Raising Keynes

Mediterranean Mayhem, Part 4 (The Exciting Conclusion!)

2010-07-15T17:35:00.000-07:00

Or, There and Back Again, a General Course Student’s Tale

Or, Cheerio

Or, The Final Post

Or, For Pete’s Sake, Caleb! It’s Been Over a Month! Finish Your Blog! And Why Must You Have Such Drawn-out Titles for Your Posts, Anyway?
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The six bunks of our cabin were stacked on top of each other in two groups of three. The bunks of each stack were then strapped together with straps placed about eighteen inches from the head and foot of the bed. I remember observing the slackness of the straps--they were not taut as if they were holding the bunks up, which would have been the apparent purpose for them. If they were not supporting the structure of the bunks, I thought, what were they for?

Once settled into my bunk, I quickly figured it out. The straps were there not to keep the beds up, but to keep the passengers in as the train rocked to and fro throughout the night.

The complimentary pillow was something of an insult, and the blanket provided about as much warmth as a handkerchief. Fortunately, my towel and coat were able to provide some comfort, though like most of the other passengers, I achieved little actual sleep.

When it became sufficiently light out in the morning, I contorted myself out of the bunk in order to stretch my body and get some fresh air. After a few minutes of standing, though, I began to feel faint, so I ventured down to the snack bar at the front of the train. By the time I had paid for my orange juice and granola bar, I was beginning to black out--This must not have been visible to the man behind the bar who was more upset that I didn’t have exact change.

I found a table and sat down, which usually helps. Not thinking my undoubtedly ghost-white complexion unhealthy, one of the attendants politely informed me that I was not allowed to sit at the tables. One would think that on a train frequently used by American and British tourists, attendants would be taught the phrase, “Ma’am, I feel sick,” and how to respond to it. No such luck (To be fair, I was fully capable of saying Je suis malade, just too delirious to remember where I was). She insisted that I get up from that table and offered no assistance. Luckily, another member of staff took notice in the hallway and was able to get me to a place to sit down and rest. I was fine after that.

We arrived nearly two hours late at Bercy station. There I met up with the lovely Kaitlin, who escorted me to Gare du Nord, from where my train to London departed. With still plenty of time to spare, we grabbed a cafe at the station and waited for my platform to be posted. And waited.

Trains to the UK left from a special platform. By the time we figured this out and I rushed through security, my train was pulling away. This was the first time I panicked. I frantically explained my plight to one of the employees behind the desk. I expected something of a scolding--the lady at the platform had already snapped at me--but the staffer looked at my ticket, and then politely explained to me that this was common and I would be put on a waiting list for any open seats on later trains.

I figured I would be at the station all evening. Everyone was travelling by train due to the volcano, and the waiting list was already long because anyone traveling from Spain had likely missed their connection due to severe delays from industrial action. When the next train arrived, we all stood anxiously by the desk looking at the stack of tickets and hoping ours was near the top.

However, I noticed that my ticket was not even in the stack. I had printed my ticket out online, so it was on ordinary printer paper, while everyone else had proper train tickets. I began to grow worried. Once they had sorted out how many seats they had available, they began to call out names.

The man behind the desk picked up my ticket and a small stack of tickets beneath it. “Mr. [insert your favorite butchering of my last name with a French accent].” I was first. I had purchased a business class ticket because it was the only thing available. Not only was I given priority over everyone else in line, I was pampered the whole way back to London with decent food and even a hot face towel.

I think it was at my arrival at St. Pancras station late that afternoon that I fell in love with London. The city had already begun to grow on me as spring came after a dismal winter, but as I stepped off of the train after such a long journey, I felt the relief of finally being in a place familiar to me. It was something like coming home. The sun was shining, the weather was gorgeous, and the sight of Tower Bridge welcomed me back to the place where I lived. I slept well that night.

And that, my friends, is the epic tale of my treacherous journey to Rome and back to London. I sleep easier these days, knowing I’ll have an interesting story about my young adult life to tell my grandchildren. Now if only I knew how to pronounce Eyjafjallajökull.
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Most of the rest of my time in London was spent revising for exams. There is not much I have to say about the revision/exam period except that I drank a lot of coffee and tea and cemented my hatred for ice cream trucks and car alarms, both of which were quite fond of interrupting my studies.

These irks (and the general drudgery of navigating the LSE academic system) aside, spending time in London was one of the best experiences of my admittedly short and hopefully far from complete life. I am grateful to have been able to explore new places and learn about living on my own in such an exciting city. I met some wonderful people at the school and at Crossway Church, and I got to spend time there with many of the friends I already know and love.

And with that, this blog with its handful of posts, has lived out its purpose. Anything else I have to say about my experiences abroad will have to be confined to those casual “When I was abroad...” and “In London...” comments that all ex-study abroad students inevitably make to impress their peers. Until then, thanks for reading.

