wisest pre-race decision I have made. Still, the company was lovely and it helped to set some of my fears at ease regarding the next day. <br />
<br />
Race day dawned bright and (not-so) early. Since the race started at 9:30, I was able to have a bit of a lie-in, which was unusual since I am used to heading off to 7AM race starts. It was a nice change. Baggage check was at the finish across the river and before I knew it, it was time to make my way to the start. Marathoners and half marathoners lined up together on Bridge Street and I soon found myself in the middle of 3000 runners. The anticipation was almost palpable as the countdown to the start began. Next thing I knew, the firing gun went off and, 2 minutes later, I was crossing the start mat. First thought? '26.2 miles. Let's rock and roll.' (I think some of the cheesiest things some times.)<br />
<br />
Mile 1 around the town center was a bit frustrating as the narrow streets meant that runners were crowded together and there was minimal passing space. To add to my frustration, I began to get a cramp in my side about a half mile in, which is never a particularly welcoming sign when one has 26 miles left to run. Thankfully, by the time the field had thinned some, about mile 3, it had subsided. As we left Stratford-upon-Avon behind and headed towards the 'undulating' landscape of the countryside, I managed to get my pace (and nerves) under control. The scenery was beautiful, although the appearance of some rather prolonged hills was a bit unwelcome, especially since those of us running the full marathon would encounter this part of the course again on the second lap. The nastiest hill came at mile 7 of the first lap. It wasn't terribly steep, but it felt like it went on forever. And it was a bit disheartening to know that however difficult it felt at that point, it would be soo much worse when we came to it again at mile 18. <br />
<br />
I had to stop at mile 15 to use the loo (once again, pizza was not the best idea for a pre-race dinner), but carried on steadily until mile 20. It was at that point that things began to get a bit shaky. Physically, I knew that I could carry on for the remaining 6.2 miles. Psychologically, my mind was like 'Hold up. The furthest you've ever run is 20 miles. Stop now.' As I passed the 20-mile marker, I entered into the mysterious zone that is 'the 6.2' - a realm of the unknown where anything can happen. At 'anything' did. At mile 23, I hit the infamous 'wall'. One second things were going just swell and the next...well...they were most definitely not going at all. My vision blurred and my legs came to a halt after I grabbed a cup at the water station. I downed the water, but was unable to get my body to take another step. It felt as if someone were physically holding me down, and my mind began to panic with the realization that perhaps I had reached my limit.<br />
<br />
Looking back, I blame this on inadequate fueling. In my training, I was never able to tolerate the energy gels. (My digestive system, finicky at best, seems to be of the mind that running and eating are two activities that are not to be combined.) I had achieved some success with caffeinated sports jelly beans, but these turned out not to be enough when it came to the actual race. They provided short bursts of energy, but by mile 23 could no longer keep me going. When some people hit the wall, they fear that they will not finish the race. I can't say that I experienced this problem as I knew that I would finish the remaining 3.2 miles even if I had to drag myself along. Still, it took no small amount of pep-talking (and, failing that, cursing) to myself in order to pick up the pace once again. The last 6.2 miles of the race were along the historic tramway path known as the Greenway. It was flat and scenic, but felt like it stretched on forever. With few landmarks to go by, I kept myself motivated by setting attainable interim goals. 'Just get to the next water station or mile marker' became my immediate task. If I felt like I was crashing again when I reached my goal, I would walk for a few seconds before picking the pace up again.<br />
<br />
Words cannot express how relieved I was to come to the familiar stretch that I knew marked the remaining half mile. It was the precise path that I had walked after dinner on Friday evening and it was seeing the River Avon that made me fully realize that I had done it. I was going to finish my first marathon. Equally cheering was the fact that as I came to the 26-mile marker, I was cheered on by Francesca, who had finished some ten minutes earlier in a amazingly fast 3:27. This provided me with the last spurt of motivation that I needed and I sprinted (although it can't have been that fast considering how I felt at the time) to the finish. I was crying as the official placed my medal over my neck, partly out of a mixture of pain and relief, and partly because I was in shock at my time. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would do so well. Never.<br />
<br />
Afterward, I collapsed on the ground for a while, nursing the bottle of water and banana that I received upon finishing. After I had managed to convince myself that it would not kill me to get up and walk around, I joined Francesca, her boyfriend's brother, and his parents for lunch at a cafe in the town center. Then Francesca and I hopped on the train back to London where it took me roughly an hour (ok...this is a bit of an overstatement, but it felt like it) to hobble my way down the street to where I live. <br />
<br />
The one thing I was looking forward to when I came back to London was getting some sleep. I was extremely sore and the idea of passing out for 8 hours seemed particularly appealing. Moreover, I hoped that having run a marathon would have thoroughly exhausted me to the point where I would drift off to sleep (as opposed to enduring my typical insomniac routine of laying in bed for hours before falling asleep). 'You're going to sleep like a log!' everyone told me. No go. Despite getting into bed around 11:30, it took me until nearly 2 to finally fall asleep because my leg muscles never seemed to have gotten the message that the race was over. I woke up at 6:30am and was unable to fall back asleep. I can't say that I felt completely rested...mostly since it felt like my upper body had been hit by a truck. My legs, somewhat surprisingly, felt ok. <br />
<br />
Will I ever run another marathon? Had you asked me yesterday as I lay on the ground clutching my aching calves, I would have said no. But now...I am not so sure. I am considering the <a href="http://brrc.com/race/NCRTrailMarathon.html">NCR Trail Marathon </a>in November. It is held in Maryland, which means that my family would be able to come out to support me (if they feel so inclined). (My poor mother is probably at home reading this and going 'WHAT!?!') Still, I reserve the right to change my mind. Who is to say how I will feel in a month or two? After all, the marathon is like a relationship. Marathon training is similar to the dating period - most of the time (say 85% or so) it is enjoyable, 10% of the time it is neutral, and 5% of the time is rather unpleasant. The marathon itself is like the breakup - a painful experience where you feel like you are walking through hell and back. Immediately afterward, you swear never to do it again. But as time passes, the mind forgets the pain, nostalgia sets in, and you begin to consider trying it again. <br />
<br />
Ok...so who wants to sign up for an ultra-marathon with me? <a href="http://www.badwater.com/">Badwater</a> here I come! (I kid, Mum! I kid!)<br />
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<u><b>For your viewing pleasure: </b></u>This is in no way indicative of my marathon experience, but it is absolutely hilarious.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/NsMw10KVVCk" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<u><b>The Final Countdown (in the style of Europe): </b></u><br />
<br />
2...exams left to sit<br />
8...days left before I move back to MD<br />
29...days until I sit the Foreign Service Test (for the 2nd time) at CCBC (I am hoping that Catonsville will be a friendlier test site than Howard Univ. was. I arrived at the test a bloody mess after being shoved down an escalator and completely freaked out the examiner. Hoping not to repeat this situation.)<br />
40...articles left to read in preparation for exams<br />
3500...miles left to traverse before I arrive at home<br />
countless...pre-exam freak outs left to be hadRebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-27483777501859304202011-05-05T20:26:00.002+01:002011-05-05T22:25:26.472+01:00I'm Going the DistanceIn the course of the past few months, I may have mentioned once or twice (ok...in every single post) that I have been training for a marathon. I signed up for the Shakespeare Marathon in Stratford-upon-Avon last October and an announcement of my intentions appeared shortly thereafter on this blog. To post my intention to run was a huge decision for me since once I have made something public, I intend to follow through with it. Telling everyone that I was going to train for and run a marathon meant that I had to do it. There would be no backing out.<br />
<br />
16 weeks ago I kicked off my training my running 10 miles in Centennial Park. It was miserable, but mostly because it was freezing, the thigh high socks I was wearing underneath my running tights for added warmth kept slipping, and my boyfriend had broken up with me only the previous day. After it was over, as I stood on top of a snow-covered hill overlooking the lake, I remember wondering how on earth I would ever be able to finish 20 miles, let alone an entire marathon. At that point, the longest I had ever run was 14 miles and that had largely been by mistake. But before I knew it the months had passed and my long run mileage had crept steadily upwards until, at long last, I was running the dreaded 20 miles. Even more surprising was the fact that I made it through alive. And not just once, but twice! Indeed, the 18- and 20-milers were far less painful that I had imagined that they would be. Much more painful were some of 10- and 15-milers that I ran on the 'easy' weeks, some of which left me in tears on the way back. <br />
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Tomorrow I leave for Stratford-upon-Avon, the birthplace of William Shakespeare, to run my first marathon on Sunday. I haven't been this excited/nervous since I tested for my black belt in Tang Soo Do at age 13. Even my first half marathon last August did not evoke such a strong mixture of emotions. Perhaps it was because my Mum accompanied me to the race? Who knows? Either way, I am terrified. I've been listening to upbeat songs all day (I won't be running with my ipod during the race) and looking at inspiring quotes. My favorite: 'If you are going through hell, keep going' -Winston Churchill.<br />
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I do not know how well I will do on Sunday. I have promised my Mum that I won't ruin her Mother's Day by requiring hospitalization or dying, so survival seems to be my baseline goal for the day. I would ideally like to do a bit better than that, but I'll take what I can get. What I do know, however, is that there are several people without whose support I would not have made it this far.<br />
<br />
My parents: I may complain a lot about running/the marathon a lot on this blog, but, believe me, my parents hear about it <i>a lot</i> more. It would have been so easy to tell me to shut up or to quit if it was so tough (which, to be fair, they did say once or twice), but the majority of the time they kept things in perspective for me and provided the necessary motivation that I needed to get out and run again. Neither of my parents quite understands why I would <i>want</i> to do this since they are not runners, but they have continued to support me through some of my lowest points, especially this past semester. Moreover, they have plied me repeatedly with Jif peanut butter, without which I would never have been able to make it through this. (Seriously.) Thank you. (And I'll try not to die!)<br />
<br />
Granddad and Nana: My grandparents read this blog more frequently than anyone else, my own parents included. Their support has been unconditional and this has meant the world to me. <br />
<br />
Alex: I've said it once and I'll say it again - Alex rocks. Perhaps the most modest person I know, he has been there for me on numerous occasions, providing a listening ear when I needed to vent or offering much-needed advice. Words cannot sress how much I've appreciated this. (And, let's face it, I've been something of an emotional mess this past semester after all that has happened.) I know that a blog shout-out doesn't exactly carry the same weight as a Facebook one, but I hope my gratitude comes across. (And thanks for not going off to the Air Force until we have time to have a movie marathon and run in the Rebel Race - where you are not going to die!) <br />
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My cross country team-mates: (Who I am pretty sure don't actually read this, but whom I will thank anyway): The first running group that I have ever actually been a part, I would never have trained as hard as I did without the help of these lovely individuals. Thank you for the hard training sessions, pushing me during races, and helping me to achieve some of my personal bests. Oh, and for eating the food that I cooked. :)<br />
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My blog readers: To everyone who stops by my little corner of the internet(s) and reads whatever nonsense I have posted that day - thank you. It is always encouraging to see my 'visitor counter' increase over the course of a day. I know that much of what I post isn't all that interesting to the majority of the world, but thank you for stopping by all the same. <br />
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Last, but not least, Drew: (Also pretty sure that he does not read this blog, but I figure that the message will get passed along somehow): Even though things <i>definitely</i> did not turn out how I expected or would have liked, I cannot discount the role that he has played in getting me to this point. When I first met my runner ex-boyfriend in the fall of 2009, I had only ever run one race and didn't really intend to run another. I ran, yes, but on the treadmill at the gym. But after meeting him and seeing how hard he trained, how passionate he was about running, I decided to try another race. And then another. Although it was a <i>long</i> time before we ever ran together, he came out to races to support me and put up with the myriad of injuries (and the moaning that accompanied them) that occurred along the way. When I announced my intention to run a half marathon (and, later, the marathon) he never once told me that I couldn't do it. Indeed his faith in me was always, strangely, absolute. He was, and continues to be, a source of inspiration. Over the time that we dated, I saw how hard he worked, how devoted he was to his team and training, and how he muscled through even the toughest races with little complaint. When times have gotten tough during my own training, I've remembered the fortitude that he displayed and seek to emulate it (often unsuccessfully - I complain far too much.) And so, even though we are no longer together, I must express my thanks to him. Without his support..I couldn't have done this. I wish him all the best in his future. <br />
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Anyway, that is it for me until Sunday night/Monday, depending on how my physical state of being is when I return to London. I'll be back at Marylebone station by 6pm on Sunday, but I'm allowing myself 2 hours to get from the train station to the Tube station. I think it's only a matter of going down a few flights of steps, but since I haven't timed my speed whilst crawling (don't particularly imagine that the legs are going to want to work by that point), I am going to be generous in my estimations. And then there is the matter of walking the quarter mile from Borough tube station to my flat...ouch.<br />
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The next time I write, I'll be a marathoner! (Biggest perk: being able to stick a 26.2 sticker on my car when I come home in 12 days.) <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://ashvegas.squarespace.com/storage/Bard_icon.png?__SQUARESPACE_CACHEVERSION=1252149438219">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com1Southwark, London51.4977739 -0.08968030000005455823.766959399999998 -59.855305300000055 79.2285884 59.675944699999945tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-53176195932005009532011-05-04T22:43:00.000+01:002011-05-04T22:43:14.765+01:00Soaking Up The Sun (or: Seville - In Pictures)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As many of you are aware, last week was the Royal Wedding here in London, an event for which thousands of people descended upon London. Since me and crowds do not mix well at all, I decided to preserve my sanity by heading off on vacation (part 2) to Seville, Spain. My cousin lives there and since I haven't seen him since 2008 I thought this would be a nice time to catch up. Unfortunately, I picked a horrible time for him since this week was one of his busiest weeks at work, culminating in his departure for the US on Friday night. Still, I got to see him for a few hours, which was nice. Hopefully it won't be three years before I see him again. (Next cousin to visit will have to be Ken in Burkina Faso!)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGrx0Z8CvlYIeC7WDbN6EyCIiBn9UWj5UNQ3BefqtmPOlCXr8VwKda0tz-w-JTHq1dsSHN0HUE21gEiEmXpPqwkjgXVW0bxhvmlpWlfWItjgEfcD-A5EQsLoHbhMim1erXp7EglRexM1E/s320/IMG_2158.JPG" style="cursor: move; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Indian Archives in the renaissance Merchants' Exchange</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My trip to Seville started bright and early on Monday, April 25th when I left my flat to catch the bus at 2AM. I never got to sleep on Sunday night since I had been working on my last paper for grad school and didn't finish until 11pm, at which point there was no point in even attempting to go to sleep. By the time I arrived in Seville at 9:30AM, I was exhausted. My cousin picked me up from the airport, drove me to his apartment where I would be staying for the week, and then left to go to work. I didn't see him again until Thursday night. Despite being exhausted, I tried my best to go sight-seeing. I made my way to the city center, grabbed some lunch (where it became readily apparent that my Spanish skills, unused for three years, were not going to help me at all), and headed to the Archivo General de Indias (Indian Archives), containing Spain's extensive collection of records pertaining to its exploratory and colonial activities in the Americas. Located in the 16th century Casa Lonja de Mercaderes (Merchants' Exchange), the collection is of incredible historical importance. They had a fascinating exhibition on piracy in the Atlantic. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNcoezvoy6Dh6G9XXwsmO4SxLNE4xO25ZvQzqlL5cMcdhkoiqjbS1URApSDVa9csEJJWMcCTUUondLr6ADt8RJLeGtqhrG4mATR2Zfyzbs2HFYVOHWk0CvEWoDt_2wY1-0EKz7GiTOucc/s1600/IMG_2161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNcoezvoy6Dh6G9XXwsmO4SxLNE4xO25ZvQzqlL5cMcdhkoiqjbS1URApSDVa9csEJJWMcCTUUondLr6ADt8RJLeGtqhrG4mATR2Zfyzbs2HFYVOHWk0CvEWoDt_2wY1-0EKz7GiTOucc/s320/IMG_2161.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orange trees: things we do not have in London</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Immediately across from the Indian Archives was the Seville Cathedral. From the late 15th to mid 17th centuries, Seville was the center of trade with the New World. Merchants from around the world sold their wares along the banks of the Rio Guadalquivir running through the city. Originally, the merchants meeting place was on the steps of the Cathedral but, following the complaints of church officials, they moved their activities to the newly built Merchants' Exchange. The Cathedral itself dates from the 15th century and is extremely impressive architecturally. I've been to many cathedrals in my day (literally dozens) and this was one of the most beautiful, both internally and externally, that I have seen. Dominating the Cathedral is La Giralda, the bell tower. The bottom 2/3rds of the tower was formerly the minaret of the Moorish mosque that formerly occupied the site. Hence La Giralda's Moorish-inspired appearance. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD_I2a-H4pBP_u4IQZNCfNJreq3wpwX5dIGciXuEYrj6BwbijzImiMD01liRXv7SFco38i6qHraD9KEE9W9Vl-zg4w56SlEV4WFPGhhis3UUj24UC1rTzGfyP9oHUfq-lsFwCscZc2dnU/s1600/IMG_2175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD_I2a-H4pBP_u4IQZNCfNJreq3wpwX5dIGciXuEYrj6BwbijzImiMD01liRXv7SFco38i6qHraD9KEE9W9Vl-zg4w56SlEV4WFPGhhis3UUj24UC1rTzGfyP9oHUfq-lsFwCscZc2dnU/s320/IMG_2175.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The impressive Seville Cathedral</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv5qQotopOk9xRJOSFQ4TCN3Rx7jXr_WY2ZYclUWKyPtsieKDtfvoOcnIaAIhqOKTEKBfcm0MOZDhA-hz99nybilqSU8ozAxhHE_YQeFwaltBSnAHloG9P1LL7kqF6_DdkN9YtmBHQKks/s1600/IMG_2181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv5qQotopOk9xRJOSFQ4TCN3Rx7jXr_WY2ZYclUWKyPtsieKDtfvoOcnIaAIhqOKTEKBfcm0MOZDhA-hz99nybilqSU8ozAxhHE_YQeFwaltBSnAHloG9P1LL7kqF6_DdkN9YtmBHQKks/s320/IMG_2181.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seville Cathedral and La Giralda</td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbRZXwWZ766kCZBEoxnJ1pi_NmaY25txEZTbigW6HhJik-gyekT9SY63pL6FHtqSVbQHP2PGiliMEw7dUPtVcK7t9EBROb4xkow60BqpXQHEjhUQptpRJ2jcx45esvFZXoVhYo4UG5s8/s1600/IMG_2177.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbRZXwWZ766kCZBEoxnJ1pi_NmaY25txEZTbigW6HhJik-gyekT9SY63pL6FHtqSVbQHP2PGiliMEw7dUPtVcK7t9EBROb4xkow60BqpXQHEjhUQptpRJ2jcx45esvFZXoVhYo4UG5s8/s320/IMG_2177.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
