Time and Monsters

Sophie, Charlotte, and I left Fisher House and began our walk into town. It was already getting dark signaling the true end of summer and the beginning of a long and dark winter. It was odd not to be wearing costumes on Halloween. I had packed mine up the day before. It had served me well at the college Halloween party, but I knew that I wouldn’t want to wear it where we were going. I wanted to be able to devote my full attention without the distraction of a rainbow wig and felt wings. I had dressed as Rainbow Dash from My Little Pony, you see.

The air was cool but it didn’t yet have the touch of icy frost that portended December and January. We were on our way to the Gala Theatre. It was the movie theatre in the centre of town. Charlotte had stumbled across tickets a week ago for a rebroadcast of a 2011 production of Frankenstein starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller and directed by Danny Boyle. As soon as she opened the webpage and read the description, I knew I had to go see it and on Halloween no less.

We arrived at the theatre and bought some crisps and glasses of wine. I’m still amazed when I think that you can have a beer, wine, or cider at a movie theatre here. We climbed the stairs to the balcony and took our seats in the front row. The lights dimmed and the screen sprang to life with a brief introduction to the production. Then the screen went black and the play began.

For the next two hours I was glued to the screen. It was a unique production. The two leading men had alternated parts each night when the play had been staged. I had hoped to see Benedict Cumberbatch in the role of the Monster and indeed as the performance went on, I kept imagining him in that part. I could see the nuanced ticks he would had added; hear the distorted voice he’d have spoken with. Perhaps it was made easier by the fact that the roles of Dr. Frankenstein and his Monster are quintessentially the same. At times they appear polar opposites but in truth they are different sides of the same coin, both outsiders, both driven, both childlike. In many ways it is Dr. Frankenstein who is the true monster of the piece; incapable of love and obsessed with his own brilliance and daring. Though even monsters are comforting in odd ways. They are merely the manifestations humans have come up with to represent their fears. Terrified of death we created the vampire, frightened of our inner animalism we gave birth to the werewolf, scared of our seemingly endless intelligence we created Dr. Frankenstein and his monster.

For hours after the play, I continued to process what I had seen. When faced with truly great performances I tend to need days to absorb the intricacies of it. There is also a special sort of melancholy that accompanies great performances. I wander in a bit of a daze, awestruck at the power of art to elicit, indeed wrench, emotional responses from me. It is an exhausting experience, but one that I crave. It is why I admire Benedict Cumberbatch’s performances so much. Everything I have seen him in thus far has produced the “performance coma” in me. I sit and ponder for days the smallest element of his character studies, the way he cocked his head in that one scene, the near imperceptible change in his eyes in reaction to another character’s revelation. It is the mark of a master craftsman and in many ways I envy it.

The week since Halloween has passed so quickly. I spent Sunday running around Beamish Museum with some lovely people from my course. We toured the recreated Victorian town and mining village, entering into the confectioners, the print shop, the stables, and the dentist’s office. We ate fish and chips out of newspaper cones and tried to squeeze ourselves into tiny desks at the schoolhouse. I had honey comb for the first time and gave myself a fairly good stomach ache. We rode trams and a train and ate delicious baked goods. By the end of the day we were all exhausted and we still hadn’t seen all that Beamish had to offer. It was a day when I allowed myself no thoughts other than the ones produced in the moment. It was a mental holiday before a long week.

On Monday evening I directed my first choir rehearsal in over a year. I am now conducting the Ustinov Choral Society through the Café des Arts programme. I can’t express my initial trepidation at this endeavour. I have never conducted a choir of adults let alone had to listen to four parts at once. Well sure, when I took my conducting courses during undergrad I did, but that is now over ten years ago. I was grateful to have Charlotte and Sophie in the alto section and Alex at the piano to give me a boost of confidence. It turned out that my fears, my monsters, were unnecessary. The response was tremendous. We handed out all twenty copies of music and more people are expected at the next rehearsal. The group was able to read through many of the pieces and what can I say? English choirs have built in fabulous diction. Something I had initially dreaded because I was terrified of failing has now become something I am genuinely looking forward to each week. I feel as though the failure monster was defeated. This victory has given me a bit of confidence to try to make a difference here. (The first difference to make is to try and procure a piano for the sole use of our College.)

The rest of the week has been a blur of lectures punctuated by fits of attempting to write my first essay for graduate school. My perfectionism and drive to obtain top marks has made this the most painful of experiences. Once again, my failure monster has poked its head around the corner to provide nightmare scenarios of getting anything less than perfection. I try to beat it off with reason, the only weapon which is any use against monsters. My reason has failed me in this area. I feel that I am working blind. I am unsure what level I am writing at and the English marking system does not acknowledge that perfection is achievable. Few people achieve firsts and I try to supplicate my monster by telling it that a 2:1 coupled with the plethora of extracurricular activities I am involved in will serve me tremendously well.