Mediterranean Mayhem, Part 3

2010-06-18T13:02:00.001-07:00

Some mornings there just isn't enough coffee. I sipped the last of my Lavazza and inquired my way to the information desk.

A small line had formed at the desk by this point, and everyone in it had the same story: I need to get back home. How do I do that? The response by the professional but friendly attendant was also the same: Not by EasyJet.

The previous night I had formulated a rough plan in my mind. If I can get to Paris, I thought, I can get to London. I hopped the train from Fiumicino airport to Termini, Rome's central train station. During the train ride there, my efforts to uncover a previously mentioned "very important phone number" paid off. Marinetta, my Italian chaplain at AU, returned my phone call from the night before.

I filled her in on the situation, and she assured me she would do what she could to make sure I had a safe place to stay should I need one. Her reassurances became especially comforting as I walked into Termini and observed just how many people were stranded.

The queue spiraled around and around and spilled beyond the barriers designed to control the flow of traffic. I grabbed lunch, got in line, and ate while I waited. After I finished eating, there was still plenty of waiting left to do.

I got to the front of the line at around 4:00 PM, and by then the soonest available train to Paris was on Monday night; I was on my own finding a ticket to London. I deposited my arm and leg, and they printed my golden ticket. I called Marinetta and let her know I'd be taking her up on that offer for housing.

Fortunately, her family lives in an apartment in Rome. I was able to get on the Metro and travel to where I was to be picked up by Marinetta's niece Laura, whom she described to me as young, Mediterranean, and very beautiful. While she did live up to that description (but was already spoken for), it was she that found me by using the description of myself I had given Marinetta: tired, disheveled, and carrying a blue suitcase.

Marinetta's family extended extremely generous hospitality to me, even though they barely understood a word I said. The children spoke slightly more English than the father, but communication was mainly facilitated through "Si or No" questions, broken English, hand gestures, and the odd bit of French. We got by.

I should also mention that they fed me well. Dinners were served in courses, which typically began with pasta, followed by meat, cheese and bread, then salad, and finally a dessert. For someone who typically subsists on sandwiches with no crisps or some small soup or pasta dish, I had trouble keeping up, both in quantity and in speed. What I did manage to put down, however, lived up to the reputation of home-cooked Italian food.

On Sunday, the father asked me if I wanted to go to church with him. Wanting to get some fresh air and see how other cultures worship, even if I didn't speak the language, I took him up on the offer.

What he neglected to tell me is that there would be a two-hour church meeting prior to the service. Fortunately, there were a few King James copies of the Bible tucked away on the bookshelf at the back of the small Evangelical Baptist Church. I flipped through the pages of Joshua while they went on, but there's only so much KJV you can take before you start yawning. Noticing my plight, one of the women watching the kids while this was going on asked if I would like to join them as they took the kids to the park nearby. I gladly agreed.

The two women played with the younger kids, while I watched an older boy join in a game of soccer--ahem--football that was already in progress among some of the neighborhood kids. I had already heard that soc--football was something of a unifying institution in European countries. Laura's boyfriend had shown me a popular sports newspaper while we drank espresso one afternoon. It was divided into two sections: football, and then two or three pages of "everything else."

I saw this first hand at the park. The kids were playing it together, and when the ball went out of bounds, the adults were able to kick it back in with surprising accuracy. No matter the age, and no matter boy or girl, everyone knew the rules and how to handle the ball. What made this football game a uniquely Italian experience was watching the older kids in the game talk on their mobiles and share a cigarette while still playing the game.

The next day, I packed my things and the father drove me to Termini. I thanked him for the generosity he and his family had shown, and he sent me off with some bread and prosciutto for the train ride to Paris.

One of the things that the volcanic eruption highlighted in the EU was just how out-of-date Europe's train system is. Europe is renowned for its vast rail network which connects virtually all large and medium-sized European cities. In normal times, though, aside from major lines such as France's prestigious TGV, many smaller places are simply making due. When there is pressure on the system, however, the weaknesses really begin to show.

A member of the European Parliament noted that there is still "no civilized way" to travel between northern and southern Europe. I am thoroughly convinced that this MP had recently taken an overnight train from Rome to Paris. My train departed at 6:20 in the evening and was scheduled to arrive in Paris at 9:16 the next morning (It actually arrived at around 10:30 the next morning).

Coach passengers (myself included) rode in cramped cabins shared by six people. When everyone in the cabin agreed it was time to turn out the lights, the seats could be converted into six bunks just long enough to fit the average person and with enough space between each bed to slide in and out as needed. Sitting up was out of the question. In theory, there was running water and functioning toilets. That, or the non-functioning water closets at the ends of each car were put there to maliciously taunt passengers.