Since the line to enter the Cathedral stretched around the plaza, I decided to come back on another day. Instead I returned to the river and walked west until I reached the Plaza de Toros, Seville's bullfighting ring and the oldest in Spain. The bullfighting season had begun the day before and would continue until the end of September, so the area around the stadium was full of activity as staff prepared for that night's fight. As I learned on the tour that I took of the ring, each fight features three toreros who fight two bulls each. The fight ends when the bulls are killed. The body is dragged from the ring by a team of mules and the meat is distributed to area butchers. (Bull meat is widely available around Seville.) There was a fight scheduled for 6:30 that night, but I decided to pass on attending. Even though I understand the cultural significance that bullfighting has in Spain, it was a bit too barbaric for my sensitive vegetarian American sensibilities. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJG2lFaTqDoqVvmQ26fUKHKd-luHwjEOwT3hFCl6hT2DrZ5xkwG40ipdJ71vNH3tukRzlXccE8ipVKAzZoNR60yXs8YZfOcee9EMyYDlzoqn3NT0BRueUyuM8to4ixr9IxJUGLmBIixc/s1600/IMG_2197.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJG2lFaTqDoqVvmQ26fUKHKd-luHwjEOwT3hFCl6hT2DrZ5xkwG40ipdJ71vNH3tukRzlXccE8ipVKAzZoNR60yXs8YZfOcee9EMyYDlzoqn3NT0BRueUyuM8to4ixr9IxJUGLmBIixc/s320/IMG_2197.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrance to the bullfighting ring</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTUTNR9S4OuxWQPE08zjT0XSCX7l7W8EPVMKeL1PGjDzEShSL0VEK6GZsh_qg5PEo6hCUWDjyRINY2AMUnEBD0lGnrLFsEHD5HJLCunj0VCQtiRDKsqaUHKXLJwAzgd_WBc3ceAyHA_A/s1600/IMG_2199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTUTNR9S4OuxWQPE08zjT0XSCX7l7W8EPVMKeL1PGjDzEShSL0VEK6GZsh_qg5PEo6hCUWDjyRINY2AMUnEBD0lGnrLFsEHD5HJLCunj0VCQtiRDKsqaUHKXLJwAzgd_WBc3ceAyHA_A/s320/IMG_2199.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior of the bullfighting ring</td></tr>
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Afterward, I walked across town, passing the Palace of San Telmo, with the intent of visiting the Plaza de Espana, a massive courtyard build in 1929 for the Ibero-American Exposition. Unfortunately, I was so tired by this point (having been awake since 7am the previous day), that I stopped less than a 1/4th of a mile away and returned to my cousin's for a nap. That night his girlfriend took me on a tour of Triana, an area of Seville known for its ceramic workshops, and treated me to tapas. Delicious.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvXqenAhsCUBcYwzexz2qj1IHb74My-k1RvyKD8FD5dDJYcdSLTPW2oO2lPFQbpjWWMFZo_-MU1zZ_B2BOEinxpRYTDUgadyAeUUoBNOcBeaiUcfgnzjYxuMi97Ru0_nSba_kZn0U7owE/s1600/IMG_2228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvXqenAhsCUBcYwzexz2qj1IHb74My-k1RvyKD8FD5dDJYcdSLTPW2oO2lPFQbpjWWMFZo_-MU1zZ_B2BOEinxpRYTDUgadyAeUUoBNOcBeaiUcfgnzjYxuMi97Ru0_nSba_kZn0U7owE/s320/IMG_2228.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Palace of San Telmo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Day 2 started bright and early with a 6 mile run along the river. Even at 8:30am it was around 80 degrees and the run was so tough. I've always considered myself a decent hot weather runner since my area of Maryland stays in the 90s with high humidity for much of the summer, but living in London and Edinburgh for the past year has really weakened my tolerance. I am not looking forward to having to acclimatize to the hot weather when I return home this summer! My first destination of the day was Seville Cathedral. I joined the queue, which was already lengthy half an hour before the opening time, and passed the time taking pictures of the magnificent architecture. Once inside, I was overwhelmed by the Cathedral's majesty. Every single chapel and altar was richly adorned and the artistic decorations were simply magnificent. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4YvNr6yeWWYjKLaKnx2jJwAG5tmAkC1WyAVG_TaqFoTwpL65f0I8udnuxKOZ8lhyHjWvexIK81qabnMvEtFc4t_KPE8k11GkMGh8GuZOENd-0YiiaDA-WRKhvn-e9gkL-DWO5T21wm8/s1600/IMG_2236.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4YvNr6yeWWYjKLaKnx2jJwAG5tmAkC1WyAVG_TaqFoTwpL65f0I8udnuxKOZ8lhyHjWvexIK81qabnMvEtFc4t_KPE8k11GkMGh8GuZOENd-0YiiaDA-WRKhvn-e9gkL-DWO5T21wm8/s320/IMG_2236.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior of Seville Cathedral</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuSiJSBaDb9817g1kq9jga0YnPecVQE7cQWer-HnKdobhESks2J58Ftqy8DD3W1VXvaAaVBqmB0t3argrmxWyH_Y7o2PTauo5DWQ6zhpbfowUANcsntWjXFIajCdrlOkCUq-qlrUxAI8/s1600/IMG_2257.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuSiJSBaDb9817g1kq9jga0YnPecVQE7cQWer-HnKdobhESks2J58Ftqy8DD3W1VXvaAaVBqmB0t3argrmxWyH_Y7o2PTauo5DWQ6zhpbfowUANcsntWjXFIajCdrlOkCUq-qlrUxAI8/s320/IMG_2257.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Main altar</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I climbed to the top of La Giralda to get a better view of the Seville cityscape. Beautiful. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBv41N0rkz5Li6BQkCrTE-md-Py6pUkxCQFzcLXFEVzfoKhfnJ8eUWLuGKChx_ZaOiDmJ_60vvPYSYzqSdScvcdKIM-uV5wjC4WADHDKeNuMwFLAIU-fOoVycTOqEOjfDvDYF2NWbUTpo/s1600/IMG_2258.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBv41N0rkz5Li6BQkCrTE-md-Py6pUkxCQFzcLXFEVzfoKhfnJ8eUWLuGKChx_ZaOiDmJ_60vvPYSYzqSdScvcdKIM-uV5wjC4WADHDKeNuMwFLAIU-fOoVycTOqEOjfDvDYF2NWbUTpo/s320/IMG_2258.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bells in La Giralda</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpECZ54Ux03s1-gNTIwJP1EEakWgDOE3L7sUrfIUMQsiB-jGdWO6rxTu2d8WgiZoInlzhKDxiQDL1hkbxcHlc7RQ1IjnXuPa_PmdG5EyDSTEOdh4a2sv6DMJfIPuqSPECdt_bnGz1TeQ/s1600/IMG_2259.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpECZ54Ux03s1-gNTIwJP1EEakWgDOE3L7sUrfIUMQsiB-jGdWO6rxTu2d8WgiZoInlzhKDxiQDL1hkbxcHlc7RQ1IjnXuPa_PmdG5EyDSTEOdh4a2sv6DMJfIPuqSPECdt_bnGz1TeQ/s320/IMG_2259.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from La Giralda was amazing</td></tr>
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Next it was off to the Royal Alcazar, the royal palace in Seville. It is known for its mudejar architectural style. (Mudejar architecture combines the Moorish style with Iberian influences.) I roamed around the palace for a while before heading out into its extensive gardens. These stretched seemingly forever! I also spend an unreasonable amount of time watching a kitten stalk one of the palace's peacocks that was perched on a fence and squawking loudly. (Fun fact: My undergraduate institution, St. Mary's College of Maryland, used to have several resident peacocks. Several disappeared the year before I arrived, but one was relocated to a farm just off campus. Those of us who had to park in Guam (the furthest parking lot on campus) could often hear it squawking late at night. We often told freshman that it was the St. Mary's pterodactyl since it made such an un-godly racket.) <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWxRxSPNr74_23euwkTgzIgWOrgWw7ufhlp9CtnPUz-HgvH2gunGINeOpPXdh3W6wPFLw0ousRrTv-usuvQfP5BZLvt1AHbOi7k0lKHRNRIFN7f1IQx3VFO2WNvXIjsObLnX_TXuuwCLc/s1600/IMG_2282.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWxRxSPNr74_23euwkTgzIgWOrgWw7ufhlp9CtnPUz-HgvH2gunGINeOpPXdh3W6wPFLw0ousRrTv-usuvQfP5BZLvt1AHbOi7k0lKHRNRIFN7f1IQx3VFO2WNvXIjsObLnX_TXuuwCLc/s320/IMG_2282.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mudejar architecture in the Alcazar</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6eCUg1F2kl7ZvigAXoQJbsvg1VNLzJF33rNPQNqVOMGMAq0rPcfeRsBHPUDiMAqbVmp-tDB5pAUv3-Jv5SVLDO-kG5S2m8axGQPivGzwy6geAyiK29VZu4RcdXaMFPMI75UhWVzdqWL0/s1600/IMG_2276.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6eCUg1F2kl7ZvigAXoQJbsvg1VNLzJF33rNPQNqVOMGMAq0rPcfeRsBHPUDiMAqbVmp-tDB5pAUv3-Jv5SVLDO-kG5S2m8axGQPivGzwy6geAyiK29VZu4RcdXaMFPMI75UhWVzdqWL0/s320/IMG_2276.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alcazar</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsRKjNFnQjVKjUK5TAnDhBBjoy4fdMc8iZH0dNxt6jctal_8XWJRiTwV1-C4t977CJI_ZIvaKIufOIwCAzWG56qE5Y5Ofg-pTYCqS55Ciy1TTqci0cD9oa8kq9Jlw2hd9FZKylC4BNaKc/s1600/IMG_2288.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsRKjNFnQjVKjUK5TAnDhBBjoy4fdMc8iZH0dNxt6jctal_8XWJRiTwV1-C4t977CJI_ZIvaKIufOIwCAzWG56qE5Y5Ofg-pTYCqS55Ciy1TTqci0cD9oa8kq9Jlw2hd9FZKylC4BNaKc/s320/IMG_2288.JPG" width="240" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggPjn2aF5peGS8QBctMWUziGyuYwqeT0jG7uYJQ6hhia6lIPifY-0UkOo-vInRu5FwHrbQ3lXkWgELBgJUK3hW1WYCdop7ieMs7UxIOc3lC99vqzyTdE9cTS1ny1UtssPLA4dXyQLEdhE/s1600/IMG_2304.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggPjn2aF5peGS8QBctMWUziGyuYwqeT0jG7uYJQ6hhia6lIPifY-0UkOo-vInRu5FwHrbQ3lXkWgELBgJUK3hW1WYCdop7ieMs7UxIOc3lC99vqzyTdE9cTS1ny1UtssPLA4dXyQLEdhE/s320/IMG_2304.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite picture: if you look closely next to the fence, you can see a kitten stalking the peacock. The hunt was unsuccessful. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybqiZbCtbeUsfPkHiHGeZJ2a5MdiH7dMbsXJGn7zizLIpfm36tshREgLUT1e23nBotTijSFBoiMMRD3RDXTzabBWjgIlDH0l182tMr0TQXRDBROP2rsz7Nre03FDxLgDX2919xcWHR7Y/s1600/IMG_2310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybqiZbCtbeUsfPkHiHGeZJ2a5MdiH7dMbsXJGn7zizLIpfm36tshREgLUT1e23nBotTijSFBoiMMRD3RDXTzabBWjgIlDH0l182tMr0TQXRDBROP2rsz7Nre03FDxLgDX2919xcWHR7Y/s320/IMG_2310.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Torre del Oro</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_65Ne7ULsP_JZrQNVVBVwRtMLfnHj53TMuqovIS9E3wD0qL_czUnw5SU7vDu1anw2HVjhExliE9nXuJ8DDy5sWzZru3KHa719Fo22VumEfSF9wFk4T9HJ7vZDgJlX53_dxHur0cCIY_Q/s1600/IMG_2322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_65Ne7ULsP_JZrQNVVBVwRtMLfnHj53TMuqovIS9E3wD0qL_czUnw5SU7vDu1anw2HVjhExliE9nXuJ8DDy5sWzZru3KHa719Fo22VumEfSF9wFk4T9HJ7vZDgJlX53_dxHur0cCIY_Q/s320/IMG_2322.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monument to Columbus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>On my way across town to the Plaza de Espana (which I was determined to visit for real this time), I passed by the Torre del Oro, a Berber watchtower built in the 13th century in order to control access to the river. It now houses the Maritime Museum. I walked through the scenic Santa Cruz district (the former Jewish Quarter) to a small area just outside the Parque de Maria Luisa so that I could see the monument to Christopher Columbus. His attempt to reach the Indies and subsequent re-discovery of the Americas was initiated from Seville. Then, at long last, I reached the Plaza de Espana. It was absolutely stunning. A man-made lake runs around half of the plaza and tourists could rent row boats in which to enjoy the view from another spectrum. Horse-drawn carriages (of which there were many in Seville) frequently made rounds of the interior of the plaza so that the drivers could describe the plaza's history to their passengers. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1d8iNaFMcgAkmDlDGpATPLGZGC7m0c6ZdXKxtnb-jW3hhNyn8oc1S0gvBl0XjVgLgkUMFV-rb0_-zc9lmrwwI2eDlpWWPtrLOXX30jwRuwk-5mJG1MIN8ORUDp1mluPIiJIHy0_cuYAg/s1600/IMG_2327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1d8iNaFMcgAkmDlDGpATPLGZGC7m0c6ZdXKxtnb-jW3hhNyn8oc1S0gvBl0XjVgLgkUMFV-rb0_-zc9lmrwwI2eDlpWWPtrLOXX30jwRuwk-5mJG1MIN8ORUDp1mluPIiJIHy0_cuYAg/s320/IMG_2327.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plaza de Espana</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I finished off the evening by cooking dinner and then heading off for a stroll around the city center, taking in the magnificent sights of the city in the golden evening light. It's amazing what a difference a few hours can make on the appearance of buildings. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOToxvpz-cJEeWS37EicT7KmtBs4bQjr96TN7e-fGXdrVbfMmeUCy8qegVwUT71F39b2TT1UMvSmoa1ErQo3IoRuFojTkOCm73s3S9JJ21gdEUYHRMSIlzdblokBK9dxYq1DAXJnj3-UY/s1600/IMG_2337.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOToxvpz-cJEeWS37EicT7KmtBs4bQjr96TN7e-fGXdrVbfMmeUCy8qegVwUT71F39b2TT1UMvSmoa1ErQo3IoRuFojTkOCm73s3S9JJ21gdEUYHRMSIlzdblokBK9dxYq1DAXJnj3-UY/s320/IMG_2337.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the Rio Guadalquivir in the evening</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0VhI9cVRgV2pgCfXiYj83sL_izfGdV0UU_hyphenhyphenVc4lCkps9Tp4C_qOKZuhvR3jVZapDwhZpDFFjnIU7IoMMnIB0zmMDEUE0j2a8h3iMlHiM1ECuOBSefrqOHm_D10LzPEfJ6WNFbiwdJOE/s1600/IMG_2341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0VhI9cVRgV2pgCfXiYj83sL_izfGdV0UU_hyphenhyphenVc4lCkps9Tp4C_qOKZuhvR3jVZapDwhZpDFFjnIU7IoMMnIB0zmMDEUE0j2a8h3iMlHiM1ECuOBSefrqOHm_D10LzPEfJ6WNFbiwdJOE/s320/IMG_2341.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puenta de Isabel II designed by Eiffel</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTjyJTJEyPjQK1rM3It6chUY4wIRSOnwrrANrOxDG6HOmtPzt21rRhUyBAbo420iWwfZkkck5hHtUdks0X3hyphenhyphenw9T61Met9kmwEp9e_PQhom9htwOFf6JLYOcpS0prwtVTYiZBfeFnqxVA/s1600/IMG_2363.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTjyJTJEyPjQK1rM3It6chUY4wIRSOnwrrANrOxDG6HOmtPzt21rRhUyBAbo420iWwfZkkck5hHtUdks0X3hyphenhyphenw9T61Met9kmwEp9e_PQhom9htwOFf6JLYOcpS0prwtVTYiZBfeFnqxVA/s320/IMG_2363.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grand staircase at the Casa de Condesa de Lebrija</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Day 3 saw me off to the Casa Palacio de Condesa de Lebrija (Palace house of the Countess of Lebrija). A wealthy collector, she was known for bringing entire Roman mosaic floors to her house in order to decorate it. Countless display cabinets lined the walls boasting priceless statues, paintings, and trinkets. Even the stairway, immaculately tiled with a Roman mosaic floor, was impressive!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZ0uZL0B0mhyjw5uwkJfXQBlbKYVwEnbazssBi-iw5JozW6WLPoeXXJaeKDM_50zZcIRlCuiPXtYtx4aUHgcKF7jjxWefHRMxiE9fE8n3LQ53_1KxFPpjTt-ip6sF2rr2cfJ8utT9kxM/s1600/IMG_2372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZ0uZL0B0mhyjw5uwkJfXQBlbKYVwEnbazssBi-iw5JozW6WLPoeXXJaeKDM_50zZcIRlCuiPXtYtx4aUHgcKF7jjxWefHRMxiE9fE8n3LQ53_1KxFPpjTt-ip6sF2rr2cfJ8utT9kxM/s320/IMG_2372.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the Cathedral and Giralda by night</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Later that evening, my cousin's girlfriend took me out on another tour of the city. We went to dinner at an Italian restaurant located in a former Moorish bath house where I had the best salad of my life: spinach salad with goat cheese and a honey balsamic vinaigrette. Absolutely delicious! She then showed me several of the 'hidden gem' spots located within the city center, including a small plaza just off the Cathedral square that was completely deserted every time I visited. Seville certainly knows how to impress, even by night. Many of the city's most iconic buildings are splendidly lit up, providing a different perspective and, in my opinion, highlighting their best features. The best view of the Cathedral and Giralda came from the Courtyard of the Orange Trees in the Real Alcazar. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Unfortunately, I have run out of time to describe the rest of my visit. :( Exams are not far off and I've spent far too long writing this as it is. So, a briefer rundown:<br />
<br />
Day 4:<br />
- Iglesia de San Salvador, the second most important church in Seville after the cathedral<br />
-Fell asleep in the Parque de Maria Luisa and got a wicked suntan<br />
-Tapas (including octopus!) with my cousin and his girlfriend<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjAkpuXRzhuaaXOmEaxuyPCC_tsla4km3A88GSO3cmpgqnJBgGIOMdWqOe77x_mv1OcvWTFgT1u6tj7tX6qxrH5tz6-nvHUfEOT24UzLlirjaIvDnuVwcABzeYGeCna5AQ31lRyCR7ZU4/s1600/IMG_2373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjAkpuXRzhuaaXOmEaxuyPCC_tsla4km3A88GSO3cmpgqnJBgGIOMdWqOe77x_mv1OcvWTFgT1u6tj7tX6qxrH5tz6-nvHUfEOT24UzLlirjaIvDnuVwcABzeYGeCna5AQ31lRyCR7ZU4/s320/IMG_2373.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iglesia de San Salvador</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia5wDtnG-wdl6lXHQ7CvYwFlwt-MDKpe60ukt72QQA6XI4qwI4H2PNwFjH_HHsY1nbdIPpRrrUTWFShQT8LWDNgPD4K4X7plXiT6abtdRvEafjZXudv0DC3rNI1tzONPCTQxTuUpmsLwM/s1600/IMG_2377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia5wDtnG-wdl6lXHQ7CvYwFlwt-MDKpe60ukt72QQA6XI4qwI4H2PNwFjH_HHsY1nbdIPpRrrUTWFShQT8LWDNgPD4K4X7plXiT6abtdRvEafjZXudv0DC3rNI1tzONPCTQxTuUpmsLwM/s320/IMG_2377.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Main altar at San Salvador</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvtCaCEYGlD6VWJt9ibKf4vox9i6R1O4Q3S9f-s2L1OlnXPeSjojEhiR2T9nETru6E8gayd7vmOEOeTDG4sbUsh72K2c6k0lAf4g0DZSpIOPoqNlV-Hw99x_SjZKZ3YAAetdQXeDE74g/s1600/IMG_2392.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvtCaCEYGlD6VWJt9ibKf4vox9i6R1O4Q3S9f-s2L1OlnXPeSjojEhiR2T9nETru6E8gayd7vmOEOeTDG4sbUsh72K2c6k0lAf4g0DZSpIOPoqNlV-Hw99x_SjZKZ3YAAetdQXeDE74g/s320/IMG_2392.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Day 5:<br />