“A 2:1 is no first,” it says.

“No, it’s no first,” I agree.

And thus the cycle continues. I write a paragraph and then delete it. Write it again, delete it again. It’s as though I am Dr. Frankenstein endlessly pursuing my perfection monster through the arctic wilderness of grad school.

I suppose the other thing on my mind is the fact that in less than twenty-four hours I will leave my twenties behind and take up the mantle of a thirty year old. (I never said I wasn’t dramatic.) I have tried and tried to remember how turning twenty felt. Did I feel this weight of time on my shoulders then? I can’t remember. What I do remember is turning nine. I remember sitting in primary school a few months before I would be nine. A boy in my class, I remember his name was Ryan, proudly announced he turned nine that day. We were in a small reading group with the teacher. She turned to him and smiled.

“Just think,” she said wistfully, “this is your last year in single digits. Next year when you turn ten, you will never be single digits again.”

It was the first epiphany I ever had. I sat there and a wave of prickly realization came over me. You will never be single digits again. Perhaps it was because my birthday was a month away that this struck home with me. How many times have we been told as children not to grow up too fast? In one moment, my teacher had made each of us realize what growing up meant. It meant you always go forward, you can never go back. In that moment the physics of the fourth dimension were made clear to a bunch of eight and nine year olds. We were linear creatures who could only experience time in a single direction. I wonder if this is where my fascination with time began.

So now I sit here hours away from my birthday and I am thinking you will never be in your twenties again. I look at it with a different perspective than my nine year old self. I recently read Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time and I try whenever possible to read and watch everything I can about time, how it is perceived, what it is. The fact that time is relative and not constant, that it moves more slowly around massive objects. It is one of the most amazing things in the universe. And so I consider my thirtieth birthday. Perhaps the strangest question I had was when will I precisely turn thirty? I was born at 5:30am EST. England is five hours ahead so I’ll turn thirty at 10:30am here. I was having this conversation with Alex, the pianist from choir and a member of my course.

“Think about this though. What if you were born at 7:30pm?” he suggested, “Would your birthday be on your birthday or would it be the next morning at 12:30am? Which day were you born?”

Mind. Blown.

My thoughts turn back to the past. I consider who I have been over the last decade; an undergraduate, an educator, an international graduate student across the sea. I have been a friend, a patient, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a lover, a fighter. I have been at times a petulant child and a pillar of reason. Who will I be over the coming decade?

I will never be in my twenties again.

I smile at that for a second. I don’t think I’d want to go back. Every experience I’ve had, everything I was has gotten me to this point. Truth be told, I’m pretty happy. I’m doing amazing things at the moment despite what my perfection monster and failure monster may be trying to say at times. I have found success and perfection in unconventional ways despite their hounding. I find in this moment that I am precisely where I am supposed to be and at precisely the correct time. At no other point before this moment could I have been doing what I am doing. I have woven the threads of my life in such a way to bring me here now. The only direction to move now is forward and I’m fairly sure the next decade will be just as interesting a journey as the last. Come along my monsters, friends, and readers; the next crazy adventure is just over that hill.  

To the Moon and Back

Some of the most memorable experiences I have had in Durham have come about when I wasn’t looking for them. It seems that much of life happens this way, in a sort of serendipitous accident. This was how Charlotte and I found ourselves sitting on the moon one Saturday in October.

I assure you we had not planned on visiting the moon that morning. We had started out for town on an important, top secret mission. Well, the secret is out of the bag now. We were on our way into town to buy some presents and treats for a surprise birthday for Sophie. The plan was to head to Accessorize, grab a nice pair of gloves, meet Trish, and together, gather some party supplies and food.

All was going according to plan. Charlotte and I met at Fisher house at 1100 precisely and set off for our carefully chosen targets. The walk was brisk, but not unpleasant, and it virtually no time we were nearing Elvett Bridge.

“Ooh, look at that,” said Charlotte pointing to a flyer stuck on a sign a few feet in front of us.

 

Taken from
https://www.facebook.com/durhamdoesvintage?fref=ts

 “That looks like fun,” I said.

We looked at each other. Now, had I been on my own with the same mission, I wouldn’t have hesitated a moment. I would have carried on with what I had to do. No. That was the old me; the me that was before I came to England and decided I had to try and see as much as I could.

“We have plenty of time,” Charlotte coaxed.

“Yeah, let’s go check it out,” I replied.

