It is my last day in London, and I am at a loss to explain what is here that gave me--and still gives me--such a content satisfaction. So often when in the experience, there is a pure give and take, making it easier and easier to be less and less aware of what is happening. The rhythms all seemed to have worked themselves out so innately.

I set out nine months ago with Thoreau's challenge--"Where I lived, and What I lived for"-- in mind:

I went to [London] because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan like...to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and...if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and to be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

The life Thorea was after, I am learning, is full of a lot joy, and also a lot of burden. Experiencing both leads to very necessary reflexive thinking.

About two weeks ago I attended a funeral; I did not know the person who passed away, but I did know his grandson quite well. The service was two hours before my year end exam worth %100 of my mark for the course. The advice of many (including the grandson), was not to attend. Besides the obvious confrontations a ceremony like this one tends to evoke, I realized about half way through, seeing myself in a somber suit alongside others in the same, that I live here. I was not just a long term vacationer--I had been here long enough to be part of an incredibly intimate moment of another's lifecourse. I was forced to recenter the balancing act of being a member in society trained in a certain discipline sitting for an exam, and as a member in society who can engage people in other more meaningful ways.

Thoreau end's his classic having to explain why, after such a rich experience at Walden, he decided to leave. I have no answer myself, so for now, I will use his:

I left [London] for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any time for that one. It is remarkable how easily and insensibly we fall into a particular route, and make a beaten track for ourselves. I had not lived there a week before my feet wore a path from my door to the [Thames]; and though it is [months] since I trod it, it is still quite distinct. It is true, I fear, that others may have fallen into it, and so helped to keep it open. The surface of the earth is soft and impressible by the feet of men; and so with the paths which the mind travels. How worn and dusty, then, must be the highways of the world, how deep the ruts of tradition and conformity! I did not wish to take a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, for there I could best see the moonlight amid the [novice skyscrapers]. I do not wish to go below [deck] now.

------
Thanks to those of you who regulary (or even once) read this page, and kept me abreast of your life while also encouraging mine. Looking back on my posts, I realize I have very poorly captured only a modicum of my experience. It won't be too long before I find myself in the mood to lose my way with words so we can torch time and talk rhymes together. ML, AI.

The following are a series of photos in and around London; some flashy and tourist like, others more mundane and away from such a path. All have become part of my memory here--if anything more of that latter type.

Trafalgar Square lion.

B-Ben.

Near High Holborn. Go through the door where that guy in the red shirt is, and you get to Temple Church from Da Vinci code. I only found this passage way by accident when colliding with someone coming out of it while I was out running.

Door to Temple Church.

North bank of Thames just East of Tate Modern.

I bet that boat's parking is not a coincidence.

Victoria Embankment gardens.

Along 'The Queen's Walk', one of Nike Runner's most popular paths.

Eventually you learn how to use a train. It took me a while to understand what "calling at" meant (where the train stops)--made travel much more efficient.

Tate Modern, oddly "church like" architecture housing the works of Pollock, Frida and Picasso.

They're not all black, but most are.

'University College Hospital.' Interesting that instead of an Emergency Room, it is called 'Accident and Emergency'--sounds more accomodating, doesn't it?

'UCL Student Union'

Walk to class. 'Lower Refractory' (cafeteria) to the right.

Along the oldest walking road in London. Happens to lead to where I live.

Sunset out in the countryside.

Arriving here knowing no one except possibly, through 'International Student Orientation', other Americans oblivious to the local peculiarities of UK academia, new students like myself take our first gamble in scheduling. We will not know the more accessible teachers, understandability of accents, or the managability of courseload. Any friends that would be helpful in this advise are usually made in class, not before hand.

A more serious gamble--as the above can be overcome by judicious use of 'class shopping'--comes in examination revision. The format of assessment is typically 2.5 hours to answer three essay questions from a list of ten. Most courses have ten topics, each typically being represented by a question on the exam. Ideally, you want to answer the three most straightforward questions. This, however, assumes that those questions are on topics you have revised. And the gamble ensues: what themes to revise that will likely be asked fairly?
Some take their chances, revising only three topics hoping they have chosen correctly. Depending on the number of exams you are sitting for--I saw for two, a friend of mine sat for 7--tends to be the determining coercive factor in the number of topics studied per exam.