- Visit to the Casa de Pilatos (Pilates' house) - home of the Dukes of Medinaceli - wonderful medieval and renaissance palace displaying mudejar influences<br />
- Saw the brand new (built in March 2011) 'Metrapol Parasol' in Plaza del Encarnacion<br />
- Lunch at my cousin's mother's house where we ate delicious food and watched the tape of the Royal Wedding (Kate's dress was absolutely beautiful - just saying)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLODhZdB9nylsWz0DDwziKRFrmmPj51iRnaK3817NNcLKPGGSslwCvdKrCkJof6ueOrmXH9cDFbgjFqbZBgbdEQvv8bPk9XKf6TtILMhqZrEssIPPeIO7Ul6pmTTPnqTYaIXsTmTo63uE/s1600/IMG_2401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLODhZdB9nylsWz0DDwziKRFrmmPj51iRnaK3817NNcLKPGGSslwCvdKrCkJof6ueOrmXH9cDFbgjFqbZBgbdEQvv8bPk9XKf6TtILMhqZrEssIPPeIO7Ul6pmTTPnqTYaIXsTmTo63uE/s320/IMG_2401.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Casa Palacio de Pilatos</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArqI4Ju19Su1I6U9Uy61s1JhdaBnhkWxNHWLcN6a8kYbaj0sh23AYf3JoP1JKet-pYslaE_HrLKLegPILgnpnsmvN6037ZtySKcbN_-gfRS9PqGe1UXP6Wk-wMi5P2bvrQfeykO-Jq70/s1600/IMG_2405.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArqI4Ju19Su1I6U9Uy61s1JhdaBnhkWxNHWLcN6a8kYbaj0sh23AYf3JoP1JKet-pYslaE_HrLKLegPILgnpnsmvN6037ZtySKcbN_-gfRS9PqGe1UXP6Wk-wMi5P2bvrQfeykO-Jq70/s320/IMG_2405.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior courtyard of Pilatos' house</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0edmgyrM6reefUGtKtNVxS-HVuzp-Krt9XVu7thViiYrbjz6mz0_Bf7RVxoGoBLTsuY-v0rA_Jb0ou_sUaE1-XPLRl58miyEHFKfJ-zTsqUPxBQYQYgssZ61TTMjQvQq8z4GaBEue5o/s1600/IMG_2418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0edmgyrM6reefUGtKtNVxS-HVuzp-Krt9XVu7thViiYrbjz6mz0_Bf7RVxoGoBLTsuY-v0rA_Jb0ou_sUaE1-XPLRl58miyEHFKfJ-zTsqUPxBQYQYgssZ61TTMjQvQq8z4GaBEue5o/s320/IMG_2418.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 'Parasol' in Plaza del Encarnacion built in March 2011</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiesmSuKMC-lEGQ06zF2QQsV5f3E5ui2fKcCYMxHiRaS12ps4XV1dFM3WgM5njEvrTNWVv5w2S4GpyuRrMTzfN-Q-covU2IhHGhEtp2gwwgpO3-VY4XE0T8zUdkQNM8UIzWg_W5WW0HFpE/s1600/IMG_2426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiesmSuKMC-lEGQ06zF2QQsV5f3E5ui2fKcCYMxHiRaS12ps4XV1dFM3WgM5njEvrTNWVv5w2S4GpyuRrMTzfN-Q-covU2IhHGhEtp2gwwgpO3-VY4XE0T8zUdkQNM8UIzWg_W5WW0HFpE/s320/IMG_2426.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not the KKK! Semana Santa (Holy Week) happened the week before I arrived. These are chocolate novelties mimicking the traditional costumes worn during the celebrations. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Before I knew it, it was Saturday and my trip was over. My cousin's mum drove me to the airport where I found out 20 minutes before my flight was due to take off that it had been delayed. Six hours later and I arrived safely in London. It was a wonderful vacation, but I was glad to be back. In 13 days I will be back at the airport except this time I will be headed home. I'm ready.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0Seville, Spain37.38264 -5.996295099999997537.313132 -6.1011800999999979 37.452148 -5.8914100999999972tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-66879292030369169542011-05-04T10:43:00.000+01:002011-05-04T10:43:31.537+01:00Last Days in NorwaySince I am a bit pressed for time (as will be explained in a later post), but wanted to get the re-caps of my last few days in Oslo and my Seville trip up (mostly before I return to MD and drop off the face of the earth as I learn what it means to 'sleep' again - not that insomniacs get much sleep anyway, but still), this post will have less words and more pictures. <br />
<br />
<b>Friday, April 16</b><br />
When I awoke on Friday morning, my second to last day in Norway, it was to a blanket of fog so thick that you could barely see 3 feet in front of you. Since I had no inclination to go running in such weather (mainly because I was afraid of being hit by one of the thousands of commuter bicyclists who populate Oslo), I had a bit of a lie-in, ate a leisurely breakfast, and then took the tram to the city center. I then hopped on to the T-Bane (Metro) to Holmenkollen, a ski resort located in marka (hills/forest) just outside of Oslo. When I arrived in Norway, I had been told that I <i>had</i> to go to Holmenkollen to see the massive skip jump and the amazing views. 'You can see all of the city and for miles otherwise'. Yeah. Not quite. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn1b-2JrdrRjfA4KfqhGixLfnGJasx_4p0RI_1_QBu1kU4ixHcqXU5DpIzYPtrVXt8Ffbhn73L_j-d3tNogii5sppmAxwjRFuGdYTs-dt9EzZAEdFLsOIoPaa3ct8nW5LxEamOiSb4PrM/s1600/Oslo+187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn1b-2JrdrRjfA4KfqhGixLfnGJasx_4p0RI_1_QBu1kU4ixHcqXU5DpIzYPtrVXt8Ffbhn73L_j-d3tNogii5sppmAxwjRFuGdYTs-dt9EzZAEdFLsOIoPaa3ct8nW5LxEamOiSb4PrM/s320/Oslo+187.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at 'dem 'dere 'amazing views'!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>In the winter season, Holmenkollen is known for being one of the most popular ski resorts since it is home to the famous ski jump, site of the World Ski Jumping Championships. Since the snow had mostly disappeared by this point and it is probably illegal for me to even be anywhere near skis (my coordination is dodgy at best even without two long boards attached to my feet), I opted for climbing the hill to the Ski Museum and Ski Jump Visitor Center. As I climbed the hill upwards, I couldn't help but wonder if I was actually just heading off the face of the earth. It sure felt that way. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje-uVaH7RLB5D6dI4dY_JVWrKegWAmfe7K1KoI-7gA-4RCZKmlKoGvJN4aWQg7l_TJX34O6zl2lDVu5QTw88WmjoODGhR5pdcVOAZ6m57qQwAPlVp9WZ5HDsVjnRHVwwId_A00rcwdxtY/s1600/Oslo+191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje-uVaH7RLB5D6dI4dY_JVWrKegWAmfe7K1KoI-7gA-4RCZKmlKoGvJN4aWQg7l_TJX34O6zl2lDVu5QTw88WmjoODGhR5pdcVOAZ6m57qQwAPlVp9WZ5HDsVjnRHVwwId_A00rcwdxtY/s320/Oslo+191.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Observation seating at the ski jump. Presumably it would provide a better view on competition days. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8GZiSDikjVhSEp6QyCX_-WAD-QfQhbQ3w1mpyogslvtzhQmDRQ9NmKHhPAYOXs_ubr8C42e_Sxuz2ZWVBl5gCDFYXlj2u0Shv5wZcTM5qejSa4Ks9vXqk3xnOz0cOY-hkn549_tkwZ0/s1600/Oslo+201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8GZiSDikjVhSEp6QyCX_-WAD-QfQhbQ3w1mpyogslvtzhQmDRQ9NmKHhPAYOXs_ubr8C42e_Sxuz2ZWVBl5gCDFYXlj2u0Shv5wZcTM5qejSa4Ks9vXqk3xnOz0cOY-hkn549_tkwZ0/s320/Oslo+201.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why is the ski jump so popular? I can only imagine it is because that it has no top!</td></tr>
</tbody></table> The Ski Museum was surprisingly interesting considering that I've never skied, have no interest in trying to ski (see above note on coordination), and almost killed myself on my two attempts at snowboarding. There was an intriguing exhibit on polar exploration and on the skiing habits of the Norwegian Royal Family. I also learned that a traditional Norwegian family day out involves strapping on the skis, heading to marka, and eating oranges and chocolate. If it weren't for the skis and oranges, I imagine that I would fit right in.<br />
<br />
After exploring the Ski Museum, I descended from the fogs of Holmenkollen and used the T-Bane to get to Frogner, a swanky district in North-Western Oslo. It is the area immediately behind the Royal Palace and is home to many international business and foreign embassies. (Fun fact: The US Ambassador's house takes up an entire city block. I was afraid to take a picture of it lest I suddenly find myself in trouble with DoS.) Eventually I arrived at my destination: Vigeland Sculpture Park. Gustav Vigeland was a famous Norwegian sculptor known for his productivity. When commissioned to make sculptures for the city center, he made so many that Oslo eventually created an entire area within Frogner Park just to display his sculptures. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGavv4BAMQazzmcKODyGa049ZiOMxhyhIZRg-3kYN9zidNSjP7pMA_qoms0rzSaR9ZxvDMNeaniDL3VpTzswCI3VFow0jGqpHsmc240DliKr9d-UZyLCtywV9RXuyivVkWloNfqJGeoY/s1600/Oslo+213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGavv4BAMQazzmcKODyGa049ZiOMxhyhIZRg-3kYN9zidNSjP7pMA_qoms0rzSaR9ZxvDMNeaniDL3VpTzswCI3VFow0jGqpHsmc240DliKr9d-UZyLCtywV9RXuyivVkWloNfqJGeoY/s320/Oslo+213.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">58 sculptures displaying the 'Human Condition' line the bridge from the Main Gate to the Fountain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Today it is one of the most popular destinations for tourists. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRFg4YPqu8Qe6txNBrC4P83ESstwTSHvXfOD4YG9Absy4UuMXxckH6EAbbPckNRUGeFUxPtmt29S_XvYvVu0K978OEA5kz3VwKGUgCZYDH5X7nmF3rfcr6SEe5O9EcE51om6f3FMVkEd8/s1600/Oslo+216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRFg4YPqu8Qe6txNBrC4P83ESstwTSHvXfOD4YG9Absy4UuMXxckH6EAbbPckNRUGeFUxPtmt29S_XvYvVu0K978OEA5kz3VwKGUgCZYDH5X7nmF3rfcr6SEe5O9EcE51om6f3FMVkEd8/s320/Oslo+216.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm uncomfortable for the woman just looking at this</td></tr>
</tbody></table> I don't know if this is because people just like sculpture or if it has something to do with the fact that Vigeland was fond of displaying his subjects engaged in rather improbable activities whilst nude.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFYbxmhg-cu5Wa9z3JBRUBZVIjMzFFCofR7vTXgl_rrZCEwspY1hm3qRP1LZsB6XYZLTf0KXmqdkhYoRharuArJzSD9llAtFtVk2imOCseF6pugTUYdH-yybTo_L7J78ZcIK7OajjucLg/s1600/Oslo+218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFYbxmhg-cu5Wa9z3JBRUBZVIjMzFFCofR7vTXgl_rrZCEwspY1hm3qRP1LZsB6XYZLTf0KXmqdkhYoRharuArJzSD9llAtFtVk2imOCseF6pugTUYdH-yybTo_L7J78ZcIK7OajjucLg/s320/Oslo+218.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gates and the Monolith</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Dominating the center of Vigeland Sculpture Park is a massive monolith comprising of some 121 human figures rising towards the sky. Apparently it is supposed to represent man's desire to reach salvation and the divine.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZp_Zlp4J5AaZ9lRZYUC1XCyh6Nvg2dszMA_PdOnLZO2FudFTkfOiA21bPLgLzGGATnXvtGZHvqTdDcMeVZ0KlMf1ShpNBvtOrtSrmL6ahbHAq_e9KWHW7YoSs6d6rq_6pAPpZaPAy84/s1600/Oslo+220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZp_Zlp4J5AaZ9lRZYUC1XCyh6Nvg2dszMA_PdOnLZO2FudFTkfOiA21bPLgLzGGATnXvtGZHvqTdDcMeVZ0KlMf1ShpNBvtOrtSrmL6ahbHAq_e9KWHW7YoSs6d6rq_6pAPpZaPAy84/s320/Oslo+220.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Monolith to the rest of Frogner Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <b>Saturday April 17</b><br />
Since my plane was not due to leave Oslo until 10pm, I took advantage of my last day in Oslo to roam around at a leisurely pace. I went for one last run in which I attempted to make it into the marka just beyond the hostel, but failed miserably. I like to consider myself reasonably fit, but the hills stripped me of any pride in my fitness that I may have had. I had to stop several times because my lungs felt like they were being stabbed repeatedly by my heart, which I could hear pounding in my chest. Ultimately, I admitted defeat and ran back to the hostel. Marka: I will reach you eventually, I swear!<br />
<br />
<br />
After checking out of the hostel, I walked through East Oslo to the Munch Museum. Eastern Oslo is much more multi-cultural than the rest of the city due to the recent influx of Pakistani and Middle Eastern immigrants who have settled in the area. After a 10 minute walk, the rows of silk shops, ethnic food markets, and kebab stands gave way to the botanical gardens, on the grounds of which are located the Munch Museum holding a massive collection of lithographs, paintings, sketches, poems, and letters by Edvard Munch.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCxkn_HUEXDmHgqv9SLAPBJJPcWGIrWjOCyI9QXfqHYVrXE8QjOWOTdV2yAm9CmwZ8EjjNKTm7IIqvlYx3wLv0srTGjZPBoWv32CFZ4ffxv7Dh7PBQYE4Ls3AFwkOQo4aiZrUcvstH_Dc/s1600/Oslo+238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCxkn_HUEXDmHgqv9SLAPBJJPcWGIrWjOCyI9QXfqHYVrXE8QjOWOTdV2yAm9CmwZ8EjjNKTm7IIqvlYx3wLv0srTGjZPBoWv32CFZ4ffxv7Dh7PBQYE4Ls3AFwkOQo4aiZrUcvstH_Dc/s320/Oslo+238.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Security at the Munch Museum was incredibly tight (think US Capitol or White House tight) and understandably so. In 2004, armed gunmen broke into the museum and stole <i>The Scream</i> and <i>Madonna</i>. The paintings were recovered in 2006 (a topic on which Wikipedia provides an interesting account <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Scream#Thefts">here</a>). Since then other museums in Oslo holding Munch's work have placed their collections into storage so as to avoid the same fate. I was quite pleased to see that the Munch Museum still chose to display this though:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3joByd2yQIYfGkFWx7ZtHAmQ3FAGSmRM2r7IieeVcKvvP-4b3zPs3hZZ9jRtCHcHMRBJsua231Zmlec2UwcN4TKFaJZ4uFPI0_b6C6GvtvJyoQSFxanhVlzQ90sMkCU8XiNYSAFS6lM8/s1600/Oslo+244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3joByd2yQIYfGkFWx7ZtHAmQ3FAGSmRM2r7IieeVcKvvP-4b3zPs3hZZ9jRtCHcHMRBJsua231Zmlec2UwcN4TKFaJZ4uFPI0_b6C6GvtvJyoQSFxanhVlzQ90sMkCU8XiNYSAFS6lM8/s320/Oslo+244.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a painting: this is actually how I appear during exam periods</td></tr>
</tbody></table> After leaving the Munch Museum I explored the areas along the river east of Aker Brygge. This included the National Opera House...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXddx5BLUZunYjojg-PrEu1PSMWAMilxW5Si45uE6nRvW0Pyxbj3bpq65k3_3d-BYh1sqlzxQNNnkqNeIpvVwn8-XCru2-E9HF-2QOgHJPQuEIUjJEzUlR7ZO6xhOsQtNZ36iCt-IKq4/s1600/Oslo+255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXddx5BLUZunYjojg-PrEu1PSMWAMilxW5Si45uE6nRvW0Pyxbj3bpq65k3_3d-BYh1sqlzxQNNnkqNeIpvVwn8-XCru2-E9HF-2QOgHJPQuEIUjJEzUlR7ZO6xhOsQtNZ36iCt-IKq4/s320/Oslo+255.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">National Opera House. In order to get to the main entrance you had to walk on the roof of the lower levels</td></tr>
</tbody></table> And the Middlderaldernparken (Middle Ages park), which the guidebook made seem a lot cooler than it really was. Apparently, the park was once the site of Oslo Cathedral from when Oslo was located on the opposite bank of the river. The ruins looked relatively recent (18th/19th century) to me. I remain suspicious. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhighGGka5kUD828fHwZ5rDBDPHJSvyxbkGeXUYu3hVqA2tG7O3Wg2arJvBUd4Y2C8zNDbWiLvcn0upNEYDm9BXLuqcgber4RDAVWksEJp0mN_JRsn1AZd22mxSt-4W3PxBjo1ohdnkew4/s1600/Oslo+258.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhighGGka5kUD828fHwZ5rDBDPHJSvyxbkGeXUYu3hVqA2tG7O3Wg2arJvBUd4Y2C8zNDbWiLvcn0upNEYDm9BXLuqcgber4RDAVWksEJp0mN_JRsn1AZd22mxSt-4W3PxBjo1ohdnkew4/s320/Oslo+258.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<b> </b>I sat in the park writing and people-watching for quite some time before returning to the Central Station to grab a Diet Coke. As I sat on the steps enjoying the sunshine, I witnessed the strange phenomenon of Norwegian <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guido_%28slang%29">guidos (a la Jersey Shore)</a>. Dressed entirely white with blonde hair slicked bag, wearing Ray Bans and pants that were <i>entirely</i> too low for anyone's comfort (mine and almost certainly theirs), they engaged in episodes of fist-bumping, high-fiving, flexing, and taking swigs from a bottle of vodka in a paper bag. It was probably one of the strangest things I have ever seen and I desperately wanted to take a covert picture to record this for anthropological posterity, but was afraid of being seen in action. A strange end to my trip indeed!Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0Oslo, Norway59.9138688 10.75224539999999359.8296888 10.589697899999992 59.998048800000007 10.914792899999993tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-2404831164874612852011-05-02T14:41:00.001+01:002011-05-02T19:08:14.401+01:00Remembering 2001 in 2011Unless you have spent the past 24 hours in a cave, you will have heard the news that Osama Bin Laden, leader of Al-Qaeda, hero within the jihadist terrorist movement, and mastermind of the 9/11 attacks was killed by US forces yesterday. I found out this morning during breakfast when I logged on to the internet to check my email and consequently almost choked on my oatmeal as I read the headlines coming in from <i>The Washington Post</i>. After almost ten years, I believed that perhaps bin Laden had died long ago or else was going to evade capture indefinitely. Between this, Wikileaks, and the Arab Spring it has definitely been an exciting year to be a student in the Department of War Studies. <br />
<br />
While I am patriotic, I am usually not overly so (mostly because there are thousands of other Americans who are so rabidly patriotic that it more than makes up for my lack of outward shows of enthusiasm). And call me silly, but I can't help but be moved by the significance of this event. I was 13 and in 8th grade on September 11, 2001, which meant that I was old enough to appreciate the magnitude and understand the wider implication of what happened. If 'Where were you when Kennedy was shot?' or 'When the <i>Challenger</i> went down?' were the questions to demarcate previous generations, 'Where were you on 9/11?' is the one that will be asked in the future of mine. In my case, I was at Hammond Middle School experiencing one of the most traumatic days of my life.<br />
<br />
Although the attacks occurred at the start of the school day, the school administration did not feel it necessary to inform the students what had happened. I understand the rationale behind this since the youngest students in the school were perhaps 10 years old. Still, news that something terrible had happened quickly spread amongst the 8th graders although no one knew exactly what, and rumors can often be more vicious than the reality. I remember sitting at lunch listening as people said that DC had been bombed, that New York City had been invaded, and, what at that time had seemed the most implausible, that planes had been flown into buildings around the US. At that time my father worked in central DC close to the Capitol and White House, and I knew that he had been scheduled to visit the Pentagon that week. I remember it being an absolutely hellish afternoon as the rumors increased in frequency and atrocity, and I was all but sick with worry as I fretted over what had happened and whether Dad was fine. At long last, we were released from school and I was able to be reunited with my parents at home within 30 minutes. <br />
<br />
Luckily for me, my father was alright (and I don't think he ever fully understood just how worried I was), but it was at home that I learned that some 3000 others were not. I think this is probably the first time that I heard the word 'terrorism' used...or perhaps it is just the moment when I learned the full extent of what the word can mean. It was for a lot of Americans, marking the end to the sense of security that existed prior to September 2001. (Perhaps it didn't exist at the time, but the tendency these days is to look back with nostalgia to the pre-9/11 period as a time of blissful ignorance.)<br />