Faster than you could say, mission aborted, we were crossing the street and heading into the Marriott. The entrance fee was only £1 and that £1 had allowed us entry into a wondrous, vintage smorgasbord. In the foyer was a man selling replica tin signs and old magazines. Around the corner from him was an ice cream stand. We decided to head upstairs first and when we reached the first floor corridor we were met with endless clothes racks filled with dresses, coats, furs, suits, and wraps. Shoes lined the baseboards and tables filled with jewellery, glass, and knick knacks were pushed against the walls. There were all manner of things available for purchase. Old cameras, binoculars, hats, pipes, hairbrushes, CDs, mirrors, hairpins, gloves, pins, magnets, and beer mats.  

We edged our way through the crowd, weaving between collectors, venders, and the curious. I spotted an amazing looking short naval jacked hanging prominently on one of the many clothes racks.

“Every garment here has a story,” said the lady standing near the rack, “and all prices are negotiable.”

I loved the crisp tailored lines of the jacket, the red piping, and the anchor buttons. I turned the affixed tag around and sighed. £75. I knew I couldn’t justify spending that kind of money on one jacket, no matter how compelling its story and there was no way I would be able to talk her down to £20.

Charlotte and I continued through the corridor and through the rooms which were also filled with vendors. There were so many things that my eyes couldn’t register everything they were seeing. I tried to absorb it all as best I could.

I was busy absorbing when we entered the next room and there it was. Big and bright and bold. It was the moon, or more to the point, it was the Moon Booth. A wooden, crescent shaped, vintage moon that was big enough to sit on was standing in front of a black drape. Sitting on the moon was a girl in a smart, tailored jacket that reminded me immediately of the naval jacket I had had to leave behind a short while ago. She was wearing a pill box hat and posed naturally on the moon.

I had never done a vintage photo shoot. I saw so many of my friends pictures from fun photos shoots and I always wanted to dress up and have old timey photos taken. It was just silly fun. I’ve never lost my love of dressing up. There is something completely freeing about putting on a character and pretending to be someone or something else for a short time. I was feeling shy suddenly.

“I kind of want to do the Moon Booth,” I whispered to Charlotte.

“Yeah?” she asked. She didn’t seem completely excited by it.

I nodded.

“You can do, if you like,” she said.

“Do you want to?” I asked.

“Yeah alright, then,” she acquiesced.

We headed over and asked if we could have a turn on the moon. The booth was run by Amber Le Fay and Bentley G. Ravelle. Amber smiled warmly and showed us where to hang our coats and bags. She began handing us fancy coats to cover our modern clothes and vintage hats and gloves. She looked at me.

“Hmm, you need something around your neck,” she said. She reached for a mink wrap and I cringed. I had been bemoaning the amount of fur for sale all morning, especially the mink wraps. They reminded me too much of my ferrets and I had been missing them terribly.

Charlotte intervened, “Oh, she’s a vegetarian, I don’t think she’ll like that.”

Amber gave me an apologetic smile and puffed up the fake fur around the collar of my coat.

“That should look just fine,” she said.

We both headed over to the moon and took our places. Amber posed us while Bentley snapped our three photos. We stood up and began to slowly remove our fun vintage accessories when I spotted a deerstalker hat, a pipe, and a magnifying glass on the prop table. The wheels in my addled head began slowly to turn. I was wearing my self-proclaimed Sherlock Holmes coat. I bought it because it would be perfect if I ever wanted to dress up like my favourite literary sleuth and it still looked amazing as a day to day item.

“Would it be possible to do a Sherlock Holmes photo in my coat?” I asked tentatively.

“Of course!” said Amber.

I pulled on my coat while Amber placed the deerstalker on my head. She handed me the pipe and magnifying glass and I took my now familiar seat on the moon.

I loved playing Sherlock Holmes, even for the few seconds it took Bentley to take three photographs. I have always loved Sherlock since my dad got me into listening to the old Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce radio dramas. I grew up watching Jeremy Brett and I used to pretend to be Holmes when I would play in my room. I’ve never lost that love for the character.

Check them out at
http://www.moonbooth.co.uk/Moon_Booth/About.html

Charlotte and I picked up our prints and I sadly left the deerstalker, pipe, and magnifying glass for the next lucky person.

“I’m so glad we decided to come in here,” I said to Charlotte.

“Me, too. That was really fun,” she replied.

We headed back downstairs and decided we couldn’t leave without checking out the ice cream. Not only were there hot fudge sundaes, but there was coke in vintage glass bottles with red and white paper straws. Charlotte and I looked at each other and knew what we had to do. I ordered a hot fudge sundae with vanilla ice cream and, though I usually don’t like Coke, I ordered myself a Coke with the obligatory straw. Charlotte got a warm chocolate cookie and a coke as well. We wandered away from the fair and sat down to enjoy our vintage feast.