One you have narrowd your topics, and found those questions to be answerable on the exam, another gamble presents itself: how to answer? Simply giving a text book answer receives a very average mark(a 'C+' here, as bell curves are strongly held to), assuming you even know that. So when presented with a question I had this past week, 'Discuss the use of any one psychoactive substance in one society,' there are two ways to answer: focusing on a 'typical' anthropology exotic example of Balinese trance rituals with shamans or perhaps taking coffee, and discussing how coffee shops commidify our social intereactions. Certainly the latter is a bit more of a strech, but excessively more interesting (I hope!) to the marker who has likely read countless volumes about South East Asian substances.

Through scheduling, studying, and examinnig, one learns a latent lesson of education--gambling.

I shall miss this thing
When it all rolls by

Yesterday marked my final formal examination in my academic year. These exams are scheduled sometime in March to be taken between the end of April to the begining of June. Since housing contracts must be signed long before March, and one has to plan on potentially the latest exam date in June, many end up with in a beautiful predicament like mine: two weeks of London housing already paid for to do 'nothing' but live. Amongst other things, I will finally catch up on this blog...

My proclivity for writing here has recently dwindeled. It comes not from a lack of things to talk about, but infact the contrary; too many ideas racing my mind that I cannot quite fully manage to a coherant entry. As selective memory begins to limit remembered experience, leaving only the most visceral ones, they will be at an unpackagable level resulting in a non-stream-of-consciousnes-writing entry.

One of the earliest written accounts to Europe about Egypt came in the mid 19th century in what are now known as "Flaubert's Letters." In his first letters, the French explorer writes about walking the streets of Cairo, and being overwhelmed by the fullness of everyday life, but also being frustrated that he cannot seem to manage it. He then decides to go up a minaret tower, to take a new perspective and somehow "get on top of it". As he winds up the spiral staircase, he stops at each floor to look thru the window. His excitement increases, as he looks down and begins to piece together the streets he seemed flooded by before. He reaches the top, looks out with great expectation and is greatly disapointed. He has gone so far up, that when looks down on the street, all he sees are immobile specks seemingly without any life.

It is a bit like running up a down escalator. The balancing act then becomes somehow finding yourself half way up. It is, however, not as simple as just locating the middle, but learning the pace of the escalator to neither out run it, or let it out run you. And somehow, in this dynamic of slowing down and speeding up to somehow negotiate both positions, I am finding my most meaningful and challenging life lessons.

I apologize that at the moment, my "lessons" cannot come across any more explicitly than a escalator analogy prefaced by 19th century explorer accounts. For now, this the best I can do, and from talking to other friends sharing a similar experience elsewhere, they too have trouble writing their part of their narrative.

I read not too long ago an updated survey that found less than 10 percent of people in England regulary practice any kind of religion. Some interpret this--wrongly, I've found from experience--to infere a lack of spirituality. While this extended weekend may not put more people in church pews, it breaks the conformity five-day work weeks which (potentially, hopefully) breaks the conformity of five-day work thinking. Though this likely reflects in filling up more pub benches, I have written before, however, that pubs can in fact be quite meaningful places.

Breaking from the mold of ritualized practice allows one--anyone--to create their own meaning for a such day as Easter (or any other holiday their goverment chooses to recognize.) A very necessary and potentially healthy instability to make a regular habit.

Forget about
The reasons and treasons we are seeking
Forget about
The notion that out emotions can be kept at bay
Forget about
Being guilty, we are innocent instead

Understanding how wealth is geographically situated in London has largely to do with the planning of roads and streets in the early 1800s. At the time, most roads were sturdy but also rocky. While this was very conducive for the slow-moving, heavy loads of commercial traffic, it was less than ideal for the evening carriage joy ride. To appease the wealthy (and attract more)—who could afford the carriage, and the time for an evening joy ride—John Nash designed Regents Park. It would be a large open circular space, built with a different kind of a road—a ‘MacAdamized’ Road. While this road—made of compact stone gravel—would be disaster for business traffic and never support the load of a commercial delivery, it was much smoother and faster for a lightweight carriage. It certainly made the pick up line, “Want to come for a ride in Regents Park?” (or a smoother equivalent line) seem much more enticing. This idea to promote movement went further than roads, with the buildings around Regents Park being built in a style to resemble the ports seen in Italian paintings. Also, these roads were never built straight, but always with banks and curves to add mystery and excitement to the whole experience. (This was 1820--it’s what people got excited about then….)

