Things I Miss

This time of the semester is when we all inevitably have started to miss things about home. The problem is because we all know that the time is limited. The semester is only four months long. Whether we are counting the days until we have to leave or whether we are counting the days until we get to go home, we are counting something and know that it isn’t infinite.

I think it would be different if I knew I were going to live here. I could see myself living here for sure. But I know that at the moment I will be going back to the States in less than two months. And because of that, I know I am only that amount of time away from experiencing the comforts of home again. It’s like the final stretch of a race where I can see the finish line and imagine what it will feel like to stop running. Only London isn’t painful like running is. So maybe it’s more like I can see the finish line and in a way want to stop because it means I don’t have to run anymore and means that I will eventually just get to lie around not running, but at the same time it is going to burn for a long time immediately after I stop running. Enough of the metaphor because it doesn’t quite equate. I wanted to provide you of a list of things (note I didn’t write people) that I miss most about home. So here they are in order of how much they contribute to world peace (kidding. Maybe):

1) Dunkin Donuts

2) Loubea’s Pizza

3) A good steak

4) Fruit bars

5) Soda that’s the right size

6) ESPN

7) ESPN 2

8) NBC Nightly News

9) FRIENDS

10) American Football

11) Having a desk in my room

12) My cell phone

13) Riding in a car

14) Capital Hills

15) Golfing and skiing

16) People saying “thanks” instead of “cheers”

17) People saying “God bless you”

18) Boston accents

19) Commonwealth Avenue

20) The FreeP

21) The GSU

22) Turner Place

23) Coconut (is he too much of a person?)

24) American currency

25) The punctuation being inside the quote

26) AP style

27) Being underage

28) Being a kid

29) Knowing that this semester is the future instead of the present.

I had an article published in today’s Observer but it doesn’t have a byline. I wanted to give you a link, but for some reason it isn't online. Also, I got to go to a Premiership game (pictured here) and write a mock match report. It was hectic but really exciting.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

Wined and Dined

25/3/08

Ethics is a topic of conversation that has arisen in every single journalism class I have ever taken. Ethics are at the core of the profession and the issue transcends oceans. In a class I took at BU, we had a major discussion about whether it was acceptable to go to an event as a journalist and eat free food and drink free drinks, all the while knowing you were going to have to write an impartial story about it. We decided that ultimately it is sometimes necessary. But, if it can be avoided, it is always best not to take amenities.

Today I got to see just how nice those amenities can sometimes be. I was invited to attend an event sponsored by Major League Baseball and North American Sport Network. It was a viewing of the opening day game between the Boston Red Sox and the Oakland Athletics (which actually took place in Tokyo). My editors did not think it would be worth their time to go so they passed the ticket on to me. It was fantastic. I got to watch a game that I would not have otherwise seen (which was taking place during a time when I otherwise would have been sitting in the office). I also got free lunch and free breakfast. It was held at NOBU, an upscale Japanese restaurant. I really couldn’t argue with the day. But I did see its ethical concerns.

Fortunately, I was just assigned to go and have a good time. But if I had been assigned to write some sort of piece about the event, I would have had a difficult time not being biased. How could I write unfavorably about a place that was handing out free lattes and sushi? Now, in reality, this event wouldn’t have required unfavorable coverage because it was all about fun. But what about reporters who are covering political campaigns and meanwhile getting wined and dined by the party? How well-balanced are their stories going to be? It is a serious worry and something that is sobering to think about when reading any newspaper. You have to hope that newspapers are employing professionals who are taking their journalism seriously. But in a profession that is not high paying, perks could be enough to sway some lowly reporters.

Regardless, today was grand on many levels.

(Pictures are from a day trip to York)

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

Gestures

When I was on the train yesterday coming home it was crowded as usual. King’s Cross, where I transfer, is a popular Tube station because so many lines intersect there. So as the train slowed down I started to move, making it clear that I would be exiting at this station. There was a woman sitting down with a big bag who appeared like she was on the train for the long hall. So I tried to shimmy past her until I realized she was actually getting up to leave the train, too. So I motioned for her to go ahead. It was something like a waiter might do when presenting a dish. My palms were to the sky and I sort of flicked my risk. I thought it was a good way to say “go ahead.” But the woman mistook my gesture. She thought it was a sign of annoyance. I know this because she apologized. “Let me just move my bag, and I’ll be out of your way,” she said.