At first it seemed I would be lucky enough to only have to ride with three others--two French Canadian girls and a guy from near Sicily. The train stopped in Florence, however, and we were joined by an older man from near Brighton and another Italian. We managed some conversation, but it wasn't long before we unfolded the bunks and settled in to attempt sleep.

Mediterranean Mayhem, Part 2

2010-05-17T02:01:00.001-07:00

"Did you hear about that volcano in Iceland that erupted," Kelsey asked casually from across the table during what was supposed to be our last dinner in Italy. "Apparently a lot of flights in northern Europe are getting cancelled because of it. I hope your flights aren't affected."

I raised my eyebrow and said something to the effect of, "Weird. I hope not either," and the conversation moved on. This is 2010, I thought to myself. Volcanoes in Iceland do not cause flight cancellations in Italy.

In retrospect, I should not have been so skeptical, as I had learned just that day that the ash cloud from Mount Vesuvius had cast a shadow over the Mediterranean and settled over the skies of Egypt. In my defense, I had not yet learned that volcanic ash is a highly abrasive substance that can damage engines and interfere with radio communication. I'm sure our tour guide would have mentioned that had they had airplanes in Pompeii in 79 AD.

When we returned to the hostel, Ashley checked the news on the public computers just to be on the safe side. The report she gave wasn't promising, but it turned out to be accurate. I called home and dredged through my Gmail inbox in search of a very important phone number. At that point, that was all I could do, so I called it a night and slept uneasily, wondering what news we would learn at the airport the next day.

Looking back over my few years of travel experience, I am beginning to realize that getting to an airport by means of public transportation is often an adventure in itself. Suffice it to say that Italian trains are crowded, difficult to navigate, seldom on time, and well, if there had been a clearly designated way to pay for the ride, I gladly would have done so.

Once at the airport, the first thing we naturally did was check the departures screen. Kelsey and Ashley were not London-bound. They were off to Cairo for even more adventure, so their southbound flight turned out to be unaffected. My flight was later in the afternoon, and had not been posted, but it was easy to extrapolate from the trend among northbound flights: cancelled. I exchanged nervous glances with my friends, who now had a plane to Cairo to catch. I thought I read a hint of guilt in their eyes as they wished me luck and then scurried of to their terminal. They wanted to help, but even if they had stayed, there is not much they could have done.

The next step for me was to go to my terminal to get help. Except for EasyJet employees and a handful of unhappy tourists, the place was abandoned. In what some may consider an act of questionable judgment, I took a little detour from my task: I stopped for breakfast. If my flight was cancelled now, I thought, it's just as cancelled twenty minutes from now, and I haven't eaten yet today. Besides, who could turn down Lavazza in the middle of a rough morning?

Mediterranean Mayhem, Part 1

2010-04-21T16:11:00.000-07:00

Or, The Could-Have-Been Hitch Hiker's Guide to Europe

No travel blog would be complete without long delays in posts followed by profuse apologies for not updating more often. In order to safeguard the quality of your travel blog experience, I must offer these now. To further ensure you get the full experience, I must follow these apologies with promises to post more often and then proceed to post less often. I’m looking out for you.

On the bright side, you should be glad when posts are few because it means that I am either availing myself of the many adventures that living abroad for a year offers, or I am immersing myself in a sea of economic and financial theory. Currently, I am in the position of transitioning from the former to the latter as spring break comes to an end and exams approach.

Most of you know that I recently took a trip to Rome which was unexpectedly extended due to geothermal activity. Pictures from the trip will come soon, but in the meantime, I thought I would chronicle at least some of the happenings of my prolonged vacation.

The getting there was supposed to be the most difficult part of the journey. Our departure time was 6:50 a.m. from Gatwick airport, some distance from London proper. Getting to the airport involved catching (after finding) a night bus to Victoria station, and then riding the train to the airport. I turned up at Ashley’s place at midnight, wherefrom we set out at around 2 a.m. (if I remember correctly), discovered that our bus stop was closed due to road work, and then waited in the cold and sketchy London night for some 20 minutes at another stop before our bus arrived. I should also mention that Victoria station, like many train stations in Europe, is not completely enclosed and is quite chilly at night.

True to what my father has taught me, we arrived at the airport obnoxiously early. During this downtime we found our respective sources of nutrition and much-needed caffeine. For Ashley it was Costa, an English Starbucks competitor. Me, I was a bit less cultured and went with the Golden Arches. To pass the remaining time, I proceeded to analytically decompose the messages McDonald’s tries to convey through the design of its coffee cups, much to Ashley’s dismay. There’s not much to do at Gatwick airport at 5 in the morning.

Thankfully, the flight itself was smooth and on time. If anything interesting happened during the flight, I missed it: I was asleep.