The tastes of days gone by.

The ice cream was the creamiest I have ever had. I noticed that the chocolate bars I have had since I arrived here seemed much creamier as well. It must be an English specialty, churning out delicious, creamy delicacies. I hadn’t had a hot fudge sundae in years and it reminded me of childhood summers when we would keep a jar of microwavable hot fudge in the refrigerator. Many’s the time I would creep into the kitchen, take that magical jar out of the fridge, microwave it as quietly as I could and then just eat it by the spoonful. It’s amazing the things we do as children.

I sipped my coke through the paper straw and was greeted by that syrupy sweetness which is so much the flavour of Coke. It’s not my favourite fizzy drink, as they say here, but when drunk from a glass bottle, through a paper, red and white straw and in the company of a friend, it is rather fine.

We finished our goodies and decided it was time to return to our previous mission. Trish had texted Charlotte that she was on her way and we still had a lot of errands to run. We bade goodbye to the fair and stepped back out onto the streets of Durham.

(Note: You may have noticed, if you were very observant, my dear reader, that I have used English spellings in this post. I have recently begun writing essays for my coursework and as I need to use English spellings I changed my spell checker to English (UK). All of my posts will appear this way because I'm just too lazy to change the setting back and forth. Well, then, enjoy, chaps and chapesses!)

Through the Looking Glass (One Month Anniversary of my Arrival)

One month has passed with a speed which would make Einstein question the space time which surrounds the UK. Friday marked the official one month mark and I celebrated it with an incredible dinner at the Castle.

Normally the Castle is closed to everyone who is not a member of University College. If you manage to get on a tour, you can pass through the large heavy wooden door and enter into, what really feels like another world entirely. During Fresher’s Week, I joined the University’s Music Society, partly to pay homage to my past endeavors and partly because I knew they held at least one dinner in the Castle. The date happened to coincide with my one month anniversary of having arrived in Durham.

I kept imagining what lay beyond the wall and heavy wooden door. Of course I had seen photographs, but they rarely give you the scale or the feel of actually being somewhere. Indeed, the Cathedral had been an utter shock to my senses despite the numerous times I had Googled it in the months leading up to my departure. I couldn’t get the idea of Hogwarts out of my head. Perhaps it’s a very American perception that all of the old English universities are like Hogwarts, but I can’t quite get the comparison out of my head. I imagined thick stone walls, tapestries, portraits, and stone floors that echoed with every step and tall, Gothic windows that glowed yellow at night from within.

Palace Green and the Castle

Tickets for the Music Society dinner went on sale about two weeks before. I felt as though I had the key to unlock that mysterious door not only for myself, but for some of my friends. We had all fantasized about dining in the Castle and now that I had the chance, I wanted to share it. I quickly put out a Facebook message to Charlotte and Sophie asking if one of them would accompany me. I had attempted to purchase two guest tickets, but unfortunately I could only bring one other person. Charlotte messaged me back within five minutes. She had made plans for that evening already and was gutted not to be able to attend. Sophie responded within seven minutes with an enthusiastic yes. I bought the tickets online and put the date in my calendar. I would finally get a glimpse at how the other half (or technically how the other 16^th lived.)

University College is the oldest of Durham’s sixteen colleges. For the first half of its existence and some would argue all of its existence, it housed the wealthiest students. These were the elites. They brought their servants with them to university, because really, when you are studying, who has the time to cook and wash. (Honestly, they have a bit of a point here.) Hatfield College was set up to be home to those students who couldn’t afford to bring servants. There has been a bit of a rivalry between them ever since. In fact, I heard that after University College matriculated, they returned to the Castle and actually walked over a sign with Hatfield’s coat of arms on it. I don’t know as if this is true, but it illustrates my point. In a way, I felt like I was going to look very much like an American bumpkin when I entered the Castle. This coming from the girl who lived in Manhattan for a year and never once did a day’s work on a farm. I felt very much “downstairs” to their “upstairs.”

As the days passed, I gradually became more and more nervous. What if this dinner was a total disappointment? We had all built up the Castle in our imaginations as something incredible. What if it turned out to be quite ordinary? I received an email two days before. The dress code had changed from smart casual to smart. Instantly I had to rethink what I would wear. I was also informed I had to pick up my tickets from the World Heritage Site Center before it closed at 4:30 on the Friday. Luckily I was near Palace Green on Thursday afternoon and managed to collect them very easily.

The day of the dinner Sophie, Charlie, Emily, and I met to review a quiz we were to take on calculating relative humidity. I handed Sophie her ticket.

“I’m feeling quite nervous about this,” she said.

“I am, too,” I replied, “I’m really hoping it isn’t disappointing.”

“I hope so, too,” she said with a slight amount of concern.