In retrospect, it may have looked like I was annoyed (I think my facial expression tends to look that way even when I don’t intend it) and the gesture could have just as easily been saying “what the hell are you doing.”

So much can be said with gestures. For instance, “go ahead you have the right of way to make this turn,” all signified by a simple hand movement. A wave is as good as hello. A head nod quickly offers disinterest or interest. You get the idea.

The problem is that many gestures aren’t universal. Here, you can’t give the peace sign, at least not vertically, because in London the peace sign equals The Finger. Here a gesture is needed to catch a bus, when in the States it would be absurd to have to wave your arm on the street corner. It’s just funny to me how we have not just separate dialects, but separate signalects if you will.

But I noticed something else as well. When I was at a pub for Saint Patties Day earlier this week, it was very crowded and the bartender was getting frustrated with his till. In his momentary rage, he gave the machine the finger. I guess some things will always be universal.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

Theatre Review (1)

The class I am taking during the second term is a theatre review course. So we see a play every week and write a review on it. I figure I will post the reviews in case you are interested. Here is the one I wrote for Harold Pinter’s The Homecoming:

Harold Pinter’s The Homecoming could be diagnosed with multi-personality disorder. It is not just Max’s – the father – effortless switches between fierce tirades and gentle hospitality within the course of one breath. It is the entire tone of Michael Attenborough’s production at the Almeida Theatre in Islington. What sets up as a mundane, been-done-before plot descends into the absurd with one explicit sensual encounter in the second act.

Max, his two sons, Lenny and Joey, and his brother Sam certainly do not comprise the ideal family in their north-London abode, but neither do they initially come across as unrealistic. The incessant and often crude bickering, likely exacerbated by Jessie’s – the unseen mother and wife – death, reveal the possibility of past child abuse as well as the possibility of Sam’s covert homosexuality. Lenny seems to make his money immorally and Joey remains fairly quiet, only demonstrating signs of life when stretching for his boxing practice. But when estranged and scholarly son Teddy brings his wife, Ruth, of seven years home to meet his family for the first time, the dysfunctional unit of real men rapidly transform into a savage tribe of unimaginable beasts.

The realistic personality of the play seems to comment on the trap many of us put ourselves in when leaving home to create a second family. Pinter’s repetition of the term “father” (especially at emotional-scene-ending moments) seems to emphasize this. While Max comes off as being falsely proud of his three boys, he gives his own father Godly reverence. Teddy, contrarily, seems content being the master of his new home and eager to leave his old one.

As the play assumes a new absurd identity, however, themes change. Ruth becomes the central attraction. In the emasculated home, femininity proves most formidable. Willing to relinquish physical control, Ruth gains the most potent possible power over the men. Ruth embodies woman’s dilemma.

Jenny Jules, whose skin color adds new racial levels to this classic, delivers Ruth in a robotic form – allowing Attenborough to express the mindlessness many men assign to women. While Nigel Lindsay’s Lenny, Danny Dyer’s Joey and Neil Dudgeon’s Teddy are acceptable, although slightly hurried and stiff, Kenneth Cranham’s Max is intense but natural. It would not be surprising to discover that Cranham’s cane was a prop swiped from his own home.

Like observing a person with multi-personality disorder, watching Attenborough’s production of The Homecoming disrupts the viewer’s comfort and leaves nervous laughter as the only viable response. The strange thing about being nervous, however, is that it has a way of trapping the experience in your brain. And just as ending a conversation with a mentally disturbed individual pulls at your curiosity into the inner-workings of their mind, The Homecoming will not permit your brain to stop wrestling with what was going on inside Pinter’s skull. Anything that induces that much thought is worth the price of admission.

The pictures in this post are of the Fulham v. Everton football match I saw yesterday. Fulham won 1-0 in a big upset.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

God Bless You

12/3/08

Wednesdays are quiet. Even if a lot of people are in the office, which is rare for a Wednesday, no one really says anything. The quietness allowed me to observe something: The Brits do not respond when someone sneezes. No Guzentheit. No God Bless you. Not even an excuse you. Nothing. Silence.

In the States usually several people will elicit some sort of response. Here it was nothing. I think it relates to the Brits’ nature. They are a personal sort of people. To respond to someone’s body function I think they believe would be too invasive. In their eyes, it would be the equivalent of responding to someone going to the bathroom perhaps.