We found a shuttle from the airport to the hostel at which we were staying. The Happy Days Hostel (Yes, you read that correctly) was, well, a hostel. It was entirely adequate as short term shelter for college students on a budget, but not the kind of place you would tell your parents you stayed at (until, of course, they read about it on your blog). You had a choice of four bathrooms: the one with the working toilet, the one with the working sink, the one with the working shower, and the one with persistent but unexplainable water on the floor. I’m just hoping none of the occupants got creative and tried to multitask.

Fortunately, we did not go to Rome to see hostels. We went to see Kelsey (and Rome), and Kelsey did not disappoint. She was as cheerful as ever and an excellent hostess. Not only did she show us around some of her favorite sites and patiently photograph us as we played tourists, she treated us to gelato, an Italian ice cream-like wonder-substance. The Nutella and banana flavors make an excellent combination, if you ever get the chance.

All in all, the scheduled days of our visit in Rome were quite nice. During the days Ashley and I hit up the tourist sites and museums: the Sistine Chapel (underwhelming), St. Peter’s Basilica (overwhelming), the Coliseum and other nearby Roman sites (pretty nifty), among others. Our nights were spent with Kelsey, who was able to show us to some of her favorite restaurants, all of them top notch. We’re fairly sure the owner of the last restaurant we visited was just joking about his Mafia connections, but one can never be entirely certain. Either way, the risotto with salmon was delicious.

On what was supposed to day before we left Italy, Ashley and I took a train out to Pompeii, where we learned about ancient Roman life and volcanoes. Later that night I would discover just how ironic that was.

Je pense donc je suis...

2010-01-05T12:39:00.000-08:00

à Paris!

Bonjour mes amis! I thought you all might want to see how I am spending my last week for winter break. For those of you studying in France this coming semester, you are very lucky indeed!

Christmas Is:

2009-12-19T17:10:00.000-08:00

Stuffing yourself full of Tex-Mex at home.

At least, that was my thought this afternoon, as I visited my favorite local kitchen this afternoon.

Michaelmas term at the LSE is over, the locals have mostly dispersed, and I too have joined the great university student holiday diaspora. I took some of the London weather to Houston with me, too, apparently, as a cold damp settled over the city for the first two days I was in. No matter. The sky has blued up now, and the American South is as it always should be: warm and sunny.

Before leaving, some friends and I took advantage of the post-term downtime to do some traveling. We hopped on a Saturday morning train to Oxford for a day-trip. Unfortunately, the camera died, so you'll have to rely on Erin and Ashley (or Google) for pictures. The city is quite nice, and the old architecture is stunning. What struck me the most is the contrast with London. It took me a while to realize what it was: it was the silence. When you're outdoors in London, you can barely hear yourself think. There, except for the busier streets where people shop and travel, the most you can hear is silent chirping. It's beautiful.

School resumes after the New Year, and I'll be back in London a few days before. So far, I've visited castles and museums, attempted ice skating at Somerset house (read: failed miserably despite my friends' best efforts to teach me), gone to plays, pubs, fireworks displays, and makeshift ex-pat Thanksgiving celebrations. Hopefully, I've learned a few things about economics along the way, too. Regardless, it's good to be home for the holidays, but I'm looking forward to what the New Year has in store.

They call me Caleb, Sky Slayer (or, In Celebration of Brollies)

2009-11-27T09:53:00.000-08:00

Happy belated Thanksgiving, all. Or as they say here, happy belated fourth-Thursday-in-November!

I meditated for a long time about what I am thankful for--or rather what one thing I am thankful for which would make an enjoyable blog post related to both Thanksgiving and my UK experience.

I considered writing about all of the wonderful people in my life who have helped shape who I am today. Too mushy. I considered the wonderful academic institution I attend in DC that made my study abroad experience possible. Too academic. I considered the joy of finding boxes of Ritz crackers in Sainsbury's when I was feeling homesick. Too fattening.

Then, following a miraculous occurrence on my walk to school this morning, it finally dawned on me: I am thankful for brollies. In particular, I am thankful for my brolly.

For those of you not up on all the hip-British vernacular (Don't worry, I'm not either), a brolly is an umbrella. Given the kind of weather the British Isles are prone to experiencing, it seems appropriate that they have developed multiple words for this particular accessory.

My story begins with my arrival in London. Aware of the city's reputation for perpetual precipitation, we had packed an umbrella ahead of time in preparation. This umbrella, while a little old and beat up, was sufficient rain protection for about a week and half, when I carelessly left it at the bus stop in a rush to class one morning. The sky was particularly gray that day, so I figured it was best not to take chances and bought the first umbrella I saw at the campus gift store. Londoners are used to rain, I thought to myself, so surely any umbrella in this city will be of adequate quality. Yes, I thought that. Sometimes I place too much credence in stereotypes.