“It can’t be disappointing,” I said, trying to sound confident, “It’s the Castle.”

Time flew and before I knew it I was dressed in my black and red floral cocktail dress and walking over to Fisher House to meet Sophie. We began our trek down to the Castle. It was dark, but not as chilly as I thought it would be. I had wrapped myself up in a heavy winter coat and completed the ensemble with a scarf, gloves, and hat. I quickly removed the hat and gloves and put them in my handbag.

It was a dark and slippery walk. The leaf paste was even more treacherous in heels and the lack of adequate street lighting made each step and leap of faith that the pavement would be solid beneath our feet. As we neared town, the Cathedral rose up out of the darkness. I hope that I never get used to seeing it. I hope that every time is like the first. That moment of awe and wonder that humans created something so substantial and imposing nearly a thousand years ago. However much we may look at them quaintly as simple people in a simpler time, you cannot deny that knew how to build things.

We were finally at Palace Green. The only light was from the floodlights illuminating the Cathedral and the Castle. We found a bench where Sophie changed her shoes and we collected our thoughts. I was shaking with excitement and still nervousness. I knew I wouldn’t entirely fit in inside a Castle and indeed, I began to realize I had never before been inside a castle. We simply don’t have them in the US.

We crossed Palace Green, picking our way carefully over the cobblestones in our heels. The Castle loomed before us, but today, it couldn’t shut us out. We had our golden tickets and we would soon gain entry to the wonders that lay beyond that door. We arrived at the closed walkway and didn’t hesitate; we continued walking down the stone path towards the entrance. Then we reached the door.

Now the door itself is quite huge, but because to move that door would be a genuine logistical nightmare, the good folks of the Castle had come up with a brilliant solution. They cut a smaller door in the larger door. Fantastic, you’re probably thinking, problem solved. Well when I say smaller, I mean it was probably three feet tall with a six inch lip at the bottom. Trying to squeeze through it in heels all while trying to look dignified is complete folly. It felt as though we were squeezing through the rabbit hole in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I could only hope in that moment that it would really be a Wonderland on the other side.

There was a small desk set out on the other side with a young man, the porter sitting at it. He pointed us to a corner in the courtyard where we were to enter. Our adventure with the tiny door had made both of us giddy. We finally decided that as we were here, and we knew we were imposters who had gained entrance to the palace for one night only, that we might as well make the most of it. We began taking photos of the courtyard with the frenzy of Japanese tourists in Manhattan all the while giggling to each other.

Eventually we made our way over to the doorway the porter had pointed out and we were directed in and up a flight of stairs to the champagne reception. We took our coats and hung them in the entryway. We started up the wooden stairs and took a glass of champagne each. We had made it. We were in!

Though the memory is fresh as I write, I find it difficult to adequately describe what it was like standing in that Norman castle, surrounded by stone and ornately carved wood. The corridor was filled with people all dressed in their versions of what smart meant. It was crowded and the voices of over a hundred people reverberated off of the ancient stone. We squeezed our way through the crowd and found ourselves near a display case filled with flintlocks and a leather saddle.

Just an FYI: If you're at a function at a museum
DON'T put your wine glasses on the display case.

“Should we check that the relative humidity is optimal in the case?” I joked. Sophie leaned over and found 

the hygrometer.

“Looks alright,” she replied. We laughed again.

It was then that we recognized a familiar face. Amanda from our department came over and we began talking about the previous week’s lectures, the relative humidity quiz, and our essay plans which were due on Monday. She told us that she had become distracted by a portrait of King Charles II which was hanging in the coat check room upstairs. We made our way further down the crowded corridor and past more museum cases with leather pistol holders, which had looked to me like peg legs, and books. We were standing in front of a giant, richly carved stone archway with red carpeted stairs leading up to the second floor. Amanda went off to find a friend of hers while Sophie and I continued to blatantly take photographs and laugh about the fact we were actually there.

“Should we go exploring?” she asked. My stomach began to knot up a bit. The last thing I wanted was to be banned from the Castle for being somewhere I shouldn’t be. On the other hand, when else would I have the opportunity? I nodded and we began to climb the red stairs.

We turned to the right and went up some more stairs. On our left was an open door and we went in. A harpsichord stood in the alcove of a large window. Red curtains were swept up on either side. The walls were covered in paintings and these were not your hotel art types. These were legitimate works of art, painted by masters. They were simply here, here for us to view. Those students who lived in Castle probably got to see them every day. Do they just get used to this? It is all mundane to them? I wondered. There was a small room off to the left and we went in. The room was octagonal, with a coat rack standing on one wall and a round table in the center. It looked like the sort of room you see in movies used for séances. More paintings hung on every wall. We found the portrait of King Charles II hanging just above the coat rack. Again I couldn’t believe it was just here.