The first time someone sneezed, I muttered God Bless you in the usual low voice I utter it in. I realized no one else was doing the same. So when someone else sneezed later, I was purposefully quiet and discovered that really no one does respond. So finally, I had to sneeze. Obviously, no one responded. It was a little upsetting. I guess not upsetting, just discomforting. But this whole experience I guess is about breaking comfort barriers so it was probably a good thing.

I spent the day writing! No real news articles with quotes or anything, but stuff that should get published in some capacity. It will be for the Then and Now feature. It is a segment of the paper that looks at stadiums that have been demolished and turned into something like a mini mall. I did all the research and the writing about Harris Stadium, a cycling arena that was transformed into student housing at the University of Manchester. With any luck, it will be published soon.

Comments Welcome,
Andrew

Underground Club

When I was Editorial Page editor of the FreeP I had a columnist who devoted a semester’s worth of columns to the T (Boston’s subway system). I don’t think the Tube deserves that much time, but it is worth a mention.

Having to ride it every day to get to work has really made me feel like I live in London – probably the more than anything else I have done has. When going down the escalators I find myself on the left-hand side (the side that is walking instead of standing) because I have a time and destination to get to. It’s fun to pretend like I am a very important working man with places to be. And because I go to the same place each day, I have mastered where I am going. I don’t need to check the Tube map, which is a clear sign that someone is new to the city. I have even figured out which side of the platform is best in order to be closest to the exit. So in the mornings I know that if I go as far to the left as possible on the Piccadilly platform, I will be closest to the “way out.” It makes me feel like an insider.

I also have the pleasure (probably the wrong word) of traveling at rush hour. Trains are crammed full at that time to the point where you cannot even lift your arms if you wanted to. Amazingly, however, some people still manage to read the paper. But what I mean by having the pleasure of riding the uncomfortable trains at rush hour is that I get the chance at contributing to the working pulse of this city for a short while. It has been my dream ever since thinking about careers to be in a city, have to ride the public transportation each day only to sit in an office for eight hours just to do it again the next day. Not that this is my idea of fun, but it feels cool to be working. It’s nice to have a taste of what the next 30 years will be like. It feels like I am actually living in London, which has been my goal from the start.

Of course there are still plenty of times that I ride the Tube without knowing exactly where I am going. In this case, I obviously check the maps and look like a tourist. But that’s OK, too. And I really love how easy it is to read the Tube map. It is one of the most user-friendly public transport systems I have ever been on. Everything from purchasing tickets to directions within the stations is well marked and clear. No complaints. Except for one about the breath of the guy who was reading the paper at 6 ish one day last week. I have a small complaint there.

(Pictures are from a walk I took in Hyde Park yesterday)

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

End of Week one

8/3/08

No matter what the publication, the day before you “put it to bed” is quite exciting. At a daily, you obviously have the excitement each day, which actually takes away from some of the excitement. At a Sunday paper, like The Observer, it only comes once a week – but man does it come. Today was filled with lingo that non journalists cannot even imagine. Shouts of “Who’s clear?” “Are the boards read?” “Who’s on man of the match?” rang out from all directions.

One Saturday I would like to stay until the bitter end to see how it all completely comes together. Today I just decided to stay until about 7 when they told me to go home.

I actually got to work on things that are going to appear in tomorrow’s paper, which is awesome. I won’t have my byline or anything, but I will know that certain nuggets came directly from me. For instance, they are running a feature about floodlights in Sports. And as I said earlier this week, I did a lot of research for that article. Today I got to proofread the story on layout boards. It is a two-page spread complete with a chart that describes some floodlight history. Some of my wording from my research will be in tomorrow’s Observer. I have been published before, even large feature articles complete with my byline, but I have never had work appear in a publication of this magnitude. This is one of the most reputable newspaper companies in the world (the Guardian just won another international award for design last week).

The other sweet thing I got to do today was enter some information into the actual document of the Sport section. They run millions of graphics and lineups and scores every week that require grunt work to enter. So I did the grunt work of entering some of the lineups for this week’s games. But still, I was in control of that small piece of the paper. On my computer screen was a page of one of the most widely read papers in the country. It was like having a behind-the-scenes look. That’s pretty sweet. Hopefully I will have the chance to add even more of my own material into later editions. We’ll see.