<br />
The events of that September day ten years ago changed the lives of everyone, but it is perhaps my generation that has been influenced by it the most. We are the ones who have fought (and will continue to fight) in the ill-defined and prolonged 'War on Terrorism' in Afghanistan and Iraq, who will bear the long-term economic and social costs of these wars, and whose futures have been formed in the resulting 'culture of fear' that has arisen. Just as the children of the 50s were influenced by their experience with the perceived nuclear threat of the USSR, so my generation has been impacted by our experiences with terrorism. More and more young people are entering the national security, counter-terrorism, and intelligence fields than ever before (except, perhaps, during the height of the Cold War). It has certainly played a factor in my decision to study international relations, OSINT, and terrorism. (Note: I can only speak from the perspective of one who grew up in the 90s and 00s ('noughties' here in the UK) and will not presume to speak for the experiences of those of earlier generations.)<br />
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The capture and death of Osama bin Laden therefore marks an important landmark of the US' 'War on Terror' since it provides a decisive victory in the first task initiated in the war: to find the man who was responsible for masterminding 9/11. Unfortunately, it is not the end of the threat, far from it since Al-Qaeda is merely one of the many terrorist organizations around the world and its cellular network will make it impossible to eradicate entirely. And, indeed, there are many around the world who will see bin Laden as a martyr in the struggle against the aggression of the US-led West. Already the US Department of State has issued warnings to its embassies and citizens abroad to be wary of a potential anti-American backlash. But it is important to remember that the vast majority of the individuals around the world are happy to see bin Laden go and I sincerely hope that this event will not feed the anti-Muslim sentiments that seem to have been brewing in the US for some time now. (I have been meaning to write a post on the differences between Islamic terrorism and non-radical political Islam for some time now, but have not yet found the time. They are two <i>very</i> different things, but most people seem unaware of this fact.)<br />
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In closing: In this time of celebration (as, from what I've heard, the general atmosphere in the US seems to be today), it is important not to forget the immense price paid to achieve this victory. In addition to the 3000 individuals who died on September 11, 2011, some 4,700 American servicemen and women have died and 30,5000 have been wounded in the War on Terror (Iraq and Afghanistan fronts). This number does not include the mass numbers of American and non-American civilian casualties sustained in the war. We must remember the sacrifice that they have made, and continue to make, in order for such victories to be possible.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://resources3.news.com.au/images/2011/05/02/1226048/486151-us-celebrates-death-of-bin-laden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://resources3.news.com.au/images/2011/05/02/1226048/486151-us-celebrates-death-of-bin-laden.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://resources3.news.com.au/images/2011/05/02/1226048/486151-us-celebrates-death-of-bin-laden.jpg">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Hopefully this will be the last serious post for a while. Usually turning on the news everyday is depressing enough without people having to read about it on my blog. (More importantly, every time I post something even remotely political in nature, I am afraid to check my inbox for fear that I've offended some relative/friend/reader or another. It is for this reason that I try to keep the politics in this blog to a minimum.) In the near future, maybe even tonight depending on how sick I get of revising (UK-speak for 'studying') postmodernism and critical theory, expect posts on: my trip to Seville, the last few days in London, and my pre-marathon freak out(s). (Believe me, there will be more than one.)Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-53571237176930781172011-04-24T22:41:00.000+01:002011-04-24T22:41:35.854+01:00"Don't think that I'm pushing you away, when you're the one that I've kept closest"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5wQOxREG6ojOeI8079w7DZ7xyygzcnFeKNm8j4sfpwVxCZZqWDY5zvZ7PDurrD62zMnpWYK3C2ZFBO4XmIZru__H44CbtXkOXciqRHhDl-TH0On8rRXBnm6dbCbeEYgQEExuabTVlDw/s1600/IMG_2121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5wQOxREG6ojOeI8079w7DZ7xyygzcnFeKNm8j4sfpwVxCZZqWDY5zvZ7PDurrD62zMnpWYK3C2ZFBO4XmIZru__H44CbtXkOXciqRHhDl-TH0On8rRXBnm6dbCbeEYgQEExuabTVlDw/s320/IMG_2121.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This came in the post a few days ago. I stared at it for a good two minutes before I was able to continue on with my normal activities. With just two weeks to go, it is finally starting to sink in that this is actually going to happen. <i>I am going to run a marathon.</i> Me, the girl who used to dread the warm-up lap we had to run for crew each morning in freshman and sophomore years. Me, who refused to run during our timed mile tests in high school.<br />
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I'm going to die.<br />
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Ok, I'm being a bit dramatic, but it is still terrifying. 26.2 miles is a long way to go, especially sine my feet were killing me after running only 15 today. (That said, it was a terrible run overall so I shouldn't use that as a standard. I forgot to eat carbs yesterday, got less than my usual four hours of sleep last night, wore the wrong running shoes, and forgot to bring water. I seriously have no idea where my common sense was this morning when I kitted up.) I guess the only thing left to do at this point is to pray that I make it through in more or less one piece. <br />
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Well, readers, I am officially done with my last graduate school essay and am heading off on to the second half of my vacation. I'm glad that I have limited aptitude for mathematics and physics (despite my father's best attempts) because it rules out any potential career in nuclear physics. This last essay was on the application of open source information in assessing the nuclear intentions of states (which I expanded to include a case study on a non-state actor, Al-Qaeda). In order to understand the information that I was discovering, I needed to become familiar with the basics of the nuclear process. Reading countless academic articles on how to enrich uranium and the various quantities needed for weapons of different types gave me a migraine. I suppose it would be more interesting if I knew that I was going to use such information later in life, but I doubt that I will. It seems unlikely anyone is going to call me up for advice on nuclear physics. And so such information will ultimately have to go to the 'pointless knowledge' section of mine.<br />
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Now that my educational obligations for this week are over, I am (Easy)jetting off to Seville for 5 days. I've been trying to visit Seville since 2008. Luckily for me, EasyJet began operating a route from London Gatwick to Seville on April 16th and so I've managed to fit this trip into my schedule. I've been brushing up (admittedly unsuccessfully) on my Spanish and am ready to enjoy the warmth! More importantly, I am ready to enjoy the sangria. (After whiskey, sangria is my 'go-to' drink). The best part of this vacation? I am going to miss 'the wedding'.<br />
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While some of you back home may be dying to hear about what Kate is going to be wearing, or who is on the guest list, most Londoners just find 'the wedding' to be an inconvenience. Thousands of tourists have already started to descend on the city, and it is making transportation almost impossible. Just yesterday, it took me an hour and a half to make a journey that normally takes half an hour simply because I had to navigate around a gigantic herd of tourists on Waterloo bridge. (Admittedly, I don't do well with crowds. During Fringe in Edinburgh, I arrived home from work every day seriously pissed off simply because it took <i>forever</i> to walk through the crowds.) I think adding to my general apathy towards 'Will and Kate's big day' is the fact that I just don't get hyped up about weddings. I <i>may </i>get excited about my own wedding if such an event ever takes place (looks unlikely at this point). Maybe. Anyway, preparations for 'the day' are already underway. The streets from Buckingham Palace to Westminster Abbey already have railings in place in anticipation for the crowds that are bound to amass. British flags are everywhere. Almost every store front in Oxford Street and Regent Street boast displays with William and Kate's faces on them and fly banners reading 'Congratulations!'. If you head to Cards Galore, you can buy teddy bears, mugs, pez dispensers, calendars, t-shirts, aprons, cards, flags, and masks (weird) with the couples faces on them. ("Hey Mom! Look I've brought you home a commemorative mask with Kate Middleton, sorry, <i>Windsor's</i>, face on it. This here is love.")<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM8PTwptDae2mlGRkMN8W9MjSI7b8JcpyLBQLxc49h08CKww7ZcTYK2jZGmbAUu5Qv9OjsrqbX6ZDcdfbnrhc4ax-UCvXkPKZQOB_o0WhpNH80-ba1I_h-Nx7PYu7SPpX7oTteB4GWh2E/s1600/IMG_2131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM8PTwptDae2mlGRkMN8W9MjSI7b8JcpyLBQLxc49h08CKww7ZcTYK2jZGmbAUu5Qv9OjsrqbX6ZDcdfbnrhc4ax-UCvXkPKZQOB_o0WhpNH80-ba1I_h-Nx7PYu7SPpX7oTteB4GWh2E/s320/IMG_2131.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">British-themed cakes</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgzLtnjY9CV7OGd0rMGjFzcpRiZ81SOhHREOum96pi_laCOYe3Yg_mZ233Li_kM-CSj7Jt90-2Adyb36GXXlYgU2UIAtIn5Y7zuTSyoGoll82vipahfjU6M6HAIz55uCxAUw5it6-RN6w/s1600/IMG_2137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgzLtnjY9CV7OGd0rMGjFzcpRiZ81SOhHREOum96pi_laCOYe3Yg_mZ233Li_kM-CSj7Jt90-2Adyb36GXXlYgU2UIAtIn5Y7zuTSyoGoll82vipahfjU6M6HAIz55uCxAUw5it6-RN6w/s320/IMG_2137.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Royal Wedding window displays</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgivyV1gAyR2LcF9g5VnToFH-Ak1zhDZNNAvtVY5g0ts5mLf6P53lo18fD81RGVAD-kaYA1DdtTKM6fwvYN51HKi10fIzLnT_XVfGuGeRJUZ8mzCjwtGhpeJwdN9rznEDQFz4QWUtSLVjA/s1600/IMG_2139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgivyV1gAyR2LcF9g5VnToFH-Ak1zhDZNNAvtVY5g0ts5mLf6P53lo18fD81RGVAD-kaYA1DdtTKM6fwvYN51HKi10fIzLnT_XVfGuGeRJUZ8mzCjwtGhpeJwdN9rznEDQFz4QWUtSLVjA/s320/IMG_2139.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTxbKjI9WUBOAZsfRVPoj0Js1e_xH7ahfBKLcz1RqYstr35CR-KFtkFAiD4JpyonKgluMUwfXEDGsl6cc86shbGDJVRxxJi8mX0feU3oSyjboQOD15rm2d6YxTj5b0Jlmfx-tPLEt0klc/s1600/IMG_2142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTxbKjI9WUBOAZsfRVPoj0Js1e_xH7ahfBKLcz1RqYstr35CR-KFtkFAiD4JpyonKgluMUwfXEDGsl6cc86shbGDJVRxxJi8mX0feU3oSyjboQOD15rm2d6YxTj5b0Jlmfx-tPLEt0klc/s320/IMG_2142.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note the railings edging the pavement</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxgHZy7o6naYKYphng1-aM6Cf7h0XDLyG64mZD9NQIrrp1wy6u_sn-ilbbpyUPwUEeqGvLlvsUBMiITw2GmO8w_2n2JSL5qwGBH2QAgnGdMTblcX5im-4WHmVfQdJd_MZ5aziFIDlOisg/s1600/IMG_2145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxgHZy7o6naYKYphng1-aM6Cf7h0XDLyG64mZD9NQIrrp1wy6u_sn-ilbbpyUPwUEeqGvLlvsUBMiITw2GmO8w_2n2JSL5qwGBH2QAgnGdMTblcX5im-4WHmVfQdJd_MZ5aziFIDlOisg/s320/IMG_2145.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The British public declares their love</td></tr>
</tbody></table>This vacation is the 'calm before the storm' since in the following 2 1/2 weeks I will be studying for exams, running a marathon, and then taking said exams. And less than 24 hours after sitting my Concepts exam, I'll be heading back to good ol' Maryland. At which point I am going to have to seriously re-think the purpose of this blog as: a) I will no longer be technically providing the 'view from abroad'; b) I'll be residing with the primary readers of this blog (i.e. my parents); and c) my life in Maryland isn't all that interesting. Still, I am reluctant to shut it down entirely since I like blogging and this is the primary way that people find out what is going on in my life (I'm not all that forthcoming with information in real life. Mostly because I feel that people aren't going to be interested.)<br />
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Still, this summer promises to hold some events of note. I'll be turning 23, applying for jobs, joining the Howard County Striders, starting my parents on the Couch-to-5k plan (Surprise Mum and Dad!), running in the <a href="http://www.rebelrace.com/event.php?id=22">Rebel Race</a> with Alex (who is not going to die, despite his assertions to the contrary), writing my master's dissertation (er...), and traveling around the East Coast with my father for the 150th anniversary of the Civil War. (The point of all of this is that I am providing plenty of advanced warning for when this blog becomes significantly less interesting - if it ever could be classified as 'interesting'). <br />
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<br />
Ok...off to Seville! Adios! <br />
<br />
<b>By the Numbers:</b><br />
0 -- Essays that I have left to write<br />
2 -- Exams I still have to take<br />
26.2 -- miles that I am going to run on May 8th<br />
14 -- days left until aforementioned marathon<br />
23 -- days until I return to MarylandRebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-28463825741129600812011-04-23T15:17:00.000+01:002011-04-23T15:17:04.131+01:00“Love is stronger than death even though it can't stop death from happening, but no matter how hard death tries it can't separate people from love. It can't take away our memories either. In the end, life is stronger than death.” - AnonymousWhen I was young (kindergarten and first grade aged), I always took a special delight in having more than the usual number of grandparents. 'I have 3 grandmothers', I remember telling my astounded classmates in first grade. No one else in Mrs. Dolphin's class had three grandmothers and so, for that day, I was the cool kid in class. (That was when my popularity in life peaked, I'm afraid.) I had my Grandma, my father's mother. My Granny Becky, my Mum's mother and the woman whom I am named for. And then there was my Nana, who was married to my maternal grandfather, Granddad. Of course, when I was younger, I wasn't entirely sure how this situation had come about, nor did I particularly care. I simply accepted it.<br />
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It was only when I was a bit older that I learned of the word 'divorce' and that my Nana wasn't actually biologically related to me. This was terribly confusing at first because I simply could not understand how she could love me so much if I wasn't related to her. But then I realized that it didn't matter whether or not Nana was actually related to me by blood because never once did I doubt that she loved me as much as my other grandparents. She treated me as if I were her own grandchild and her love was absolute. <br />
<br />
My Granddad and Nana were the grandparents who were the most present in my childhood and adolescence. They have lived in Olney since before I was born and visits to their house were routine when I was younger. Granddad would serve my brother and I Diet Coke or Barq's Red Cream soda at his bar in the basement, a tradition which never ceased to be carried out. Nana would teach me how to play 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' or 'Row Your Boat' on her piano, and taught me how to create texture in my coloring attempts. In the evenings, we would install raw corn on the cob in the squirrel feeders in the backyard and then go driving around rural Montgomery County (what little is left of it) searching for deer. Lady, their poodle, and, later, Snuggles, would join us on these adventures, which were almost always successful. (Indeed, I can remember only a few times when we failed to spot deer.) This was a highlight of my childhood since I had always loved deer and living in suburban Howard County was not entirely conducive to spotting them on a regular basis. On the weekends when John and I would spend the night at Granddad and Nana's, we could always count on a Saturday yard sale-hunting adventure. (Yard sales were also rare in Howard County at that time.)<br />
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<br />
It is my Granddad and Nana who have been there for most of my life achievements. My Granny Becky lives in Virginia Beach, making it difficult for her to travel far, and my Grandma seems to have a busy schedule that precludes other activities. When I read my first story at the Author's Tea in kindergarten, Nana and Granddad were there. They attended countless orchestra recitals which is probably grounds for sainthood in and of itself since elementary and middle schoolers are hardly virtuousos at the violin. When I earned my first degree black belt in Tang Soo Do after a grueling 8-hour physical endurance test, they were present amongst the crowd. And, most notably, in May 2006, they braved 100+ degree heat to attend my high school graduation at Merriweather Post Pavilion. Believe me, I wouldn't have attended that graduation had I not been obligated to. Yet there they were. <br />
<br />
<br />
In September 2010, my Nana suffered several strokes that have, unfortunately, taken their toll on her physical health. Despite the best care of her doctors and my Granddad, she is now in hospice in Olney.<br />
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Throughout my entire life, my Nana and Granddad have been some of my biggest supporters. They are devout readers of this blog and even now, when Nana can't read it herself, Granddad still prints out each entry and reads it to her. And so, Nana, this post is dedicated to you. I wish that I could express how much you mean to me in a more eloquent manner. These words seem weak and inadequate when I see them on the screen, but I don't know how else to express what I want am feeling. You've always been so kind to me and shown that you've loved me. I've never had to doubt it. You've always been there to attend important events in my life, even when it has not been the most convenient of times or situations. And this has meant so much to me. Thank you so much for everything. I love you, Nana.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-46350094459732610812011-04-21T22:39:00.001+01:002011-04-21T22:43:38.068+01:00Oslo: Bygdoy and Akershus Well, after a streak of almost 2 weeks of excellent health, I woke up terribly ill this morning. It had seemed too good to last and so this 'attack' didn't come as a surprise. Despite no deviation from my normal diet, my digestive and immune systems decided to jointly go on strike overnight. Wonderful. Thanks body, I appreciate it. On the plus side, being unable to leave my bed all day/maintain anything other than a sitting position meant that I got loads of work done. I have one last essay to write for my OSINT class on nuclear proliferation, which means that I've been reading tons of technical articles. I will probably end up dreaming of uranium-235 and fuel cascades tonight. <br />