The blasted thing folded like a cheap suit the first time I deployed it. Hoping this would be only a rare annoyance, I held onto it. After a few uses, however, it became obvious that this thing would go Mary Poppins on me at the slightest breeze. Its final doom came during a previously mentioned trip to Greenwich a few weekends ago, when heavy winds warped it so much that its spokes got tangled together. I was forced to take shelter under the hot pink interior of Ashley's bumbershoot for the remainder of the trip.

Determined not to be humiliated by Mother Nature again, I decided I would do some serious shopping for the ultimate umbrella, one that was wind-resistant and met the perfect size ratio between size and portability. After some clicking around on Amazon UK, I found one and ordered it. Of course, that left me about a week without an umbrella while it shipped, and the skies made certain to exploit this weakness. I got damp on a couple of occasions, but I knew my day of revenge would come.

And come it did, in a white, two foot long cylinder wrapped in packaging tape and a sticker with my name on it. I unsheathed my new Excalibur and inspected its steel double reinforced, wind-resistant glory. The black hilt feels smooth and sturdy with an elegant green deployment button set prominently in the center. I have never been so enthusiastic about 97 diametric centimeters of portable weather shelter. The next fifteen minutes were devoted to dancing around my room singing "Hello, Brolly" over Louis Armstrong's "Hello, Dolly" and playing Ella's "A Foggy Day (in London Town)" on repeat.

I haven't seen so much blue sky over London since my first week here. It is as if every water droplet over the Thames is now terrified to leap when I am about for fear of being repelled by the Death Star now housed inside my backpack.

This morning, I began my journey to school under a clear sky. The wind was blowing gently, and the Thames was quiet. It appeared a wonderful opportunity to walk along the river, to pass Tower Bridge, St. Paul's Cathedral, the Tate Modern, and Shakespeare's Globe. Yes, I have an awesome commute. As I neared Blackfriars Bridge, however, I noticed the sky over my route was growing blacker as rain clouds rolled in from the Atlantic.

Undeterred, I proceeded with confidence. My secret weapon was holstered safely in my backpack, ready to deploy when the time came. As I reached Blackfriars, a light drizzle began to fall. I set down my bag and removed Dolly (the Brolly) as a preemptive strike. Mother Nature got the hint: I meant business.

The Red Sea parted, the sun broke through the clouds, and I continued with my journey undamped. The green button remained unpressed. As I approached Aldwych, I couldn't help but sing in my head, "Blue skies! Smiling at me! Nothing but blue skies, do I see..."

Am I a dork? Yes. But don't mess with me. I have a brolly, and I know how to use it.

Greetings from Zero Degrees

2009-11-15T15:31:00.000-08:00

Longitude, that is!

This weekend was full of adventures, ranging from burrito and noodle excursions (separate, of course) to odd but ancient parades. The pinnacle, however, was at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich. Ashley, Doug, Erin and I braved the cold and ferocious rain and gale to get there, so we were going to enjoy it! The whole of Greenwich looked like an umbrella graveyard on our walk back to the train. As umbrellas caved under the force of the wind, people simply abandoned them along the sidewalks or shoved them into the nearest garbage bin. Mine was among the casualties, and I think Erin's was critically wounded.

Once safely to the Observatory, we were able to gorge ourselves on celestial knowledge, illegally photograph 4.5 billion-year-old meteorites, assemble a mission to the far reaches of space, learn about black holes, dark matter, and talk about how the Large Hadron Collider was either going to kill us all or was traveling back in time to kill itself. If you like space, or want to better understand the vast beyond that will violently annihilate our rock in the Milky Way one day, you should stop by some time.

O! Say Can You... Er--Remember, Remember...

2009-11-08T15:48:00.000-08:00

As anyone who has seen V for Vendetta knows, this past Thursday was Guy Fawkes Night in the UK. Since the English don't have an Independence Day, this was as good an excuse as any to set off weekend's worth of fireworks and bonfires throughout the city. I was able to make it to two events, one in Southwark Park on Thursday and the other in Battersea Park.

Below is some footage of one of the less impressive numbers from the second display, filmed shaky made-for-YouTube style. I realize that it is not nearly as interesting to watch on the Internet as it is in person, but I needed to fill up space.

Wallace and Gromit (and Fried Chicken, too!)

2009-11-01T15:27:00.000-08:00

Sorry, folks. No special postings this week, other than to direct you to an event which some of you may appreciate. It's been advertised all over the Tube, and its multifaceted English-ness makes me smile.