The popularity of this idea became far more expansive than just a park for the elite, but soon took hold throughout London. Amongst the first roads to have this done was Regents Street, which connects Regents Park to Oxford Circus. Not too long after, Bond Street was also ‘MacAdamized.’ Once transformed, these roads by their structural ability became exclusive to the wealthy. And subsequently, the flats and stores that lined these streets became suited to only the wealthy.

The patterns instilled by these two types of roads still persist today. Regents Street has some of the most expensive flats in London, and Bond Street many of the most posh stores.

(I was back in the States last week and made a visit to the newest shopping center in town—Crocker Park. All the roads around it have been expanded, made smooth, and are conducive to faster traffic. Not surprisingly, all the property values of this whole area have gone up, as it has attracted many of wealth. Funny that pleas to fix the pot holes in these roads, prior to Crock Park, were often ignored….)

I have no where near a British accent, but I have picked up some new vocabulary: "get on with", "good fun", "that bit there", "dodgy", "cheeky", "wicked", "cheers, mate" and so on.

It did not take long to get akward looks with my new word choices. When coming through customs in New York, I kindly handed my passport to the Immigration officer (IO) who looked shockingly similar to Chris Rock. Upon stamping it, I thanked him with a "Cheers, mate." He then retracted my Passport, and the following conversation ensued:

IO: Man, how long have you been there?
Sensing that he wanted me to be more "American", I did the best I could.
Me: Uh, 7 months.
He then flipped through my passport stamps, which confirmed my remark.
IO: For what?!
Me: I, um, like, go to, like, school there.
IO: Oh... are you done?
Afriad what might happen if I told I may stay another year, or that I was flying back only a weeks time, I replied with...
Me: Yeah
IO: Welcome back--go get yourself a New York pie [pizza]!
Me: (haha) okay...(haha)

Shortly after making it to Cleveland, I went not for a Pizza, but rather Chipotle. There, this conversation happened:

Kind Chipotle Lady (KCL): What can I get for you?
Me: Chicken Fajita, please.
Seeing some anxiety on my face, she then asked...
KCL: Hungry, are you?
Me: It's just that I've been out of the country for a while, and miss eating this food.
KCL: Oh really, where have you been?
Me: England
KCL: That's funny, you don't speak English.
I was not sure what to make of that, so I replied with the following..
Me: No, I'm still stuck speaking American...
KCL: Yeah...

When I got back to London, I was innevitably asked about my travels in Cleveland. One person turned out to know some people in Cleveland, and asked about a couple names. Before telling you how that conversation happened, I should explain a few pronounciation differences. In British-English, there is a tendency to shorten words. For example, the word "Tottenham" in American-English is said "Tot-in-haaaaahm." But in British-English, it becomes "Tot-num."

Keeping that in mind, see where this went wrong... The person I was talking to happens to be a priest(P)...
P: How was Cleveland?
Me: Very good, thanks.
P: Is Dr. Estaphanous still there?
Me: Yeah, very active still as well.
P: I went to medical school with him--he then became an anestitist.
[To me, it sounded like "Atheist" because the word gets shortened a bit.]
Me: Medical school in Egypt does that to you?
P: Well not everyone--I'm not.
Me: Well surely you are not, you are a priest.
P: But we have some priests who are anestitist...
Me: We do?!
P: Well, they had to give up their practice, of course.
Me: I would imagine.
P: But its okay, you have a lot in your church back in Cleveland, as well, but they still keep their practice...