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Just wanted to clear up something first: Yes, I did participate in a traditional Scottish jam session in Edinburgh. It happened. And no, I did not consume half a bottle of whiskey before participating. I felt in a particularly courageous mood and decided that I didn't have anything to lose. <br />
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<u><b>Day 2: Bygdoy</b></u><br />
Wednesday dawned bright and early with the sun providing a welcome sight after the horrific weather of the previous day. One of the perks of the Haraldsheim hostel was that breakfast was included in the price, an offer that I intended to take full advantage of after seeing the ridiculous prices of food the day before. Breakfast is a much different affair in Norway than it is in the UK or US. In the UK, breakfast can consist of hot dishes such as the 'full English' (toast, sausage, black pudding, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes), beans on toast, toad in the hole or the more typical cereal, oatmeal, etc. In Norway, cold dishes are the norm. Cereal and granola were on offer, but this seemed to be more for the benefit of the foreign tourists than actual Norwegians. The typical Norwegian breakfast seems to consist of open faced sandwiches and hard boiled eggs. This meant that there was a huge tray of bread and platters of sliced meat and cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, fish chunks (fish is typically consumed at every meal), tuna salad, sliced beets, pickled eggs, etc. I'll be honest - it was something of a strange concept to consider eating a sandwich for breakfast and I stuck with the cereal. Fish for breakfast? No thanks.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDAFR-cinMwg778tRAOYwbUNuxC_xM8itDDba6X7R6tE84ktsoMwKAua8wDN7vfwCslIz07fwH9L4aoTW6xjJlsaHXWoGU6Lo-s5CfCumywv5_wGPmzuDzROKFjEN3V1qOfWjgoqCBlq4/s1600/Oslo+232.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDAFR-cinMwg778tRAOYwbUNuxC_xM8itDDba6X7R6tE84ktsoMwKAua8wDN7vfwCslIz07fwH9L4aoTW6xjJlsaHXWoGU6Lo-s5CfCumywv5_wGPmzuDzROKFjEN3V1qOfWjgoqCBlq4/s320/Oslo+232.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This hill was one of the smaller ones. The hoto does not do it justice.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Because I am <strike>an exercise freak </strike>in training, I kitted up for a run around the surrounding area, hoping that I didn't end up so lost as to require a search and rescue team to retrieve me. It was so nice to run outside of a major city. Not so pleasant was tackling the massive hills surrounding the hostel. I've been spoiled these past few months in that London is a relatively flat city. Oslo is most definitely not. These hills were so steep that I would have been slightly taxed for breath merely walking up them, let alone running. Although I spent most of my runs wondering if I was going to have a heart attack (I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I muscled up those beastly inclines), it was exhilarating to get such a workout while on vacation. <br />
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Afterward, I took the tram to the city center where I bought a 72-hour Oslo Pass from the tourist center. I highly recommend that anyone visiting Oslo buy the <a href="http://www.visitoslo.com/en/advantages.52087.en.html">Oslo Pass</a>. Available for 24-, 48-, and 72-hour durations, the pass not only provides you free entry to most of the city's museums and tourist attractions (which would otherwise set you back a pretty penny), but free transportation on the train, tram, bus, and metro networks. It also gives discounts to some restaurants and clubs. All for a very decent price. It really was a bargain and I am glad that I got it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Ns5ahanbdKglW5E0EiHTtpFMjQjlsBb2i589fbCRzq0IgmUcyFbRUohyKdtf_PW2go2MM36bKWvg82KDMVvJkF_CXcJb4gFANuW2Q4lx91Gl54sKwSvFKWVyq_BXcRdgpx3ArvQEzBA/s1600/Oslo+048.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Ns5ahanbdKglW5E0EiHTtpFMjQjlsBb2i589fbCRzq0IgmUcyFbRUohyKdtf_PW2go2MM36bKWvg82KDMVvJkF_CXcJb4gFANuW2Q4lx91Gl54sKwSvFKWVyq_BXcRdgpx3ArvQEzBA/s320/Oslo+048.JPG" width="320" /></a>My first destination was to island of Bygdoy, which required taking the ferry from Aker Brygge. Bygdoy is the summer island of the royal family and home to some of the more interesting museums that Oslo has to offer: the Norse Folk Museum, the Viking Ship Museum, the Kon-Tiki Museum, the Fram Polar Ship Museum, and the Norwegian Maritime Museum. Unfortunately, since most of the museums closed at 4pm (some even earlier), I was only able to make it to three. Guess I will have to get to the rest on my next visit! :)<br />
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First stop was the Norse Folk Museum. An open-air museum founded in the 1890s, it is similar to the <a href="http://www.thehenryford.org/village/index.aspx">Greenfield Village created by Henry Ford</a> in Michigan. Essentially, the Norse Folk Museum is a collection of authentic buildings representing Norway's history. These buildings were dismantled at their original locations and rebuilt on Bygdoy. While the majority of the collection consists of farm buildings, which are interesting at first but get quite repetitive to see after a while, it does boast a few gems. The most notable is the Gol Stave Church from the 13th century.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK0RVAELCv-DemJFforOI3LNXlmjDoMLYRRmNXFq9k8oU94_XFKNvWh31PDhXUPfJs_IcLdh7tT60PTXkqFrOKCG_8AJacfv6f53OgEDUxsUiy76qzZNE8GBDyJTW5tAQ6xWdKznfwU-k/s1600/Oslo+087.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK0RVAELCv-DemJFforOI3LNXlmjDoMLYRRmNXFq9k8oU94_XFKNvWh31PDhXUPfJs_IcLdh7tT60PTXkqFrOKCG_8AJacfv6f53OgEDUxsUiy76qzZNE8GBDyJTW5tAQ6xWdKznfwU-k/s320/Oslo+087.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gol Stave Church</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJiCNpGSQuO7jr5WFyfyKOVk4YzaMXkwSIWNTH4FhH6jf7yW22bhUKVP93xow1ccHnKx5drJa4eSllxJpZFmqjIsG147mIxjMK20fkDKRIJa3E2yNeZFQSiMYvZfURhzAfc1vEuboR5UM/s1600/Oslo+090.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJiCNpGSQuO7jr5WFyfyKOVk4YzaMXkwSIWNTH4FhH6jf7yW22bhUKVP93xow1ccHnKx5drJa4eSllxJpZFmqjIsG147mIxjMK20fkDKRIJa3E2yNeZFQSiMYvZfURhzAfc1vEuboR5UM/s320/Oslo+090.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detailing on the door of the church</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After leaving the Folk Museum, I headed up the street past the luxurious mansions that dominate the island and made my way to the Viking Ship Museum. I'll freely admit that this is one of the main reasons why I chose to visit Norway. I love me some viking history. The Viking Ship Museum is home to three viking ships excavated between 1860 and 1905 from burial mounds around Norway. 2 of the ships, the Oseberg and Gokstad, are in excellent states of preservation considering that they are over 1000 years old. The third, the Tune ship, is just as fascinating but has suffered from the ravages of time. Since no description that I could provide would do these marvels adequate justice, I'll let the photos speak for themselves. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJmRMIufqH4h_5u9Fsk8lHpIWZVwExpvsFp2QcP8nCP33b4ucQgMefACA1tTMKw-Ksf_PAEq-l2C4F9GXR4qvE9yRnevALkpbieV0iYeWBFog4pVyRTSUoBIpBGxpi_f_D2Yhwmxc3qU/s1600/Oslo+111.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJmRMIufqH4h_5u9Fsk8lHpIWZVwExpvsFp2QcP8nCP33b4ucQgMefACA1tTMKw-Ksf_PAEq-l2C4F9GXR4qvE9yRnevALkpbieV0iYeWBFog4pVyRTSUoBIpBGxpi_f_D2Yhwmxc3qU/s320/Oslo+111.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Oseberg Ship</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSLPpmvi8PgWGQfvQCL_RK4tFStzwwTKmmkPGkvN1DVlLXavL3BWz9yUI8xkyvsw2tudYcQ0H2mmM_tpoBi4xBJEiAPqfDu11BaYlCSR2M83vYLnQIuhPYWn3ffXhInfM052qZK87pdM/s1600/Oslo+115.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSLPpmvi8PgWGQfvQCL_RK4tFStzwwTKmmkPGkvN1DVlLXavL3BWz9yUI8xkyvsw2tudYcQ0H2mmM_tpoBi4xBJEiAPqfDu11BaYlCSR2M83vYLnQIuhPYWn3ffXhInfM052qZK87pdM/s320/Oslo+115.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Oseberg ship - not looking too bad for 1000+ years</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32_6gBJtWLqrDY_m1cIzxLUxcpV2D3tzK49Oit3K71zrZT8LQz3Wj7D64CNMfMYUNtvFk4gEKyzu__vxcOgy6URciPZhe9Co_x_8tkFUWutUlQuYjIcH7YzdYjrzg18QnMhSuSF2i1jw/s1600/Oslo+121.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32_6gBJtWLqrDY_m1cIzxLUxcpV2D3tzK49Oit3K71zrZT8LQz3Wj7D64CNMfMYUNtvFk4gEKyzu__vxcOgy6URciPZhe9Co_x_8tkFUWutUlQuYjIcH7YzdYjrzg18QnMhSuSF2i1jw/s320/Oslo+121.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intricate detailing on one of the sleds found with the Oseberg ship - burial vessel of a Viking queen</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detailing from the Oserberg ship</td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJmRMIufqH4h_5u9Fsk8lHpIWZVwExpvsFp2QcP8nCP33b4ucQgMefACA1tTMKw-Ksf_PAEq-l2C4F9GXR4qvE9yRnevALkpbieV0iYeWBFog4pVyRTSUoBIpBGxpi_f_D2Yhwmxc3qU/s1600/Oslo+111.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gokstad ship</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAv8V84KllzlRBTR09UwDZa-lgl172N0XLsDzNTH2DdmOorb24V7ozppCHM9NGWc0Kdhn0r7gNZpr5jB0ts0OmZ-OUNEVtTBgX9-zVlxZja5UCeAE7RUwxONqNvN_DH91tYtFP1HwYHKs/s1600/Oslo+131.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAv8V84KllzlRBTR09UwDZa-lgl172N0XLsDzNTH2DdmOorb24V7ozppCHM9NGWc0Kdhn0r7gNZpr5jB0ts0OmZ-OUNEVtTBgX9-zVlxZja5UCeAE7RUwxONqNvN_DH91tYtFP1HwYHKs/s320/Oslo+131.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kon-Tiki</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_OMZS6pmUrAyHcnjTbGHNotS7rTavpglmPtlAlMKBdN2xgP5amYJKU4fPr7ids_7oLqFZDLSQ4nFPHCZuS7tmnbvXeCpa0WgGAtSgRpcV-9a7J0UX_oAD3F4cKDhbm7MmHArUQ0h8oTw/s1600/Oslo+128.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_OMZS6pmUrAyHcnjTbGHNotS7rTavpglmPtlAlMKBdN2xgP5amYJKU4fPr7ids_7oLqFZDLSQ4nFPHCZuS7tmnbvXeCpa0WgGAtSgRpcV-9a7J0UX_oAD3F4cKDhbm7MmHArUQ0h8oTw/s320/Oslo+128.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ra II</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My final stop was to the Kon-Tiki Museum. In the late 40s, Norwegian social scientist and explorer Thor Heyerdahl sailed from South America to Polynesia on a reed raft to prove that such a journey could have been possible by early civilizations. He hoped to show that South Americans may have been the first settlers of the Polynesian islands. The journey took 101 days, but was ultimately successful. The exhibition displayed artifacts from the Kon-Tiki expedition as well as the later Ra II expedition. Fascinating. <br />
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<u><b>Day 3: Akershus Fortress</b></u><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More modern sections of Akershus Fortress</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Thursday started the same as Wednesday: breakfast followed by a run. After showering, I rode the tram to the city center and walked to Akershus Fortress near Aker Brygge. Akershus Fortress was built in the late 13th century as a way to protect Oslo against invaders. It has been successfully in this endeavor - the Fortress has never been captured and only surrendered to the Nazis in 1940 after the Norwegian government fled the capital.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgZ5lQvz_lPKYjShFt3vAy3vRRp3px37f37Uj3ieVjyIHYy8QjoG9aMWVu0b8paO90rblwQUCWjRg1kHMoWgGWeos7nm6vtwwVUlC0_DCJsCKZM2YyW5UlObJbtkdZ1aEazUxy9JjC4w/s1600/Oslo+157.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgZ5lQvz_lPKYjShFt3vAy3vRRp3px37f37Uj3ieVjyIHYy8QjoG9aMWVu0b8paO90rblwQUCWjRg1kHMoWgGWeos7nm6vtwwVUlC0_DCJsCKZM2YyW5UlObJbtkdZ1aEazUxy9JjC4w/s320/Oslo+157.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Memorial to the 45 men executed by the Nazis at Akershus Fortress</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As a fortress, it wasn't all that impressive. The castle building itself was closed to visitors, which was a bit disappointing. However, the Akershus complex is home to two other museums - the Norwegian Resistance Museum and the Armed Forces Museum - both of which proved interesting. The Norwegian Resistance Museum was the more informative of the two, detailing the history of the formidable resistance movement that developed in Norway following its occupation by the Nazis in 1940. Most poignant to me was the story of the Norwegian teachers' union. When ordered by the Nazis to abandon the existing school curriculum and promote one filled with Nazi ideology, the teachers almost unanimously refused to do so. Parents kept their children from attending school and the teachers refused to teach. In the end, most were sent to a work camp in the arctic territories of Siberia, where they remained until authorized by the exiled legitimate Norwegian government to sign an agreement with the Nazis. US and UK history textbooks typically display the Norwegians as an occupied people who were liberated by the Allies during World War II, but this seriously underestimates the role played the civil resistance movement. The Norwegian people, as a whole, did not passively accept resistance and risked their lives on a daily basis in showing their disapproval of the Nazis.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 'My Buddy' car - the latest fuel-efficiency craze sweeping Europe</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In the afternoon, I traveled to the National Gallery with the intention of seeing Edvard Munch's <i>The Scream.</i> Alas, the galleries were closed for a change in exhibition. :( <br />
<b><u>Video of the Day:</u></b> "Downstream" by Shira Kammen (In actuality, only the 1st tune is 'Downstream'. The 2nd tune is 'Oso Do Ar' and the 3rd is 'Borrela d'Aragon') <br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/E9J5zz3XruU" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-29985624451457296872011-04-20T21:17:00.001+01:002011-04-20T21:32:24.033+01:00My (Expensive) Norwegian Adventure The past few days have been...interesting. The weather has been wonderful here in London and spring (perhaps even summer) is truly in the air. As a result, I have been hit with a huge wave of homesickness. I am burnt out from school. I am tired of reading articles, writing papers, and studying. All of this hard work is paying off and I am well on course for merit, but I need a break. I really do. I spent most of this morning before my run taking photos off the wall and packing. Yes, I am aware that I have 27 days to go but I don't mind living out of a suitcase. It helps deal with the homesickness. It also alleviates the inevitable problem that I would have otherwise faced: how to find time to pack when studying for exams and chair-bound after the marathon. <br />
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Anyway, enough of that nonsense. Time for the Oslo recap!<br />
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Because I am a poor grad student, I flew one of Europe's leading budget airlines, RyanAir, to Oslo. This meant leaving my flat at 4AM on the 12th in order to catch a bus to take me to Liverpool Street where I caught another bus to Stansted Airport, roughly 1 hour outside of London. I had hoped to get a bit of sleep on this second bus ride, but was <i>lucky</i> enough to have a woman with a screaming baby sit next to me. It is never a good sign when the baby is screaming when it gets on to the bus. As if this were not enough, the baby apparently suffered a gastrointestinal meltdown ten minutes into the trip. Needless to say, sleep (and comfort) were not to be found and it was a relief when we arrived at Stansted.<br />
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Flying on RyanAir is always something of an experience, and this trip did not disappoint. Since it is a budget airline, most of its flights depart at odd times of the day. My flight was the exception, departing at the reasonable time of 8AM. Still, I waited in line at the baggage drop to get my passport checked (non-EU citizens have to go through an identity check) for an hour and a half after arrival since there were no less than 15 RyanAir flights departing within 45 minutes of mine. The highlight of the wait had to be watching a woman with seven (!) children in tow attempting to argue with the check-in desk over her need to have priority seating. I don't believe such decibels have been achieved by the human vocal cords before. (Seating on RyanAir is something of a free-for-all. If you pay extra, you get 'priority' seating, which essentially means that you board the plane first. But for everyone else, you simply have to hope that you join the queue early enough so as to get your pick of seats once on the plane.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivkMPHhLLO3Z-oRmpzxn_dOMuo-mhZtRyD5ERQq26wH0fBuEqVaWSIEZIW7BNRal_dEUI0AZImP5GayqOyDW0wL5s22KoydcYS-GIi-ClM9kxrq7b7k-oHsEVDxU07O_8Wv3ecDmB0okw/s1600/Oslo+204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivkMPHhLLO3Z-oRmpzxn_dOMuo-mhZtRyD5ERQq26wH0fBuEqVaWSIEZIW7BNRal_dEUI0AZImP5GayqOyDW0wL5s22KoydcYS-GIi-ClM9kxrq7b7k-oHsEVDxU07O_8Wv3ecDmB0okw/s320/Oslo+204.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, that is snow that you see in the background. In April.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The flight itself was uneventful and we landed at Oslo Rygge airport around 11:30. After easily passing through customs, I boarded the Rygge Ekspressen for the hours ride to Oslo proper. During the coach ride, I was shocked to see snow on the ground in some areas. Snow. In April. Granted, it was not everywhere and concentrated mostly in large mounds, but its overall disbursement was not so important as its mere existence. I couldn't help but think: 'if there is this much snow remaining in April, how much snow did they originally receive?' (Edit: Yes, I am aware that some of the areas of the US currently have snow, but you must understand that I live in London. I haven't seen snowfall in any significant amount since the blizzards of January/February 2010.)<br />