I also realized that I never fully explained the title for this blog. Perhaps some of you got it, but for those without the background either of Southern culture or economics, I direct you here and here. Basically, I wanted to contrast my Southern origins with my British habitation, as well as capture my love of economics, soul food, and puns. I had a lot of time to think about it this summer, perhaps too much.

Posting may stall for a little while, as my time has become monopolized by, well, monopolies. Stay tuned.

An Indulgent Soliloquy followed by "That Person" and the LSE Library, Part 2

2009-10-24T14:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you have to find the humor in the minor inconveniences of life. It is, after all, the little games you play with yourself throughout the day that keep you sane.

I could relate to you how wonderful it is to be able to look out your window one afternoon, to notice that the sun has finally penetrated what you thought would be endless gray, and then to opt for a leisurely stroll along the Thames. I can go on and on about sitting on top of a double decker bus during my commute each morning and taking in Big Ben, the Millennium Eye, Tower Bridge, and St. Paul's Cathedral all at the same time while crossing Waterloo Bridge.

Or I could tell you what runs through my head when I try to find a computer at the library.

The former, while at times mildly interesting, can grow stale very soon. There are only so many times I can use words like "awesome," "amazing," and "breathtaking" before you realize that you must come here yourself to understand what I am talking about. London is truly a city worth visiting, and I recommend you do so.

But these stories only describe what it's like to travel in London. Most days, I don't think of myself as traveling in London. I live in London, and living in a place is very different from traveling there. Living has its downsides: It is easy to take the things I described above for granted. I often do, much as I often took for granted living in Washington.

But living in a place, especially a new place, also gives you a chance to experience it in a way that vacationers never get to. It allows you to encounter and adapt to the idiosyncrasies of living in that area. You get to move beyond the wonder inspired by monuments and ponder the quirkiness of the mundane. Like finding a computer in the library.

There are two major processes one can use to secure a computer in the LSE Library.

Method #1: Bring your own.

This is the easier of the two processes. The library has excellent wi-fi connectivity and at most hours plenty of places to sit and crack open a laptop. There are even occasional wall and desk sockets for charging, however if you are bringing your computer from the States you will need an adapter for the connection.

Method #2: The Hunt.

If the above method is too straightforward for you, or if the sight of your laptop conjures images of the Lappy 486, hunting for an open station is your only option. Fortunately for you, the layout of the library is conducive to this process if you use the following approach. It is recommended that you take the lift up to the top floor and work your way down. This ensures minimum exposure to the previously mentioned awkward central staircase. You are also forewarned that this is the method employed by that person, and may thus lead to dirty looks focused in your direction.

The process:

Skirting. This step is only recommended if you are in desperate need of a computer, as it requires some extra work. There are a few computers in the corner of each floor. The advantage of these is that the desks they are on are more spacious for spreading out the rest of your belongings for that long project. The downside, of course, is that users of these computers will tend to be those who will stay for a long time working on projects.

Spiraling. Here the staircase becomes a strategic asset rather than an ergonomic disaster. Most of the computers on the upper levels are easily seen from the staircase (photo attached below for illustration), so it is no hassle to simply look out for openings as you work your way down. Whatever you do, though, do not jump the railing if you see an open space! There is a good distance between the staircase and the adjacent floor. Unless you are Batman, it is suggested that you eschew leaping and instead quickly haul it over the dawdling anthropology major to the target computer. Remember: if you see an open station, chances are someone else has seen it. It is therefore crucial that you make a strategic decision as to whether you can make it there before s/he does and if you are willing to use violence to secure your spot (umbrellas make great projectiles, especially if they are as worthless as mine). If the answer to both of those questions is negative, keep moving.

Vulturing. Once you reach the basement level of the library, the floor opens up to what looks like a parking lot full of computers where you can watch efficient market theory at work. If you've ever tried to find a parking space at the mall during Christmastime, what to do next should come naturally to you. You are an F-150. Everyone else is a SmartCar. Except for that large Scottish guy. He is a Hummer. Avoid Hummers.

It is also not uncommon to see a student or even a group of students lined up like a flock of vultures behind someone who appears ready to log off. Don't be ashamed to do this yourself. The worst you smell or otherwise the more uncomfortable you are able to make that person, the more quickly they will log off.

Move somebody's stuff. Many students at the library try to stake out a computer by leaving their jacket and books in place while they go off and do other things. This is fine if you're going to grab a book around the corner and return quickly, but inconsiderate if the computer has time to log you out and go to a blank screen. I'm not advocating theft here; just relocation of materials to the nearest wall. If the person returns, simply shrug as if their stuff was against the wall when you got there.

Call someone out for using Facebook. The infamous blue banner is easily spotted from a distance. If you're feeling especially brave, pretend to be library staff and ask them to leave. Once they are out of sight, log in. Just be sure all of the witnesses are gone before you sign in to your own Facebook.