You know, we just have a painting of King Chuck II hanging in our dormitory, I thought. Like you do.

We went out of the rooms and back into the tiny corridor by the stairs. Off to our left was a dark, spiral staircase. We began to walk up it but the darkness swallowed any chance of us seeing what lay at the top. We came back down and returned to the corridor just as the gong began to ring to tell us it was time for dinner.

Everyone piled down the stairs and into the Great Hall. It was then that I realized, this was Hogwarts. The room was enormous. White plaster walls stretched up into the high vaulted wooden ceiling. More amazing paintings hung between the long stained glass windows and I kept expecting those sitting in them to get up and move. The minstrel’s’ gallery looked out on us and suits of armor and weaponry hung from the far wall. High table was empty but the wall behind was filled with the most beautiful window framed in gray stone. There were six long wooden tables set out three by two and everyone was hurrying around trying to find their places.

Sophie and I were snapped out of our wonderment when we realized we had no idea where we sitting. We systematically walked up and down the tables until we found our places. We were separated slightly, probably owing to the fact that I had purchased the tickets only a week before. We sat and introduced ourselves to our table mates. Three were first years from St. Chad’s College. I was sitting opposite a third year who was also in the Archaeology Department and who happened to run the opera company. We chatted about my music degrees and singing experience and I wished I had the time to devote to learning a role while I was studying.

Then came the speeches. The first speaker was a young man with dark brown hair. He informed us that we were sitting in a thirteenth century dining hall. I had never eaten anywhere that was remotely close to being 800 years old.

“In the thirteenth century the high table would be filled with the best foods and drink,” he continued. “The further away you sat from high table, the worse the food would be.”

There was a collective laugh from the people sitting at the far back of the room.

“The minstrel’s gallery is where the musicians would be. They wouldn’t play during the meal, but somewhere between courses, everyone would stop and there would be a short musical interlude.”

He went on to welcome everyone and spoke about the Music Society. He next introduced the guest of honor, Ralph Allwood who had run a master class earlier that afternoon.

He spoke of finding the one thing you love to do. Whatever it was, you should find that thing and do it. He also spoke of changing his program from physics to music when he was a brash nineteen year old. I thought of my own decision to go into music when I was seventeen. I had no idea if I really loved music at that point. What seventeen year old know what they want to do for the rest of their lives? He spoke about teaching children music and some of the more amusing anecdotes from his past. I had pangs of regret. I had made music the focus on my life for almost ten years and now I was doing something completely different. I had relegated it to a mere hobby and I began to wonder if that somehow made me less special. I looked around the table at some of the students who were in the music program and I envied them slightly. They would be embarking upon a wonderful journey. I thought of my undergraduate years and the amazing performances opportunities I had then. I smiled. Despite my change of career, I would always have those amazing memories. The run outs to New York to sing with the New York Philharmonic, the daily choir rehearsals (except Thursdays) working on the great masterpieces of Beethoven, Brahms, and Bernstein, those would always be with me no matter what my new course in life was. I was broken out of my reverie by applause. 

The speeches were over for now and it was time to eat.

Each table stood in turn and went through the doors at the end of the hall under the minstrel’s gallery. This led around to the side of the Great Hall where we found a modern, buffet-style cafeteria. There was beef lasagna and garlic bread or a spicy Thai curry and rice. I opted for the meatless option and went on to the salad bar. We returned to our seats and began to eat our dinners. I couldn’t help continuing to gaze at my surroundings. I don’t think I would ever tire of eating somewhere this incredible. Castle students ate all three meals here. What must that even be like? I thought. How must it feel every morning to have your orange juice and scrambled eggs surrounded by such grandeur? I had another pang of regret. When I had chosen my college I had been torn between Castle and Ustinov. I had finally chosen the latter because I wanted to be surrounded by postgraduates and because Castle postgrads didn’t live in the Castle, but in accommodations further away. I began to wish I had the opportunity to walk in a Castle student’s shoes for just two weeks. It must be amazing.

After the first course, the President of the Music Society spoke. I must admit I don’t remember much of what was said. We were to switch seats though in order to meet other people. All around me groaned. We had just begun to get to know each other. Sophie and I managed to find her new seat and I noticed the seat next to hers did not have a name tag. I planted myself there. Perhaps it wasn't sporting, but I hadn't had a chance to really talk to her all night. I felt that the emphasis of the evening should have been on the quality of meeting people not the quantity.

Dessert was lemon cheesecake. Sophie, not liking cake, took the opportunity to find the restroom. When she returned she turned to me.

“Walking around the Castle, at night, on your own is a bit creepy,” she confided.