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The view from the coach windows showed that it was raining quite steadily outside, but it wasn't until that I actually emerged from the Oslo bus terminal into the city center. The wind and rain were ferocious and there were very few people to be seen braving the outdoors. My umbrella, which had survived the winds off the Thames for the better part of a year, proved a weak force against the Norwegian winds and surrendered after 5 minutes. It literally snapped in half, leaving me holding the end and watching helplessly as the actual covering blew off down the street. What strange and brutal land had I come to?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Norwegian pastries</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My first stop was to a nearby cafe to grab lunch, thus providing me the first opportunity to interact with an actual Norwegian person and use Norwegian krones. Unfortunately, between traveling and studying during the weeks preceding my trip, I had been unable to find time to learn more than a few scant phrases in Norwegian. As I pitifully attempted to order a shrimp sandwich (the only non-meat item on the menu) and a Diet Coke, the server interrupted me in English to ask for my order. Well, I tried. Lesson 1 from Oslo: Most Norwegians speak English better than I can. Lesson 2? Oslo is EXPENSIVE! $1 is equal to 5 Krones. My basic meal of a shrimp sandwich (8 inch baguette with shrimp, some mayo, a cucumber, and a tomato) plus a Diet Coke cost 109 Krones. And this was a standard cafe, nothing fancy. Later meals (very similar in nature to this one) at food places equivalent to 7-11 (which are everywhere in Norway) or Sheetz were about the same in price. If I had actually gone to a cheap restaurant, the meal would have probably cost around 200 krones. I never thought that I would see the day when I would travel to a place more expensive than Dublin, but here it was. (Needless to say, my next trips to Oslo and Dublin will be contingent upon my winning the lottery/marrying a billionaire.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Karl Johan's Gate - The main thoroughfare</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Lesson 3 of Oslo? It is very hard to ascertain what is in food if you can't understand Norwegian. I would spend about ten minutes staring at the food displays trying to determine whether or not I saw meat in the sandwich that I was planning on ordering. Since almost all sandwiches in Norwegian cuisine contain meat, it was a hard time to be a vegetarian. That said, they did have some very tasty looking pastries. Waffles were huge there. No, I did not have one. Why? Because a) I am on a strict pre-marathon nutrition plan and b) (the more important factor here) I did not want to financially bankrupt myself by buying one. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oslo Domkirke - taken on a better day</td></tr>
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After eating, I braved the weather to travel up the main thoroughfare, Karl Johan's Gate, to the Oslo Cathedral (Domkirke) to seek shelter and pray for some divine intervention in alleviating the financial poverty that I was about to plunge into by staying in Oslo for five days. (I did not want to eat nothing but apples for two days as I did in Dublin, so I was destined to spend some money.) According to the <a href="http://www.oslodomkirke.no/artikler/1163/the-cathedrals-history/">Cathedral's official website</a>, the church was completed in 1697. It was rebuilt in the late 1850s and renovated in 2010. In 2001, it was the site of the royal wedding between Crown Prince Haakon and Mette-Marit Tjessem Hoiby. As far as cathedrals go (of which I have seen many), it's exterior was not all that impressive, but still boasted an ornate interior. And it provided an opportunity to get out of the rain for a brief spell. Unfortunately, there was little to no information about the cathedral's history provided in the church itself, so my stay was brief. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFW6kteBWaLJeJAzFSYDPRqx3JN4q_0iL4lDVqHzoHYtkmg8gkJ-uPnU9VCRnCglJNgMP9WbVgT1r5WUAAltNy88TrqgsyvBTIqmmHFHhjIfhi8i_3_jQMAG8Gs7948rwNuLRfJvSGlw/s1600/Oslo+025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFW6kteBWaLJeJAzFSYDPRqx3JN4q_0iL4lDVqHzoHYtkmg8gkJ-uPnU9VCRnCglJNgMP9WbVgT1r5WUAAltNy88TrqgsyvBTIqmmHFHhjIfhi8i_3_jQMAG8Gs7948rwNuLRfJvSGlw/s320/Oslo+025.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Genuine Viking helmet!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Next on my list of places to visit was the University of Oslo's Museum of History and Culture. In addition to an interesting exhibit about Norway's prehistoric and Viking past, it displayed information about the cultures of the Arctic. In Norway, the Sami people are the most well-known. They reside in the northernmost territories of the Nordic states and survive off fishing, sheep and reindeer-herding, and fur trapping. The museum also had an extensive exhibit on the history of the Native Americans, which was interesting simply because it provided a non-American viewpoint that I had never been exposed to before.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4hu3l-9g4HDmS6T8VnoipbS9ic4nc3INbt70vnzhcXaOMHA00ouUKak6RLeD3A0U_viLMgy5AVUq3qQ4hvkFOGXbn-g-qvYgmQMamCjWhPtdHxbpFRkAtKxoQ1FeV2GQrZbkbV1ecncI/s1600/Oslo+039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4hu3l-9g4HDmS6T8VnoipbS9ic4nc3INbt70vnzhcXaOMHA00ouUKak6RLeD3A0U_viLMgy5AVUq3qQ4hvkFOGXbn-g-qvYgmQMamCjWhPtdHxbpFRkAtKxoQ1FeV2GQrZbkbV1ecncI/s320/Oslo+039.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 1 in sum: wet and windy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After leaving the museum, I found my way to the tourist center in Aker Brygge near the harbor and then to the nearest 7-11 to buy a tram ticket so that I could check-in to my hostel. A single tram ticket was 27 krones (roughly equivalent to $5.50). *Sigh* I walked to the Oslo Central Station (railway station) in the center of the city and caught Tram 17 toward Grefsen Station. For a major city, Oslo has surprisingly few hostels and since there was no way that I could have possibly afforded to stay at even the cheapest of hotels, I made the decision to stay outside of the city center at the Youth Hostel Haraldsheim. Located about 4km outside of the city, it took about 20 minutes to reach by tram. The hostel itself was situated upon a huge hill, and so, after trekking through the rain and wind, I arrived at the reception looking similar to a drowned rat. I must have appeared a pretty miserable sight as the employee on duty immediately handed me a towel and asked if I was ok. After checking in and assuring him that I was, I all but collapsed in my room. I ended up staying in a four-person room. It was one of the larger hostel rooms that I have stayed in and very, very clean. Entry to individual rooms was by key-card, with a shower room (with individual stalls!) and a bathroom down the hall. Overall, I was quite pleased.<br />
<br />
After recovering, I ventured out again to make my first visit to a Norwegian supermarket, REMA 1000, to buy the ingredients for dinner. After spending half an hour trying to navigate around the market and decipher ingredient lists, I finally settled on buying a bowl of frozen fiskesuppe (a traditional Norwegian fish and vegetable soup in a milk-based broth) that was not half bad and a bag of spelt rolls. I finished off the night by sitting in the television room with a group of 40-year old men (who lived in the hostel on an almost permanent basis) reading one of my IR textbooks (because I'm a good student), and getting distracted by watching the Norwegian version of X-Factor. Overall, a good (albeit wet and windy) first day. <br />
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<b>Coming Soon (but no idea as to exactly when): </b>Day 2: My trip to Bygdoy, the summer island of the Royals -- and Day 3: Lessons in Resistance at Akershus Fortress. <br />
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As a side note, for those readers caught up in the Royal Wedding fever: this is exactly how events are going to transpire:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Kav0FEhtLug" title="YouTube video player" width="640"></iframe>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-14861829996917259702011-04-18T17:00:00.001+01:002011-04-18T17:08:10.883+01:00Taking Back Dun-Èideann...Part DosSorry about the delay in posting part two. Less than 24 hours after running a 1:35:10 half marathon (!!!!!) and returning home to London, I was on the move again, but this time farther afield to Oslo, Norway. I arrived home at 2am yesterday and was up at 9am to spectate at the London Marathon (I am terrified about my own marathon in just 3 weeks!). After uploading some 240 pictures from Oslo to Facebook this morning, I went out and ran my final 20-miler. I am proud to say that I ran straight through to mile 15 before needing to stop - and then only because I needed to try out one of my 'natural' energy bars for fuel. While an excellent multi-tasker in other non-essential things, I lack the ability to chew and run. Or drink and run for that matter. (This is a bit of a problem since I have a tendency to forgo water stops simply because I don't want to slow down to drink. Clearly self-preservation is not high on my list.) This meant that the last 5 miles were very painful. At 19.25, I had to walk and give myself a pep talk to get through the last mile. (Said pep talk being less peppy and more along the lines, 'You can do this. Friggin' move your butt' although considerably less PG.) Total time spent running: 2 hours, 43 minutes. I have no idea how I am going to bust out an 6.2 additional miles on May 8th, but I plan on learning some Shakespearean curses in the next 20 days (!) to add to my 'pep talks'. (I'm running in the Shakespeare Marathon in Stratford-upon-Avon and need to keep with the trend.)<br />
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Since I now have no inclination to leave the sitting position for the rest of today, you can expect a post about Oslo this evening. <br />
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In the meantime...my Edinburgh Half Marathon race report.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Sunday, April 10th - race day - dawned bright and early for me. My alarm went off at 5:30, startling me so much that I practically fell out of the top bunk at the hostel. (Fact: I used to have a bunk bed when I was younger but fell off the top bunk so often that I was banned from using it. Maybe this is how my insomnia started? Fear of death by impact incurred mid-REM cycle?) All runners have their race day traditions and mine is to become hyper-organized. My race clothing was already laid out, my bags packed, the pins in my race number. And so I was dressed and in the hostels 'chill-out room' (TV room) by 5:45.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had my standard pre-race fare of pita bread with banana and peanut butter before heading out into the brisk Scottish morning at 6:30. This would have been perfect had the race started at, say, 7:45. But it wasn't slated to start until 9 and so I ended up arriving at Meadowbank Stadium (host of the 1970 and 1986 Commonwealth Games) 2 hours early. The first hour of waiting was a bit cold (since I had to put my bags on the baggage truck for transport to Musselburgh), but at least I avoided a repeat of the Patrick Henry Half Marathon. (At my first half marathon, the PAtrick Henry in Ashland, VA in August 2010, I literally had to make a running start to the race. Despite leaving very early from our hotel (5 miles from the start), my mother and I got caught up in the traffic to enter the park and, by the time we had parked, I had ten minutes to travel the half mile to the race start and hit the porta-loos. It was stressful.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Being early provided the additional benefit of giving me ample time to warm up. I jogged a few laps around the track, did some striders, and generally made a fool of myself by grooving along with the music that was playing. As members of my family can attest, 'America's Next Dance Star' I am most definitely not. Yeah, I was ridiculous. People stared. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At 8:50, the call came for all runners to assemble in their holding pens on the inner field of the track. I joined the 1:30-1:45 pen since my goal was to achieve 1:35. (Ok, to be honest, I was really shooting for 1:33. Miracles can happen, right?). This was my first time in a race with pens organized by time and I found that the arrangement worked nicely. BEginning with the elite athletes and the sub-1:30 pen, each group of runners was individually walked to the start line so that by 9:05, 3/4ths of the track was filled with runners. Presumably the starting gun went off at some point, but I never heard it. Instead, the people in front of me started jogging towards the starting mats, slowed to a walk ('Oh look, we're running. Right, just kidding!'), and then started running. The race was on. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Overall, I had a great race. The course took us out of Meadowbank through the neighborhoods of Restalrig in Leith, along the Victorian seaside esplanade in Portobello, and into Musselburgh. At mile 7 we passed the Musselburgh Racecourse where the race would finish. It was more than a little frustrating to pass the finish knowing that you were only at the halfway mark. Equally frustrating was the fact that the rest of the course was and out and back. As I hit mile 8.5, I began to see the leaders passing me on the left side of the road. I knew that the turnaround point was somewhere up ahead, but it seemed like it was never going to arrive. At long last, it did come and I prepared for the remaining 3.1 miles. Up until this point, I had felt great. Aside from a minor incident with the ankle timing chip that made me stop at mile 1, I had never felt stronger. But 10 miles of pounding the uneven and stony asphalt in Musselburgh and Prestonpans had taken their toll. I spent the last 3 miles just waiting for the race to be over and hoping that I would hit 1:35. The race finish was wonderful. The course veered onto the homestretch of the Musselburgh Race Track and past the grandstand filled with spectators. Afterward, I accepted my medal and all but collapsed in the grass beside the track. I had sprinted the last 1/2 mile and was exhausted. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After the race was over there was a bit of controversy over the race length. My Garmin had registered the course length as 13.44, but I had thought perhaps that I had started it too early.However, it seems that others had noticed that the course was longer than it should have been and registered an inquiry to the race organizers. They re-measured the course and, lo and behold, it was too long. It turns out that the person in charge of positioning the cone for the turnaround had placed it further than it should have been. This meant that our times were re-adjusted and so I hit the 1:35:10 mark. I was 16th in my age division (females ages 17-39), 284th according to my gun time, and 22nd in my gender. Not bad for a race with 3019 finishers! This was a new PR by 14 minutes. I would like to say that I am proud of my time, but in reality, I could not have done it without the support that I received from my friends, family, and fellow runners. Thank you. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And now the countdown is on until the marathon. 20 days. I'm scared sh*tless. Seriously. I saw what happened to people hitting the wall at miles 22 and 23 in the London Marathon. What if this happens to me in Stratford? After all, it's not like I have my family there to come looking for me if I fail to turn up at the finish. I'm plagued with doubts about this race...but I will ultimately end up running it. I have a feeling that I am more suited for the half-marathon distance than the full 26.2, so this will most likely end up being the only marathon that I end up running. (My family is no doubt breathing a sigh of relief at this.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That said, I plan to keep on racing. On the 29th of May I am going to take another shot at the Patapsco Trail Run in Catonsville, MD. I ran it last year with my ex-boyfriend and it seriously kicked my ass. A '6 to 7-ish' mile run with few flat bits, it cuts across railroad tracks ('There was a train derailment earlier this year so watch out for debris') and a waist-deep river ('British troops got swept away here in the 1770s'). And on June 19th, Alex and I are 'running' the Rebel Run, a 5k race with military-style obstacles and mud...lots and lots of mud. Since Alex is off to the Air Force soon and I hope to join the Navy, we are going to use it as boot camp prep. I fully expect to ruin a set of clothes and possibly by dignity, but at least I get a free beer at the end. (Note: This would be so much better if it were whisky, but we can't get everything we want in life.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Coming soon: Oslo!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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Added note: Today, Kenyan Geoffrey Muttai won the Boston Marathon in 2:03:01. This is the fastest marathon ever run. All I can say is: Oh. My. God. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-78259310393926865732011-04-11T20:44:00.001+01:002011-04-11T20:50:25.151+01:00Taking Back Dun-Èideann...Part IIt is strange how<br />
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When I moved to Edinburgh (for the second time) in May 2010, I had just graduated from college and was incredibly reluctant to leave my boyfriend, friends, and family back in the US. A 40+ hour work week and the realization that the situation was only temporary prevented me from going out and actively meeting people. (The fact that I am not exactly the world's most outgoing person added to this as well.) Even a visit from a friend (Chris!) and my boyfriend halfway through the summer failed to ease the homesickness that I felt. On top of this was the fact that shortly before I left Edinburgh in June 2009, I was the victim of an event that not only changed my life, but cast a shadow upon my entire time in Scotland. It was this event that made it so incredibly difficult to return to Scotland in 2010...but I did it because I hoped to put the past behind me. Although I did make significant advances in coming to terms with what happened and learned to appreciate Scotland again, mostly thanks to the kindness and wonderful times shown to me by my (now ex-)boyfriend and his family, I was not entirely successful in my endeavor. Whereas I had loved Edinburgh prior to 2009 (it was my favorite city, hands down), even after the good times of 2010, I still remained hesitant about returning. <br />
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It is amazing the difference that a mere 8 months can make in one's life. In that time, I've spent 7 months abroad, lost a friend in a car accident (and almost lost several others in other incidents), been hit by a car, had my heart broken, written countless essays, and, as a result, matured in ways that I am only just becoming aware of. Living abroad changes you...for better or worse. It toughens you. And so when I returned to Edinburgh this past weekend, things were immediately different. Somehow, in the past 8 months, I developed the necessary toughness needed to finally conquer Edinburgh...and put the horrific events of the past behind me. I am pleased to note that almost 2 years after the attack...I am finally at peace. <br />