Happy browsing. Do keep in mind that if your dignity is too valuable to use any of the methods suggested above, there are other computer labs around campus. I just haven't found them yet. Either way, you're on your own on finding printing.

Stairway to Heaven: The LSE Library, Part 1

2009-10-15T13:31:00.001-07:00

Before I write directly about the LSE Library, I have a confession: I'm that person. If you've ever attempted to study in a library, you know whom I am writing about. I'm the one that barges in on your studies and sits next to you right as you reach the peek of your concentration. As I plunk my stuff down, you roll your eyes in frustration because you know what's coming next: the unzipping. Not one, not two, but three zippers on my backpack must be unfastened before I can noisily forage for my own study materials.

Books? Check. Notebook? Check. Pen? Check. Oh, wait, this is the wrong notebook. Now what did I do with my Macroeconomics notebook? Why is it in that pocket? Oh well. Flip, flip, flip to the right page in the notebook. Flip, flip, flip to the right page in the book. Now I dig for my calculator.

Is it warm in here to you? Oh right, I forgot about my coat. It, too, has a zipper. And of course, the jacket itself is constructed from the noisiest material possible. The chair in which I'm sitting? Yes, it's that chair. The one that is old, creaky, and uneven. It thumps as I shift my weight from side to side in desperation. Why do I always get this chair? Ma

ybe if I remain as motionless as possible...

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Then silence. You breathe a silent sigh of relief and return to your structural analysis of Deng Xiaoping's economic policy or what-have-you.

Five minutes later without fail, the sniffling begins. I don't know if it's the dust gathering on the Russian language collection or the ash and soot from the outside air finally catching up with me, but my nose always starts dripping in the library. Fortunately, I have packed Kleenex for this. They are in my backpack. Behind another zipper.

That person.

As for the library itself, it is a work of art. Formally known as the British Library of Economic and Political Science, it houses the world's largest social science collection. If you have a love for game theory, the United Nations, global finance, anthropology, the foreign policy of Botswana, or Margaret Thatcher, you will love this library. If you are more interested in chemistry, string theory, or cellular respiration, King's College is across the street. You might have better luck there.

The centerpiece of this monument to the study of human behaviour is the central spiral staircase that takes you up and down the library's seven floors of collections. It is aesthetically pleasing (see: photos), but ergonomically challenging. I have two theories about this. The first is that it was designed by a malicious architect who held special disdain for pretentious social science majors with their abstract liberal arts degrees in fields of study they wrongly refer to as "sciences." He secretly installed hidden cameras around the staircase so that he could enjoy watching dweeby political "scientists," IR "theorists," and economists awkwardly waddle up and down with their heavy bags stuffed with Marx, Mankiw, and Hobbes for the rest of his life. The second theory is that it was designed by a social science major.

Once you have conquered the stairwell and the malevolent architect has had his laugh, the library is everything a library should be. It is clean, well-lit, and has an Internet connection so fast it can give you whiplash (more relating to this at a later date). Barring the Library of Congress and similar national volumes, it most likely puts any library you have ever seen to shame.

From Postmodern Cake to Modern Art Museums

2009-10-13T15:23:00.000-07:00

Well, classes have begun and leisure time has taken a corresponding nosedive. I must say, though, after five months of summer, it's about time!

I was able to get out and about this past weekend, though. Saturday, Ashley and I made a trip over to St. Paul's Cathedral, and Anglican church on the Thames. We wanted to go inside and have a look around, but Sunday is the only day it doesn't cost £8.50 to enter the "House of God." I'm glad God isn't as stingy about heaven.

Our pilgrimage thwarted by rent-seeking clergy, we headed across the Millennium Bridge (the one that's destroyed at the start of one of the Harry Potter movies, I'm told) to the Tate Modern, a modern art museum. Admission was free, which was probably the appropriate price. Perhaps it's an economist thing, but I don't really understand modern art. Consequently, I usually don't like it.

To be fair, they had some Picassos and Warhols

there, and while I do not always understand their work or agree with their perspectives, I can appreciate their vision and talent more so than say, the so-called work of art that was just a mirror hanging on the wall. It was supposed to promote introspection or something, but really it just made me mad because it was neither work nor art. These gripes aside, however, the building itself is architecturally intriguing both inside and out, and it was a beautiful day in London.

The great thing about London is that, at least within the main part of the city, it's very hard to get lost. For one, there is a gigantic river running through the middle of the city, which makes for a great point of reference for your cardinal directions. Also, it is very easy to navigate by landmarks. If, for example, your directions say, "Turn left at Monument Station," referring to the tube station, of course, you might not know what the station looks like, but you can reckon there is a fairly conspicuous monument nearby. They're pretty straightforward about their naming conventions here. And even if you do get lost, it's usually a pleasant opportunity to discover something new.