“Is it?” I asked.

She nodded. I smiled, I myself had to heed the call of nature and I looked forward to a quiet wander around.

I had noticed that there was a bathroom off of the coat check room. I made my way up the first flight of wooden stairs and into the corridor where the champagne reception had been. It felt quite a bit different now that it had been emptied of people. It was quiet and dark, save for the lights coming from the display cases. When you are on your own in a space, it somehow becomes more yours. You fill it with your own presence and it’s more comfortable. 

I walked slowly past the marble busts and iron artifacts. I turned left up the stone archway and climbed up the red stairs into the coat check room. It was still and quiet. I breathed more deeply now that I had a quiet moment to soak in my surroundings. I found the restroom and closed the door. I noticed a rather hideous floral curtain against one of the walls. I carefully pulled it to the side and found a deep, modern bathtub behind. I raised my eyebrow, confused. Then I thought, I wish I could have a nice long soak in a hot bath in a Castle. I decided that probably would get me chucked out for sure, so I just went about me business. As I was drying my hands, I noticed a key behind some glass surrounded by a red painted circle.

“Break Glass for Key” it read. I looked around. There was no explanation for what the key was or what it did. Once again, I allowed my imagination to take over. Clearly it was a key which unlocked a space time vortex and could transport whoever held it to anytime or place of the keymaster’s choosing. While a gallivant through the cosmos would be enlightening, I thought, I better get back.

I returned to find Sophie sipping a glass of wine.

“Sorry it took me so long, I was exploring a bit,” I explained.

“I was wondering what happened to you,” she said.

We decided to try to find the Undercroft, the University College pub. It was housed in an eleventh century portion of the Castle and I had been anxious to see what it was like. We collected our coats from downstairs and headed out into the courtyard. The pub was directly under the Great Hall and we entered hoping to find a cozy little pub dripping with history and intellect. Instead we found a college bar. I left disappointed. I had hoped for a level of ambiance to be present somewhere that was so old, but the hordes of undergraduates wearing Christmas stockings as hats killed it for me.

We made our way back into the courtyard for one last look. It was time to crawl out of the rabbit hole. As I took in the last sites from within the Castle walls, I paused. It hadn’t been disappointing at all. It had been every bit as amazing as I had imagined and hoped it would be. I smiled and soaked in as much of it as I could before I squeezed through the tiny door and arrived back in reality.

Rest in Peace, dear Durham

Durham in October is wet and chilly. Some of the leaves have turned and fallen, but most of the trees are still fairly green. The leaves that have fallen get trampled into the pavement and when they are wet they form this brown, slippery paste-like substance. The weather is so changeable. You may be walking to your first lecture in a downpour but when you get out two hours later the sky is blue and the air is chilly. Then as you walk you warm up and by the time you make it to your next destination, you are overheated.

There is a considerable lack of pumpkin things here as well. Not necessarily Halloween décor, I’ve seen quite a bit of that around actually. No, it’s the lack of pumpkin EVERYTHING; pumpkin coffee, pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, pumpkin butter, pumpkin soup, pumpkin scones, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin doughnuts, pumpkin puree. There is however a haven of pumpkin flavored things and that is the Starbucks just across the Framwellgate Bridge. Here you can still order a pumpkin latte and have a slice of pumpkin bread.

A taste of home, pumpkin latte and pumpkin bread from Starbucks.

I did see a sign in Greggs as well advertising a Spicy Pumpkin Soup, but I haven’t yet had the chance to try it. Tesco does have pumpkins for carving and Halloween candy can be found there as well as at Poundland.

There is a lot of talk about Halloween and Halloween costumes. Though it isn’t as celebrated here as back home, there is a decided acknowledgement of Halloween. Houses aren’t decorated and only small children go trick or treating, but Halloween parties can be found everywhere as well as ghost walks and tours of supposedly haunted houses. The one thing they don’t have here are hayrides. I mentioned to Charlotte a few weeks ago that a friend of mine was going on a haunted hayride.

“What’s that?” she asked with a perplexed look on her face.

“You know, it’s a hayride where people jump out at you and try to scare you?” I replied.

She still looked confused.

“So farmers will hitch up a large wagon to their tractors, throw a few bales of hay on it for people to sit, and they drive around their farms. Sometimes they are at night and people dress up to scare you. It’s really a lot of fun,” I explained.

“That sounds like fun. We don’t have anything like that here,” said Charlotte disappointedly.

Durham does, however, have some pretty creepy cemeteries. I managed to go out one morning when the fog was thick and snap a few photos. I present to you now, the Cemeteries of Durham. Muwahahahaha ::cough cough:: Oh, sorry about that.