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<b>Thursday</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjwKRPmyOHHw3ANXv2xB68r48AL4XKkj_sZ1bkiE5XcnwTvwrIoHmURbAOXvBzU-QIBGHsTbolwMMzFypLLPOHI3abkob1QF-2P1f8C09pXBCTSNvIbUsuSzxSnGxITorW2q2TiXzED4/s1600/Edinburgh+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjwKRPmyOHHw3ANXv2xB68r48AL4XKkj_sZ1bkiE5XcnwTvwrIoHmURbAOXvBzU-QIBGHsTbolwMMzFypLLPOHI3abkob1QF-2P1f8C09pXBCTSNvIbUsuSzxSnGxITorW2q2TiXzED4/s320/Edinburgh+001.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wonderful Henderson's!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I arrived in Edinburgh around noon on Thursday. After checking-in to my hostel (St. Christopher's on Market Street - I highly recommend it!), I headed to Hanover Street in the New Town to hit up my favorite restaurant, Henderson's. It's a vegetarian restaurant that also operates a bistro and deli on Hanover Street, plus a cafe underneath St. John's at the end of Princes Street/beginning of Princess Street. I have never had a less-than-wonderful meal there. Afterward, I wandered around Princes Street, noting which shops had gone out since the last time I was there. Most notable was the absence of the tram mock-up that had dominated the western parts of Princes Street for most of 2010. It was a full-size model of the tram system that they planned to install in the New Town - a plan for which the city had run out of money. And so the tram had sat on Princes Street, obstructing the flow of traffic (never good at the best of times), and generally proving an eye-sore. I was pleased to note that it is gone! Amazing!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5kGDwbyA8V_l7fJUPIjsQ_hq4by4JxELSN3MizjPcZL4TlExiS8Ya8woRIEojpNuROk9AEwRQnqPUrqaqTxvEcFG7jx_GOKnurY714g7XTr3BQjlHcnPk7g7zlIkGk7oqGFuM-ymn8fk/s1600/Edinburgh+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5kGDwbyA8V_l7fJUPIjsQ_hq4by4JxELSN3MizjPcZL4TlExiS8Ya8woRIEojpNuROk9AEwRQnqPUrqaqTxvEcFG7jx_GOKnurY714g7XTr3BQjlHcnPk7g7zlIkGk7oqGFuM-ymn8fk/s320/Edinburgh+005.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhywGEtK6KSV-FH5h3IWNZ_qS5YPAyAV7JODTEbHl2R52sYza4IVser2-Q4IEdDLZ39xI2Cnr7-dAgTfeCBFJ3i3Sqn9s8NpMWI9QC9LqA34OzoqGDkh_uWJFKUh94gX1b6GhdriWDAzM8/s1600/Edinburgh+030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhywGEtK6KSV-FH5h3IWNZ_qS5YPAyAV7JODTEbHl2R52sYza4IVser2-Q4IEdDLZ39xI2Cnr7-dAgTfeCBFJ3i3Sqn9s8NpMWI9QC9LqA34OzoqGDkh_uWJFKUh94gX1b6GhdriWDAzM8/s320/Edinburgh+030.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Greyfriars' Kirkyard</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyrqlJqHy_Bbiaf5HdMDlXWkiqbdr2G1YatZCXJyDaHemlotr55Tq7ofsu6ju7d1G0DLG1i1gpduybUde25DnU59ghXSk1amozq1n7Xu-eRRyuLcBy8VDLWWlTKoA2ikkIp7qDsZFPO8/s1600/Edinburgh+040.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyrqlJqHy_Bbiaf5HdMDlXWkiqbdr2G1YatZCXJyDaHemlotr55Tq7ofsu6ju7d1G0DLG1i1gpduybUde25DnU59ghXSk1amozq1n7Xu-eRRyuLcBy8VDLWWlTKoA2ikkIp7qDsZFPO8/s320/Edinburgh+040.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View up the Royal Mile</td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyrqlJqHy_Bbiaf5HdMDlXWkiqbdr2G1YatZCXJyDaHemlotr55Tq7ofsu6ju7d1G0DLG1i1gpduybUde25DnU59ghXSk1amozq1n7Xu-eRRyuLcBy8VDLWWlTKoA2ikkIp7qDsZFPO8/s1600/Edinburgh+040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuXxAoVpkX7zW6P4NPtNVjpq7Rfn9mJiP1YBikRmLA8msJC5U3C-b6d2gcfEHdSy6w-mrFdP5jrxS1CX6pNMyGkzQlOl_x2rV44zCF8xTQE2PyeKo9ZhBfYANyoY8oRFXmFXc4MBBgg9U/s1600/Edinburgh+033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuXxAoVpkX7zW6P4NPtNVjpq7Rfn9mJiP1YBikRmLA8msJC5U3C-b6d2gcfEHdSy6w-mrFdP5jrxS1CX6pNMyGkzQlOl_x2rV44zCF8xTQE2PyeKo9ZhBfYANyoY8oRFXmFXc4MBBgg9U/s320/Edinburgh+033.JPG" width="320" /></a>After a quick change at the hostel, it was off for a run. I did an easy 5 miles up along Market and Jeffrey Streets, up the hill of the Pleasance, down Newington, past where I lived last summer, and into the Meadows. It was beautiful and so wonderful to be back on my 'home' ground. The weather was absolutely perfect - a rarity for Scotland! Later, I headed back out onto the Royal Mile to visit Edinburgh Castle and then down to Greyfriars' Kirkyard (the oldest cemetery in Edinburgh). Greyfriars Bobby and many other famous Edinburghians are buried there. Somehow, I managed to find my way from the graveyard into a nearby pub that I visited last June with Chris and which is known for playing live traditional music each night. Sure thing, there was a group there that night. One thing led to another and I found myself holding a fiddle and being an active participant in the jam session. Now, I've played the violin/fiddle since I was 8, but have not actively practiced since December when I was last home. I'll freely admit that things started off a bit shaky and I was quite convinced that I was going to die of embarrassment whenever I hit a wrong note. Luckily, the other guys (playing the bodhran, guitar, fiddle, and bagpipe) were encouraging and compensated for my shakiness, giving me confidence and allowing my fingers to re-familiarize themselves with the fingerboard. After five minutes, I was back to my old strength. The night culminated in my playing a duet rendition (with the other fiddler) of 'Grant's Rant', 'Nighean Donn' and 'The Butterfly' before accompanying the group in playing 'Amazing Grace', which resulted in the majority of the pub singing and my struggling not to cry. It was truly a surreal experience, although not one that I care to repeat anytime soon since most of the time I was terrified that I was going to screw up. (No, this does not mean that I will be giving concerts at home anytime soon.)<br />
<br />
<b>Friday</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIqrOP8WlVZcPl4yPQUSBVXin3JG8q6Og0jFqoWamvJGNo-xeqj9jn5VIJbXB2tGkt9DGoaf5LQHrpWcAwjRtICo_C00ftts8O1eQMPU17yIK7WQpya834F4Ll0Z3O6t8JxCb_16mbNQ/s1600/Edinburgh+047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIqrOP8WlVZcPl4yPQUSBVXin3JG8q6Og0jFqoWamvJGNo-xeqj9jn5VIJbXB2tGkt9DGoaf5LQHrpWcAwjRtICo_C00ftts8O1eQMPU17yIK7WQpya834F4Ll0Z3O6t8JxCb_16mbNQ/s320/Edinburgh+047.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Holyrood Park towards Calton Hill & Leith</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJL24W5z6m_Sav1qoe21rAb1IVIhUF8_5_3FZE6Nxcr7mDVA1aFsfS98eXsIPM9skHh9-sHC3BqNudfVH7EUx70C3QYf-P-gAOajr4mSAyJ5py5naj9nD8JRI53CPx2XJaJYTq6ZCToXE/s1600/Edinburgh+050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJL24W5z6m_Sav1qoe21rAb1IVIhUF8_5_3FZE6Nxcr7mDVA1aFsfS98eXsIPM9skHh9-sHC3BqNudfVH7EUx70C3QYf-P-gAOajr4mSAyJ5py5naj9nD8JRI53CPx2XJaJYTq6ZCToXE/s320/Edinburgh+050.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IUQDEZL17DR1ta5-kB-sfosw9_I7y_9zNTDSH3MxKxxBmbp7B797fXVASq8ejSF_dTgxpsXzbnglFwRzE7iLf7yuZa-hdKJa3AM5keTYOUCZx-RMPTe_KkXBOLW72FiUIBInbpOSAss/s1600/Edinburgh+062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IUQDEZL17DR1ta5-kB-sfosw9_I7y_9zNTDSH3MxKxxBmbp7B797fXVASq8ejSF_dTgxpsXzbnglFwRzE7iLf7yuZa-hdKJa3AM5keTYOUCZx-RMPTe_KkXBOLW72FiUIBInbpOSAss/s320/Edinburgh+062.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The top of Arthur's Seat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Friday was supposed to be my 'rest' day before the half marathon...although it turned out to be anything but. I began the day by heading off to Holyrood Park to climb to Arthur's Seat. The weather was perfect and I got so carried away in my trek that I decided to run up to the top of the peak for old time's sake. (I used to make this climb once or twice a week in 2009 and 2010). It went well - although I attracted more than one comment from passersby since I was in trekking shoes, black tights, and a dress. Oh well. Karen and I trekked through the hills of Buckinghamshire in rain and mud while wearing dresses in our attempts to get to the Hellfire Caves. (We were unsuccessful and passing hill-walkers repeatedly kept commenting, 'Dressed like that?' whenever we inquired as to its location.) Then it was off to Leith to time the walk to the Meadowbank Athletics Stadium where the half marathon would start on Sunday. I've never actually been to Leith (the port town) and so this was a new experience. Indeed, the entire half marathon course (from Leith through Musselburgh, turning round at Prestonpans and finishing at the Musselburgh Race Course) was along areas that I had never been before. Finally, it was back to the Old Town to hit up the City of Edinburgh museum (last visited in 2005), the People's Story museum at the Canongate Tollbooth (prison), and sit in the Princes Street Gardens. <br />
<br />
<b>Saturday</b> <b>(*If you are not interested in reading worthless soul-searching statements, skip ahead*)</b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkkfCr04nRzlZ8yiSSSv1oICojlBn3kbC_NgZ5Q7uvONeJyZJdEvYNI9YoibACVHDWGnhXGaptF1hR2xvvgsg7lySj0Mlxg7WMGwoWjR73uTHq759M6wpZwC4SBElR8trrsoPfbcM3pg/s1600/Edinburgh+098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkkfCr04nRzlZ8yiSSSv1oICojlBn3kbC_NgZ5Q7uvONeJyZJdEvYNI9YoibACVHDWGnhXGaptF1hR2xvvgsg7lySj0Mlxg7WMGwoWjR73uTHq759M6wpZwC4SBElR8trrsoPfbcM3pg/s320/Edinburgh+098.JPG" width="320" /></a>Saturday was all about overcoming the past, and so I started off the morning with a visit to the club where that terrible night began. In summer 2010, I generally avoided the entire area (a bit of a bother since it is located on a convenient road in the city center) and even when forced down to the Cowgate never ventured up the side street where it is located. Even thinking about it used to bring back the few memories that I possess of what happened that night, thus provoking all of the associated memories and fears. By visiting the club, I confronted these fears directly. The strange thing was that none of them re-surfaced when I saw it. I had braced myself for the worst - and I felt nothing save for a bit of anger and sadness at how things had ultimately turned out. Heartened by this, I continued across the city following the events of that night (so much as I have pieced together). It took the better part of the day, but was well worth it in the end. Each place visited was a fear conquered, a part of my life regained. And when I emerged back into the Old Town on Saturday afternoon, I was finally able to move on and allow myself to fall in love with Edinburgh again. <br />
<br />
<b>*Resume reading*</b><br />
<b> </b>I was exhausted by all of that soul-searching, inner-battle fighting, and running up and down Arthur's Seat, so I figured that the wise thing to do to prepare for the half marathon would be rest. Instead of heading to the pub for a dram (or two) of whisky like I so desired, I headed to the Omni Centre to take in a movie. Not having had access to a TV for the past 4 months means that I have absolutely no idea what is playing at the cinema. ("What do you mean that <i>Black Swan</i> is not still in theaters?") So I blindly chose to see <i>Tomorrow, When the War Began.</i> It's an Australian film about a group of teenagers who, while on a camping trip in the Outback, miss the start of World War 3. When they return to the homes, it is to find that a foreign army has invaded Australia and have rounded up the locals into concentration camps. The teens thus become refugees, alternating between trying to save their asses and launch guerilla-style warfare against the enemy. It was an interesting premise but never fully developed. The movie ends promptly when things begin to get interesting and has no resolution, leaving the viewer (or me at least) distinctly unsatisfied. Still, it killed a few hours on Saturday evening and prevented me from walking around unnecessarily or going back to the hostel at 4pm. <br />
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<b>Sunday...The Edinburgh Half Marathon...coming soon!</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-79519998744002333422011-04-07T05:08:00.000+01:002011-04-07T05:08:58.562+01:00I'll Be Waiting on the Other Side<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Photos from Portsmouth but no post as: a) it is 5:07AM and I have been up since 4:30AM; b) I have to leave at 5:30AM (and am not dressed); and c) I am headed to EDINBURGH today!!!! </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1W-lVJrrq9x92at9jUgh4JMbHi_0wRrZ9fMLyuCfhtrBuvjKzqgSc-IcK3Z_y4fmqxJQqE1E5hQdLwjSCnsRNO5KglbyP9oM5UvFWITXn-OBOu79ptf2c6HAxOGx23u_InbTJVUSDFzE/s1600/IMG_1604.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1W-lVJrrq9x92at9jUgh4JMbHi_0wRrZ9fMLyuCfhtrBuvjKzqgSc-IcK3Z_y4fmqxJQqE1E5hQdLwjSCnsRNO5KglbyP9oM5UvFWITXn-OBOu79ptf2c6HAxOGx23u_InbTJVUSDFzE/s320/IMG_1604.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HMS Warrior - iron-clad from 1860</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDMhP6abmiHmXO4LltYT8whC9vI1b19Q77fFSilEslYq2MBn7YrPPY-sVlRl5SWDLbmp916v5Vv8s9P4v8gKEax62Z0WaqwwDM9vu_BnHl9CPileEC6qlvTjcknpwc49OIzF6T9Hb280/s1600/IMG_1605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDMhP6abmiHmXO4LltYT8whC9vI1b19Q77fFSilEslYq2MBn7YrPPY-sVlRl5SWDLbmp916v5Vv8s9P4v8gKEax62Z0WaqwwDM9vu_BnHl9CPileEC6qlvTjcknpwc49OIzF6T9Hb280/s320/IMG_1605.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Henry VIII in the Mary Rose Exhibition</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cannon recovered from the wreck of the Mary Rose</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGk7Z5JdPTAt3VfTgFZaLotklMAzRMpFvrwmV9_yXkohyManK9ce3jycBgC9Hb3lt0BTM1TUjLGxOJRPr2tWm4-2Uk6NsxovkGFD_xeB_LzvmBF8A3RJDJQIOhWlzYWlZq3taGpoi74ik/s1600/IMG_1613.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGk7Z5JdPTAt3VfTgFZaLotklMAzRMpFvrwmV9_yXkohyManK9ce3jycBgC9Hb3lt0BTM1TUjLGxOJRPr2tWm4-2Uk6NsxovkGFD_xeB_LzvmBF8A3RJDJQIOhWlzYWlZq3taGpoi74ik/s320/IMG_1613.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Costume of Jane Seymour from the series, The Tudors. There is a 17-inch waist on that dress?!!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRortT_jn9LC_bktkzvfjfdyTvIXcF-OCGcP_cpomJvwvLzXRPaZd4KuLAyGekiHKAi_PNbZ1ps6LZh5-m2JleEwspr7MNEurCuiWNQj8l3wTo5VEYzQozbXXjJMtRpNwDC6kgCrMxZco/s1600/IMG_1621.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRortT_jn9LC_bktkzvfjfdyTvIXcF-OCGcP_cpomJvwvLzXRPaZd4KuLAyGekiHKAi_PNbZ1ps6LZh5-m2JleEwspr7MNEurCuiWNQj8l3wTo5VEYzQozbXXjJMtRpNwDC6kgCrMxZco/s320/IMG_1621.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vice-Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson: accurate representation down to height (5'5) and facial reconstruction.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgjOLXqRFllwU7V8-5qVccfy1sIVW-WZ9OoW2FPqNf0cdjLiViQz2KT9FtOsYvLt7MwxoUzAhh4kp68NBgRZgWYVkvAD_ML0jVQu1MBIIkD-3o4TuOP6p6ZQrIGwiQYWlqllO767Rh34/s1600/IMG_1627.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgjOLXqRFllwU7V8-5qVccfy1sIVW-WZ9OoW2FPqNf0cdjLiViQz2KT9FtOsYvLt7MwxoUzAhh4kp68NBgRZgWYVkvAD_ML0jVQu1MBIIkD-3o4TuOP6p6ZQrIGwiQYWlqllO767Rh34/s320/IMG_1627.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Figurehead from the HMS Bellerophon, which kicked French ass for over 40 years</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2g84l0fsIcripGqkfv54U7Fb91Z3dvkjSRa5w3OYF0Fu5MbVSvt83RBxsduiaMyOoqN6FF-c4D_ieCpkZfHe93C6T-u8gm-WBYKiXvnDuxP_xOfJFZuLp7922FtxhGE0x0UGUywn0Xo/s1600/IMG_1631.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2g84l0fsIcripGqkfv54U7Fb91Z3dvkjSRa5w3OYF0Fu5MbVSvt83RBxsduiaMyOoqN6FF-c4D_ieCpkZfHe93C6T-u8gm-WBYKiXvnDuxP_xOfJFZuLp7922FtxhGE0x0UGUywn0Xo/s320/IMG_1631.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HMS Victory</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnLWRsH6ZS4HVq88kNxIB_YcfM5IZEiVXOGA2WTeq1bSiAOWwCieYF_EjsiMq_lLs136ZFDGUgzxSOudDGnOCJqsisndvQNjCCsASKv5syjIXypxWnQztOiPf7iilI0sEw_6xP5m2YwkI/s1600/IMG_1634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnLWRsH6ZS4HVq88kNxIB_YcfM5IZEiVXOGA2WTeq1bSiAOWwCieYF_EjsiMq_lLs136ZFDGUgzxSOudDGnOCJqsisndvQNjCCsASKv5syjIXypxWnQztOiPf7iilI0sEw_6xP5m2YwkI/s320/IMG_1634.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HMS Victory</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZAtlVZylpQDp9sg4huR1GsZmgSSsMmgdHV0MK254noPR-dKLI8zT49lTIDKVDtzlA1yM8KQRJE3tiAi7H_KX7sstpZWH2Ull8mDdCHpU_il40CqdelmB0L7KXiL1npy8jQW7zGyZLVyc/s1600/IMG_1635.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZAtlVZylpQDp9sg4huR1GsZmgSSsMmgdHV0MK254noPR-dKLI8zT49lTIDKVDtzlA1yM8KQRJE3tiAi7H_KX7sstpZWH2Ull8mDdCHpU_il40CqdelmB0L7KXiL1npy8jQW7zGyZLVyc/s320/IMG_1635.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HMS Victory</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nelson's Sleeping Quarters</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On board the HMS Victory</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was an impressive ship, ok?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhESU1XWqaGv1X4WOBDgkmP80Bu_WphmTomLVP03ONfTc9hOX5B1iHCmSwdeb-zEu8l4iiSvwc6EgEZfTUbDCDSHAP94d5nvxfhyd-ts8I198_v2Q2SbYNDXG2hCNiqiHiBuwQL_X2LtP0/s1600/IMG_1664.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhESU1XWqaGv1X4WOBDgkmP80Bu_WphmTomLVP03ONfTc9hOX5B1iHCmSwdeb-zEu8l4iiSvwc6EgEZfTUbDCDSHAP94d5nvxfhyd-ts8I198_v2Q2SbYNDXG2hCNiqiHiBuwQL_X2LtP0/s320/IMG_1664.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portsmouth Anglican Cathedral</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Seaside - view towards the Isle of Wight</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proof: I was in Portsmouth</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj27t-dhKq33A9a4iPZvC74rnrFcyKuMSovverSMqT7xdmOuEBKnDChyphenhyphenJ-_8B4lVB_6zre_5dSsobyboK5iKYr7jnHp1VC6qDuE6qllReTHxWHCLE8-LzZ1EY5ooldq2u0qgf997j_Mwxs/s1600/IMG_1673.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj27t-dhKq33A9a4iPZvC74rnrFcyKuMSovverSMqT7xdmOuEBKnDChyphenhyphenJ-_8B4lVB_6zre_5dSsobyboK5iKYr7jnHp1VC6qDuE6qllReTHxWHCLE8-LzZ1EY5ooldq2u0qgf997j_Mwxs/s320/IMG_1673.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Square Tower to the Round Tower</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8291097168241437317.post-36179634715738580842011-04-06T23:27:00.000+01:002011-04-06T23:27:04.025+01:00The Life of a KCL MA StudentI recently received a comment asking about the MA International Relations program at King's. I had forgotten that this is the time of year when most people are receiving their offers and making decisions about where they will end up next year. This would also explain the increase in messages I have received on Facebook asking for information about the program. (I was wondering at the sudden increase in my popularity.) There are many good things about King's, but it is not exactly overflowing with information about its programs. Indeed, for those attending the program next year, don't expect to receive any information until early August. Even then, expect to be very confused about what is going on when you arrive in London for the September start. Don't worry: it's essentially a right of passage for everyone going through the MA program. <br />
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**DISCLAIMER** Before I post anything else, I just want to note that all opinions about KCL are my own and do not reflect those of the university or the Department of War Studies. My opinions are based on my experiences over the past year with King's and the MA International Relations program. I am not being paid (I wish!) to endorse KCL or the program. Although if someone wanted to offer me money to do so, I wouldn't say no...<br />
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<u><b>About King's College London</b></u><br />
King's College London was founded in 1829 by George IV and the Duke of Wellington, making it the third oldest university in England. It is part of the University of London, but in 2007 began to grant its own degrees. (Why is this important? Because it means that at the graduation ceremony you get to wear graduation gowns designed by Vivienne Westwood - how swanky.) KCL has 5 campuses: Strand, Waterloo (across the river from the Strand), St. Thomas' (across the river from Parliament), Denmark Hill, and Guy's (near London Bridge). For those undertaking a degree within the School of Social Sciences and Public Policy, only Strand is of importance.<br />