This post's title links to the Sport section.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

First Day

In order to get a grade for doing this internship, we are required to write daily logs. They are fairly short and are supposed to attempt insight rather than just recant the day. Therefore I think they are worthy of this blog. I will post a few interesting ones a week. I promise my blog will not be reduced to these logs, however. Here is today’s:

4/3/2008

The first day of my last internship I was fortunate enough to go to a Hillary Clinton rally. This first day at the Observer was probably not going to live up to that. However, it was not unenjoyable.

Because The Observer is a Sunday paper, their week starts on Tuesday (Sunday and Monday are off days). Every Tuesday the Sport section meets in one of the rooms downstairs to decide what stories are going to appear in the next issue. My day started by going to this meeting.

Most adults hate going to meetings. For interns, they are a different story. They give interns solid entertainment for a good two hours. It was a good entry point. I got to see how the different staffers behaved in an actual working setting rather than a fake “and where are you from?” sort of setting.

Brian Oliver, the Sport editor, is somewhat of a loose cannon. It made the meeting even more entertaining. He’d crack jokes at the expense of some wealthy footballers or at the ineptness of some clubs’ PR departments. I only got about half of his jokes because some of them related to history of British sport that I don’t have enough background knowledge in.

Going upstairs I was worried that I wouldn’t have much to do. I went up and asked the editorial assistant if she had any tasks for me and just as she finished looking flustered, Brian Oliver said he already had something in mind. My job was to research the introduction of lights and night games to American Sports. American? Yes American. I thought I would come here and be totally immersed in British sport, but I guess they wanted to take advantage of having a US insider on staff. (Or So I like to tell myself).

The research was actually time consuming and managed to take me till the end of the day. I looked up and it was 5:30. The best part about journalism is each day is a new task, which keeps you on your toes. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

Spring Break

I want to apologize for not posting in so long. As you know, last week was Spring Break and I was traveling through France and Italy. Each hostel advertised free Internet connection, which I interpreted to mean wireless, but it really just meant you could use their desktop. Not wanting to monopolize the machine, I was unable to post. But that does not mean I stopped writing. Below are the three posts that I wrote while abroad. They appear exactly how they appear should they have been posted on the day they were written. Sorry to throw this much material at you at once, but I think it is better to have it then to not have it. And if it is too much to read all at once, then don’t read it. Also, because I have posted these individually, you can feel free to leave comments on each individual post. I will check each post just as I would any new post.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

When in Rome

I am not sure what I think about Rome. On the one hand, it is probably the most historically significant city I have ever been to. (Mrs. MacInerny’s Latin class is coming back to me in rapid flashes right now. I can practically smell the cigarette stench exuding from her clothes). But I don’t believe that the modern Romans treat the city with the respect it deserves. The city can’t have it both ways. It can’t be a modern city and a well preserved historical site at the same time. The two don’t add up.

On the other hand, it is a great big city. It has great food, great shopping (not that I shop) and is wonderfully crowded. But it feels wrong to have major streets running by places such as the Roman Forum and the Colloseum.

The Roman Forum in itself was somewhat upsetting. It almost looks like a graveyard or a dump. The stones may have been there since the beginning of modern time, but now they are just lying around like someone’s trash. And having cars whizzing by their site doesn’t help give them the reverence they deserve. At the same time, they are well protected so I guess I am just being paranoid.

The thing about museums that hold so many great statues (as the ones in Rome do) is that my mind can’t process it all at once. There are only so many times that I can think “wow this thing is freaking old.” Each stone carving I saw seemed slightly less magical than the last. I wish that wasn’t the case, but I am just being honest.

The Sistine Chapel was amazing, but there was so much going on that it was impossible for me to focus on anything in particular. You aren’t supposed to talk in the Chapel and there was a guy going around shushing people. He was quite annoying. I wanted to punch him when he started having a very loud conversation with one of the guards he knew.

Now a short story about hostel living. The thing about hostels is that they don’t provide a home base like hotels do. The only time that it is worth going back to the hostel is bedtime. When I went to sleep last night, no one else was in the eight-person room. They were all out partying or clubbing and seeing a side of Rome that I am yet to see. In a strange way I felt guilty for sleeping, which I in no way should. Anyway, at about 1 am I was sound asleep when some of the other travelers came barging in.

“I swear man, that girl wanted to have sex tonight.”

Oh boy, this could be interesting. I fake like I am still asleep so I can listen.