St. Cuthbert’s Church on North Road

I woke on the morning of the 16 October and noticed the view outside my window had been obscured by a thick fog. I was still living north of the city of Durham and I knew my walk that morning would take me past St. Cuthbert’s and its churchyard. I made sure I had my phone on me and I left early enough to be able to wander about for a few minutes taking photos. The graves were silhouettes against a white backdrop of enigmatic mist. Some were quite old and covered in moss. In order to enter the churchyard, you pass through a wooden archway with the names of those you had been killed in both World Wars listed on the inside. It’s quiet and still.

You can just make out the list of names
of the fallen soldiers from WWI in the archway.

St. Oswald’s Church on Church Street

As I made my way through town, the fog had began to lift, like a veil rising and revealing a colorful display of reds, golds, and greens. I came upon St. Oswald's, my favorite churchyard. It’s home to a wildlife refuge as well as the long dead. Indeed, as I passed the old, cracked headstones I was reminded of the quote from the Book of Common Prayer, “in the midst of life we are in death.”

No we aren't, I thought, in the midst of death we are in life. The wildflowers that grow over the graves, the birds, and the small animals are all vibrant and alive among the dead. The churchyard feels anything but a dead place, it’s warm and pleasant. It is by a busy thoroughfare and people are always walking by the stone wall that encapsulates it. When you are in the cemetery though, it still feels isolated and quiet, as though the outside world is shut out of its boundaries.

 

The War Memorial

St. Cuthbert holding the head of St. Oswald, like you do.

Durham Cathedral at Palace Green

I went the Cathedral at night. It is brilliantly lit by flood lights and can be seen from almost every point in Durham, like a beacon. The Cathedral is a veritable tomb itself, housing the remains of St. Cuthbert and St. Bede. It’s quite a small cemetery and an odd one. Palace Green is often alive with activity. Students are running to and from class. At night, they shout drunkenly when walking back to their digs from the Castle pub. The graves seem quite exposed and out in the open, not kept tucked away behind stone walls.

There are certainly other graveyards in Durham, but these are the ones I interact with on an, if not daily basis, than certainly weekly. I frequently walk past St. Cuthbert’s on my way to town, and I often look in as I do. There is something compelling about the worn stones that I do find comforting. Every headstone is a life, a story. I have often wandered through old cemeteries wishing I could unlock the mystery of those stories. Who were these people? Who did they love? What kind of disappointments did they experience? What were their fears and triumphs? What did they care about? I weave through the monuments and imagine these long past lives and create elaborate stories to go with them. I suppose that’s why I’ve never been afraid of churchyards. To me every one is like a heavy tome filled with intriguing tales and characters. 

Unit Available (1 Bed, 1 Bath) Limited Offer

Howlands Farm is situated south of city center. The following listing represents the best Howlands has to offer and is available for a limited time only for those seeking a unique and practical living space.

Unique Entryway

The real star of the foyer is the bulletin board. This exclusive art feature is practical as well as decorative. Just think of the messages, labels, and photographs which can be added to truly personalize this space which would otherwise be a barren wasteland of white walls. 

Spacious Floor Plan

The living space is quite large when compared to similar units close by. Even the most discerning home hunter will agree that the space seems to go on forever, until it hits the wall just 2.5 meters away.

Restful Oasis

The bedroom is the perfect restful oasis at the end of a long day. Just settle into the comfort of this compact little cot and it's off to dreamland.

Productive and Utilitarian Work Space

Even procrastinators won't be able to resist this office. It practically beckons you to come and be productive. (Note: Tyrannosaurus Rex not available with purchase.)

Bonus: Library

I think Belle would agree that this library is an added bonus. Just think of all of the volumes and tomes you will be able to cram onto these shelves. You can lose yourself in a world of words.

A Room with a View

 I think this view speaks for itself with its gently sloping lawn with smart landscaping. And just look, the neighbors aren't that far away!

Now we come to the best feature of this unit: the bathroom. Imagine yourself as the captain of your own little spaceship when you step into this state of the art plastic paradise.

You'll be saying, "beam me up" every time you flush.

This is a hot listing folks. If you want it, you have to pounce right away. Offer available at the exceptionally low rate of £5503 a year. 

In all seriousness, I have so far really loved my new accommodation on campus. This past week has been a pleasure when compared to the anxiety and frustrations of the weeks before. I am now a comfortable 20 minute walk to lectures and 30 minute walk into the city center. I have felt much more comfortable in my own skin since my move as well. I find myself breathing more deeply and being more focused. This is odd considering all of the distractions which are available to me at this location, the cafe and pub, the music room, and the gym. I am able to attend events more easily as well. Seminars, quizzes, or simply a cuppa at a friend's place is now all available to me. I'm really looking forward to spending the next 11 months here.