Before figuring this out, I thought for some reason I was being revealed terrific secrets that would make a great Da Vinci Code type novel. I then realized it was not atheist who were the center of conversation here, but rather physicians who put you to sleep before operations.

To remember footballer George Best, Belfast has renamed their airport in his honor. Read his story here.

On the background of this idea, I did some reading about the fall of the USSR, and read accounts from those in charge, and those on the losing end. The latter of which have only come out in the last decade or so. Drastically different stories, highlighting (now, not surprisingly) how things can be abused in how they are told.

More recently, I went to a book talk by a physician-writer reading excerpts from his memoirs. When writing it, he noticed, "One thing that is painfully obvious, is that a doctor only sees sick people. A brief moment of the patient's life is often the only glimpse he gets to see." A bit of a skewed view of a person, to say the least.

Not too long after that I spent time at a sick bay where I met an Iraqi born, Oxford Educated, British Medical Journal published physician who after a distinguished career dedicated himself to clinics for the homeless of London. When I arrived to the clinic for dinner, a man greeted me, took my coat, got me a drink, and started to get the dinner table ready. He wiped the table, put sugar and cream in my coffee, then sat down to talk. Thinking this was someone who just helps out with small things to kill time until the others arrived, this actually turned out to be the director of the whole place—the accolade full doctor himself. I had to work very hard to not act surprised that the man with his credentials just took my coat, and poured my drink, etc., but I think he noticed. When I spoke with him about doing work in a sick bay for the homeless, he said it was "all about details. It's not enough to get rough ideas. You need the details from people because that shows a genuine interest in them--that you respect their existence." He takes this to heart--he lives in the clinic with his patients just a flight of stairs up from where the long term patients live. He often takes time to live amongst them, watch a movie, hear their side-chat, etc. The details; he loved them, because he felt this is where the "truths" were about these people, that he otherwise was not getting. It was also amongst these people who do not have access to many medical resources, that he found "truth" (or another "truth") about the essence of practicing medicine.

I have realized in my time here that we often only get small "truths" about people's lives. The "rough ideas" we often settle for instead of the "details." And also, in a bigger picture, we only get our information from a small segment of people; at university one might go eight months and speak only to like minded, similar degree pursuing students! And later in life, amongst similar professionals, neighbors, etc. ---what a narrow way to hear the world! Hence, why I am loving the change of environment in London, and the local pub full of diverse stories—last week I sat with a linguistic philosopher from Finland—willing to unfold themselves to a genuine ear.

Perhaps a better sign of a desirable place to learn is a professor aggressively invested in his/her students. I have been fortunate enough to on the receiving end of such a dynamic here which has provided me with many fortunate intereactions. As I "unpack" them, they will find their way into this page, I imagine.

One recent example was sharing a meal with one of the in-town-for-a-couple-hours kind of guest speakers who carried a myriad of international health experiences, being a South African born, UK educated neurologist who later took time off of medicine to travel, then re-entered as a pediatrician now working for a non-profit organzation in the Middle East. At the table was Paul (he insisted on first name basis), myself, and a handful of other students having career interests in medicine, medical anthropology, and possibly international health work.

The topic of discussion was non-govermental organizations (NGOs) in Afganistan. [A good general (academic) discussion of NGOs can be found here.] We covered a range of topics often asked with anthropological jargon, then almost always responded with refreshing simplicity:

On differing of health care orienations, "What does health mean there?": People there want to be healthy. And health, pretty much means not very sick, or not dying. And they will usually pursue that as much as their finances allow.

On religious NGOs and having a latent conversion agenda, after providing basic care: Being Muslim in Afganistan is far more expansive than just a religion. To change that would be very dangerous. On a humanitarian level, if you think that part of the world needs another competing ideaology, then you are very confused on the work needed.

Seeing one member of the table being slightly disheartened by that remark, he continued, "The people you see just need basic care. You help them because they need help."

His message was desperately simple: being healthy means not dead, and help is offered simply because it is needed.

I find it hard
To explain to how I got here
I think I can think I can

I have a list of things here that confuse me, but none more than this at the moment--a bronze statue of General George Washington, the First President of the United States, in the middle of England's capital in its most celebrated square.