Note: For those of you reading this on Facebook (which I actually assume to be all of you), click "View Original Post" if you cannot see the attached pictures. I'll put them in an album eventually, too.

Deconstructivist Chocolate Cake

2009-10-07T16:06:00.000-07:00

Or, I have great friends

"What's that banging sound?" I asked Ashley on the phone yesterday afternoon. "Um, that's someone across the hall banging on the door."

Ashley was lying. There was nobody banging on the door. Well, lying is perhaps strong. She was concealing the fact that while she was keeping me busy on the phone, Erin was hard at work on their collaborative effort to bake me a chocolate cake for my birthday. Actually, that is like lying. Regardless, her impromptu deception worked.

Apparently, the assembling and delivery of the cake was unto itself a legendary endeavor. You see, the kitchen where they were cooking it has an oven with no markings on its dials, leaving them to have to guess the heat at which they were cooking. Secondly, they had no measuring devices, much less any in American units. But who needs measuring cups when you have a coffee cup?

Once they had eyeballed and guestimated the cake into something that somewhat resembled a cake, they proceeded to schlep it across the London Bridge and beyond on the top of a double decker bus. By the time it was presented to me, it resembled something like, say, Monk’s Mound, rather than, well, a birthday cake.

Despite its looking like a piece of postmodern artwork, the concoction itself was delicious, perhaps because it was made with the most important ingredient of all: love. So Erin and Ashley, for your dedication and ingenuity and for making my birthday a little brighter, a special thanks to you both.

Photos Are Up

2009-10-03T05:57:00.000-07:00

A sampling of my excursions to date is now available here. I must apologize, as they really do not do this place justice. I highly recommend that you visit London yourself at least once (preferably while I'm here) as it really is spectacular.

This is not a place to come to experience England, per se, although there are some very English elements to the city. By and large, though, this is a global city where you are likely to experience all sorts of different people and ways of doing things.

Not only is it a cultural experience, it is also a historical experience. The city itself is some two thousand years old, which gives it quite a bit history in its own right--and an edge over a relatively new place like New York. Enhancing the experience are dozens of museums littered around the city with artifacts from all over the world.

Finally, I am happy to report that I have achieved one of my primary objectives: to experience genuine fish and chips at an authentic English pub. It is something of a mixed blessing that much of the food here is prohibitively expensive. A foodie like myself would not be able to fit into his trousers by the end of the year if it were cheap.

Mind the Gap / Let's See Europe / On a Boat

2009-09-29T15:36:00.000-07:00

or, So Many Blog Titles, So Little Time

Hullo, all! It's perhaps a bit late to mention that I have, indeed, made it to London safely. I apologize for the delay in posting here, but London is a bustling city with much to see. As it turns out, exploring and adjusting are time-intensive and way more fun than blogging.

My flight arrived at Heathrow a week ago. It is a sad airport. Apparently the British aren't as fond as spending lavish sums of money on airports like we do in the States, or at least that was my impression. After navigating through immigration and the general maze of terminals and elevators, my dad and I found our way to the train to Paddington station, where we caught one of those iconic London taxis to the hotel. My understanding is that my voyage into London was a lot smoother those of my peers. Thanks, Dad.

The next few days were spent finding the school, mapping bus and Tube routes, and being tourists. We managed to hit quite a few places: Buckingham Palace, the British Museum, the Sir Winston Churchill Museum, Tower Bridge, the Tower of London, Trafalgar Square, and the National Gallery to name a few. Look for pictures in the coming days.

Sunday was move-in day. After visiting a Calvary Chapel and walking the parks around the palace, we checked into my place near Tower Bridge. Less spacious than the Queen's crib, to be sure, but my arrangements are palatial enough for a poor college student living five minutes from the Thames. I have a bed, a sink, a desk and a window with a nice view of other windows. The consolation price for lack of view: Starbucks is a three minute walk and has free wifi!

Monday and Tuesday were orientation days. Standard fare as far as orientation goes: wait in line, run into people who are just as lost as you, get bombarded with people who want you to sign up for their clubs and programs, and receive a pep-talk from the school faculty and student government. Still no definitive course schedule, but I think that should be in place by Friday.

Finally, last night was the boat party for General Course students. It was by far the best boat ride I've been on. The tour started near Tower Bridge (convenient for me) and went up and down the Thames. The view was phenomenal. The party was also a chance to meet other GC students. Washington is apparently very well-represented in the program: Georgetown has about thirty students participating, AU is somewhere in the neighborhood of twelve and there are a few token GW kids.

Since most of my time has been spent with GC orientation, I regret to say that I have had few encounters with actual British students. Hopefully that will change when courses start on Monday. In the meantime, there is still quite a bit to see and do before hitting the books.