“But I can’t go out there man. The owner is out there”

I couldn’t figure out why this guy was scared of the owner seeing him. Then it became clear.

“Dude, you shouldn’t have puked in the stairwell.”

“You think I can control that? I paid for this room, man. He can’t lock me in here. Man that girl wanted it to.”

The guy thus preceded to try to persuade the hostel workers, who were ordered to keep him in his room, to let him go upstairs to the girl. The guy managed to get the girl somehow. I know because he was far from sparing with the details the next evening. Hostels offer little privacy.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

AloneTime

I had never eaten alone in a restaurant before this vacation. I can’t say that I was missing out. Sure it provided ample reading time, but other then that it was a tad depressing. The waiter treated me quite well (maybe he felt sorry for me I am not sure). But because he only spoke a slight amount of English and because I speak no French we could not have a conversation.

It was nice not having to share the bread. More food is always a plus, but I think I’d sacrifice putting more food into my mouth in order to have more conversation flow out of my mouth. I didn’t cry or anything. Don’t get all teary eyed on me. I guess it just made me slightly blue. As blue as the Mediterranean perhaps, which is a good segue.

In each city on the French Rivera I have found a spot that I will call my secret spot. They are places that I could imagining proposing to my wife at (or something cheasily romantic like that). In Monaco there is a pier past the marina that looks out at the city on one side and the Mediterranean on the other. It’s beautiful, and for some reason I was the only person on it. That’s why I call it my secret spot.

The problem with finding such places is that they again fuel the slight sadness. The French Rivera is one of the most romantic places in the world I think. All around me, couples hold hands just staring out into the ocean as they walk along the beach. It is difficult to travel to this type of place while I am alone because the constant pairing is a perpetual reminder of solitude.

I am very good at entertaining myself and in many ways am glad that I am traveling alone (get to create my own schedule and do what I want) but there are just certain times of the day that after a long day of walking and thinking and thinking and sightseeing, I want to reflect. And not internally reflect because I had been doing that all day. I can only have so many conversations in my own head before I start to think I am going slightly crazy. I have never read a book until now where I really feel like the characters have become my friends. It is not necessarily that the book is really well written (although it is). Instead, it is just that they provide me company. They talk to me.

I sort of feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway right now. Only instead of talking to Wilson, the volleyball, I am talking to you.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew

Nice is Nice

If I were a cop in Nice, I am not sure I would be able to take myself seriously. If you pronounce the name of the city correctly then they are called the nice police. If you shoot some men do they put you in the pen? If you commit a crime do they make sure you do the time? Are they the meanest law you ever done saw? I mean come on. And if you don’t pronounce the name of the city correctly, and you pronounce it the way we all think it should sound, then they are just the nice police. As in, the amicable, friendly and kind police. They certainly will have a hard time convincing anyone to take them seriously. And on carnival (which happened to take place while I was in Nice) most of them were just standing around chatting.

For those of you unaware, I am on my Spring Break. It is an eight-day trip that begins in the French Riviera and ends in Rome. Actually those are the only two places it goes. This post is coming to you from Nice (my home base in the Riviera although today I made a day trip to Cannes and tomorrow I am making a day trip to Monaco.)

I have spent most of the time just sitting on different beaches reading. Or walking along different beaches staring at the surf. I have seen a few art galleries as well. I have watched two sunsets. The one in Nice was incredible (pictured here). I thought about how when I was a kid, my parents always wanted to go watch the sunset over the water, and I never wanted to because I thought it was boring. Inevitably, we all end up a little like our parents and, quite frankly, I am happy that I have.

Nice has this incredible park on the eastern edge of the city. You can’t even notice it from the street. You have to climb the long winding trail to get to it, but once you reach a certain level it opens up into this magnificent children’s haven of fields, playgrounds and jungle gyms. The view ain’t bad either (here is the view from the top).

The coast here reminds me slightly of Florida. Unlike Wales or Cape Cod, the beachfronts here are quite built up. I think California is actually a better comparison, but I have never been there. Hotels and glimmering lights border the ocean. I am not sure I like that. The Welsh coast was much more breathtaking. Of course, you can’t knock the tropical feel, either. It’s just different, and if this coast wasn’t built up it is possible I would prefer it over the Welsh coast. Actually, I take that back.

Tomorrow is going to be more of the same except it will take place in Monaco instead of Nice or Cannes.

Comments Welcome,

Andrew