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The Strand campus, the main KCL campus, is located on the Strand in central London, roughly a 10-minute walk from Trafalgar Square (and 30 minutes from Westminster). The nearest Tube stop is Temple on the Circle/District line. For those in the Department of War Studies, almost all of your classes will be held at the Strand campus. The layout of the campus is extremely confusing and there really is no other way to describe it save as 'unique'. Prepare to get lost when you get to KCL. That said, the campus is in the midst of a major renovation. Classroom facilities are quite modern and there are numerous PAWS (student computing) rooms available for use. Strand also boasts Chapters (a cafeteria that in off-hours serves as a study area), a coffee shop, the Waterfront Bar (which is lovely at night since it looks over the river), Tutu's nightclub, an excellent career center, and a useful advising center.<br />
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<u><b>The MA International Relations and Department of War Studies</b></u><br />
The MA International Relations is offered by the Department of War Studies, which is unique to King's. It has an excellent reputation within the UK and has been rated 3rd for Politics outside of Oxford and Cambridge. Notable faculty at the moment include: Dr. Marvin Frost, Professor Sir Lawrence Freedman, Professor Jack Spence, and Professor Yezid Sayigh (not to mention loads more). Almost all of the professors I have encountered are experts in their field and, more often than not, have written half the books on the reading list. It's quite intimidating. <br />
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I am not quite sure how many people are accepted onto the MA IR each year, but my class has roughly 60 people at the moment. I think there were a few more who started off the course in September but either switched to another program or dropped out. The course is one year in duration (September to August) and consists of 3 components: the 2 core modules, the optional modules, and the dissertation.<br />
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<i>Core Modules</i>: As an MA student, you will be required to take 2 core modules, both of which are <i>extremely</i> theory-based. Indeed, I cannot stress this enough. The first, Theories of International Relations, operates from the first week of October to the first week of December. It is essentially an overview to the various theories and approaches within IR. Teaching each week consists of an hour-long lecture (which everyone in the program takes at the same time) and an hour-long seminar (held in groups of 20). Each person is required to lead one seminar, although the presentation given is not graded. Assessment for the entire module is based off a 3000-word essay on an assigned topic that is due in December, and a 2-hour exam taken in May. In the second term, Theories is replaced by Concepts & Methods in International Relations. Essentially, the entire term is spent discussing various aspects of post-modernist theories (those espoused by Habermas, Foucault, post-colonialists, post-Marxists, etc.) and challenging conventional understandings of the 'international'. Teaching, yet again, consists of a one-hour lecture (which has roughly 120 students since several other programs within the Dept. of War Studies are also required to take Concepts as a core module) and a one-hour seminar. Assessment is the same as that for Theories. Once again, I must stress that these are heavily theoretical classes. If you are like me and are not a fan of theory, you will not enjoy these classes. <br />
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<i>Optional Modules: </i>The second component consists of the optional modules. These are modules that you choose at the beginning of term. Unfortunately, you will not know what exactly is on offer for the year until you arrive at KCL and go through induction. A sample of the modules offered this year included: Diplomacy (the most popular); International Politics of the Middle East; Open Source Intelligence; Missile Proliferation; Contemporary British Defence Policy; Wars within Wars; Media and Intelligence; Current Issues in Science and Security; Complex Political Emergencies; Counter-Terrorism Approaches; Human Rights & Migration; UK Foreign Policy, not to mention loads more.<br />
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'Choosing' your modules at the beginning of term consists of signing onto a special program and listing your top 12 preferences. You have the option to * one option, thus making it likelier that you will get that option (but resulting in a corresponding likelihood that your other module/modules will be drawn from further down the list). I took International Politics of the Middle East and Open Source Intelligence, both of which I really wanted. And, from speaking with my coursemates, it seemed that most people were pleased with the modules that they were allocated. You must take 80 credits of optional modules. Full year modules are worth 40 credits while half year modules are worth 20. You could end up with as few as 2 optional modules (as I did) or as many as 4. <br />
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Assessment and teaching for each module varies according to the instructor. In my International Politics of the Middle East class, I had a 1 1/2 hour lecture plus 1 1/2 hour seminar each week. I gave a total of 4 seminar presentations throughout the year (ungraded) and was assessed via 2 3,000 word essays. (We had the option to write 3, with the best 2 grades being counted towards the overall module result.) Open Source Intelligence consisted of a 2 hour lecture each week. In the second half of the year, I gave an hour-long presentation that was mandatory, but ungraded. Assessment for the module consists of 1 1,500 word essay and 2 3,250 essays. Both of these classes were much more practically (and reality)-oriented than the core modules, which played to my own personal interests and talents. I enjoyed both immensely and, for me, they were the saving grace of the program. (I would have been most upset if it had consisted solely of the core modules). <br />
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<u><b>Facilities available</b></u><br />
<i>Libraries</i>: As a graduate student, the most important university facility that you will require access to is the library. Since the reading list for just one module's seminar/lecture can stretch upwards of 10-15 (or, in the case of Concepts, 30) sources, you are not required to buy many books. Instead, you are expected to find your reading either online (via KCL's extensive ejournals archive) or at the library. King's has several located on its various campuses, but the Maughan library is the main one. Located on Chancery Lane, a 10-minute (or less) walk from the Strand campus, it was once the Public Records Office for the United Kingdom. It is a beautiful building, but is absolutely enormous. I have spent a year at KCL and have yet to adequately grasp the layout of the library. Luckily, the majority of my required books have been located in one room, albeit one at the very far end of the library. For those who may not be as lucky as me, there are map printouts of every floor of the library available at strategic locations throughout the library. On the backside of these maps are lists of where various book call-numbers might be found. (For example, the majority of IR book call-numbers begin with JZ and are located in room 1.51.) It is confusing at first, but you do get the hang of it after a while.<br />
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In addition to being in a beautiful building, the Maughan has several PAWS rooms, a cafe, the octagonal Round Reading Room (featured in the Da Vinci code and which has a policy of absolute silence), hundreds of study desks, and a 'Graduate Tower' which consists of 3 floors of private 1-person study rooms solely for the use of graduate students. Downsides of the Maughan? Confusing layout; drafty and echoing (which means that the effect of people talking is magnified exponentially); there are usually only 2-3 copies of books; books in the 'short-loan' section can only be checked out for 3 hours and cannot be removed from the library; the self-checkout machines can be frustrating to use.<br />
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For those who end up hating the Maughan, there are other options available. As a student within the University of London (of which King's is a constituent college), you have access to the Senate House Library in Bloomsbury near the British Museum. A magnificent art deco building, it usually has the books that the Maughan does not. And since you can't take the books out of the library, you can be assured that they are always there. Other options available to KCL students include the LSE library (can't take out books, no access to the short-loan section), the British Library, and the RUSI/Chatham House libraries (restricted access to members only - an application process is required at the beginning of the year). <br />
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<i>Clubs/sports:</i> For me, one of the most fulfilling aspects of my time at KCL has been participating in extracurricular activities. It is easy to become so absorbed in studying and preparing for classes that you lose track of all else. I find that this is ultimately detrimental to my studies and leaves me burnt out by the time I need to write essays. There are many, many clubs and sports societies available to KCL students. During Freshers' Week in September, a massive 'club fair' is held at a nightclub in the London Bridge area. All clubs send representatives and, just as with undergrad, it is usually best to sign up for anything that you are even remotely interested in, otherwise you may find it hard to join later on in the year. I was an active participant on the King's College London Cross Country Team and can honestly say that it really made my year. I met great people, got to travel to excellent races, and had a grand time overall. (I've extensively detailed my XC experience on this blog, so I won't go into it.) KCL also has its own gym, Kinetic, which is located at the Waterloo campus (directly across the Thames from Strand - about a 10 minute walk). At the beginning of year and half term marks they offer fantastic student deals that are otherwise unheard of in London. They have a decent amount of cardio equipment (ellipticals, treadmills, rowing machines, cross trainers, stationary bikes), nice range of weight machines, a cardio/yoga room, and a wide array of free weights. Alternatively, there is the University of London (ULU) gym at the ULU student union in Russell Square that has a pool, wide range of classes, and nice equipment. <br />
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<u><b>Why I chose King's</b></u><br />
'Why did you choose to study at King's?' is a question that I am asked quite frequently. For a long time, I never quite knew how to respond since there are so many reasons why I chose KCL.<br />
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I knew from the beginning of my junior year that I wanted to go to graduate school in the UK. I spent the entirety of 2008-2009 studying abroad at the universities of Oxford and Edinburgh, and fell in love with the UK academic setting. Upon researching further, I found that it would actually be cheaper to undertake a 1 year master's degree here than it would be to do a comparable 2-year degree in the US. (For example, if I had chosen to go to John Hopkins' SAIS in DC, I would be paying $50,000 per year in tuition alone, not counting books/housing/travel/etc. Ridiculous.) For this reason, I applied to graduate school solely within the UK. I was accepted at King's College London, University of St. Andrews in Scotland, and, belatedly, to the University of Oxford. (This is a fact that will come as a shock to most people. Yes, I received an acceptance letter in late June to the University of Oxford, despite having been told earlier (over the phone) that my application was unsuccessful. Apparently, this wasn't true. But by late June I had already paid my holding fee to King's and was making plans to move to London. As much as I loved Oxford and as hard as my ultimate decision was to make, I let the offer go.)<br />
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I chose the MA IR program at King's specifically because of the Department of War Studies' reputation, the location of the university, and the proportion of graduates from the program who went on to get jobs within a year after graduation. As mentioned above, the Department of War Studies is unique within the UK. It offers many courses, such as my Open Source Intelligence module, not offered anywhere else. In addition, despite the fact that the core modules for each program are strictly regimented, the wide variety of optional modules offered allows for personal flexibility and interests within the program. My MA experience was more heavily focused on intelligence - an area that I am interested in. Others chose to focus on human rights, or diplomacy. At other universities I looked into, there was not as much flexibility allowed within the MA course.<br />
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Having attended a small, rural public liberal arts college for undergrad, King's has provided a chance to see life at the other end of the spectrum. With 20,000+ students and located in a major city, KCL is very, very different from my undergrad. The caliber of teaching, expertise of my professors, and range of modules offered is as high quality as I anticipated.<br />
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Finally, I decided to attend KCL and graduate school in the UK because it would allow me to gain a non-American perspective of International Relations. Many of the leading IR academics these days come from the same group of US universities: JHU, GWU, Georgetown, Harvard, etc. Many are realists (or neo-realists) subscribing to the Washington consensus, influencing policymakers to make decisions based on the same assumptions held by previous generations. Although British IR and US IR differ very little, attending KCL has allowed me to interact with a more global audience than I might have had the opportunity to meet had I attended university in the US. The majority of my classmates are non-American, which is very refreshing. Many are not even from the UK. The wide array of experiences, perspectives, and opinions means that I have been forced to reassess many of the views I previously held about the world. It has also changed how I view the US. While never one for being overly patriotic, attending KCL has allowed me to take more pride in my country. I see its faults quite clearly (the US is far from perfect, but what country is) and the mistakes that continue to be made by US leaders to this day. However, I also see the benefits and valuable qualities that the US possesses that have allowed it to maintain its position as a superpower. Such a change in viewpoint is not only the result of what I've learned in my modules, but also through having interacted with my fellow classmates. Several have held very anti-American opinions. Discussion with them has opened my eyes (not that they were every closed, mind you) to how others perceive the US and the ways that US policy has affected other nations and, therefore, the lives of other individuals, both directly and indirectly.<br />
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It has been incredibly enlightening and I hope to apply this perspective to my future career when I return to the US. I am not so presumptuous as to suppose that my opinion will help change anything. But I do hope that perhaps my viewpoint will provide a counterbalance to the opinions of others that I might encounter. Change comes slowly, but it does come. <br />
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<u><b>Life in London</b></u><br />
As for living in London - it's exciting, it's fun, but it is not for everyone (not for me, at least). London is a major city. There is always something to do, somewhere to go, someone to see. In addition to the major cultural attractions (the dozens of museums, Parliament/Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Tower of London, etc.), there are the theaters of Leicester Square and the West End, the street markets that dominate the side-alleys on the weekends, the many parks (the largest of which is Hyde Park) in which to engage in outdoor activities, and the hundreds of high end shops spread about the city. In addition, London boasts unexpected surprises: When Julian Assange (founder of WikiLeaks) was detained by UK authorities, he was held and engaged in legal proceedings at the Royal Courts of Justice located down the street from the KCL Strand campus. I would pass by crowds of reporters waiting for his lawyer to emerge for a statement as I walked to class. The Royal Wedding is taking place in a few weeks time at Westminster Abbey - just downriver from where I live. And in 2012, London will be hosting the Olympics. Not every city can boast of that!<br />
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The Tube and Overground (bus) network makes traveling within London easy, as does the Barclay's Bike Hire scheme, although I personally prefer walking. The National Rail and National Express (bus) lines mean that you can travel pretty much anywhere in the UK from London. And Stansted, Gatwick, and Luton airports, the operational hubs of the major budget airlines, are within an hours bus ride, thus opening up the possibility of traveling anywhere in Europe for relatively little (especially compared to flying from the US!) That said, London is expensive! The dollar is currently very weak against the pound, which makes everything seem ridiculously expensive if you try to convert prices back into dollars. (I gave up long ago.) A pint of beer here is around <span id="search">£3.85, although that can increase in the ritzier areas of the city. A basic meal of fish and chips can run you anywhere between </span><span id="search">£7.50 and </span><span id="search">£10.50 depending on the quality of the restaurant. Luckily, if you head outside of the tourist areas (Trafalgar Square, Oxford Circus, Leicester Square, Covent Garden, Piccadilly Circus, Westminster) then prices tend to drop a bit. Still, for a student it can be quite expensive. Groceries are more reasonably priced if you shop as major chains such as Sainsburys, Tescos, or, if you're feeling flush, Marks & Spencer's. Cooking at home is definitely a more viable option</span><u><b> </b></u><br />
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For those of you looking for information about King's, I hope that the above has provided some insight into the overall experience. If you have any more questions, feel free to leave a comment and I will try to respond!Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15559283116187274071noreply@blogger.com6