There is one story I have heard, though I cannot verify it elsewhere than tourist annecdotes. In an act of spite--Americans do that?!--toward the British, the US comissioned a bronze replica of Jean-Antoine Houdon's marble statue of a President Washington in Richmond, Virginia to be sent to the London. On the bottom, it kindly read in 1921:

General George Washington
First President of the United States of America
A gift from the Commonwealth of Virginia.

Not overally flattered by the gesture--understandably--it was sent back with a note saying, "Not on our soil." Clever Americans thanked the British also recalling that Washington swore to "never set foot again on British soil." The US then sent the statue back with one ton of Virginian soil, with a note repling, "Now it doesn't have to."

So apparently London's most celebrated square has a plot of American soil, with a rebel ex-British Army leader standing proudly on top of it facing Big Ben.

If anyone can make sense of this, kindly do.

We're breaking and rebuilding
We're growing, always guessing, never knowing

Of all the advice I was given for my time abroad, no one mentioned what I now think is the most important and didacitc aspect of life here--making yourself a regular at a local (non-tourist) pub. It has nothing to do with drinking, as most people at the pub I frequent have only a couple drinks while talking up the day's sports and news. It does have everything to do with the people. To emphasize this, I want to highlight one evening I had last week.

Being a regular here alongside a mate from halls, our drinks were ready shortly after enterting without placing an order. After a few laughs with the pub owner, we resigned to a seat along the wall across from the TV to catch up on football fixtures. As is the case with most evenings begining this way, our topics of conversation were expansive, this time begining with the politics of display in The British Museum and why the U.S. has not followed the UK in adopting inflation targeting then later shifting to different forms of car racing and ex-patriots in the UAE. The topic shifts on this evening were guided by other members in the pub.

Unlike the unwritten (but strictly enforced by social norms) rule of "no talking to people you don't know" on the public transport system, pubs--this one, at least--insist that you do. After finishing our drinks, a construction worker who had taken a break from the job for a late afternoon meal asked, "Whatcha drinkin fellas?" He then returned with three drinks, and an ambition to find out how our three life courses created paths that put us at the Norfolk Arms (pub name) at the same time.

He, Damien, grew up just outside Manchester, and lived their his whole life. His success in the construction industry there brings him to London frequently for work. On this particular afternoon, he decided to end the work day early and grab a pint at the pub. Our (my mate from halls and I) stories were fairly similar--American students studying abroad in London for a year, and who lived in halls just across the street. Our mutual interest in eachother's stories--he, having never been to America and myself, not knowing an English person outside London--carried conversation for hours. Inevitable, at some point, was talk of politics. Even more inevitable, after hearing a British perspective on US politics, is a talk on religion. As neither my friend or I were from religious traditions common to the US, the discourse shifted to a bit of "world comparative religion", if one wants to try labeling it.

Lengthy descriptions fueled by probing questions--Where does that symbol come from? How often? Does that change in different settings? How many are there?--seemed to complicate the topic. A conversationaly needed simple contrast came from Damien, who began, "My religion is this--" He did not stop there, but my mind did. Only a few hours ago I came in to watch football, and now was enganging stories of lived experiences and religious convictions. "My religion is this: I grew up in a school that taught it. I learned a lot of rules, and don't remember much, now. I still think I am a good person. Not because of attending Christmas and Easter, though I do. If you asked me if God exists, I would say 'I don't know.' If I had to say, I would probably say, 'yeah.'...But it is about how you treat people, you know? All three of us come from different religious backgrounds, and we all get on well, got eachother a drink, heard eachother's stories... that what it is for me, mate."

There was something comfortably simple about that. At the very least it was a new perspective to try thinking through. So is the theme of many evenings at the local pub--a new perspective to think through.

Later that night, I met a British oil tycoon making his success in the United Arab Emirates, as well as two professors doing work on the writings of Chaucer. Somehow that night gave validity to how one American professor justified moving to London, when he said, "You won't find this diversity anywhere else in the world."

Half way through each term students are given a "reading week." As the name suggests, the time off is for students to read. Some indeed do, and the even more ambitious of the group begin to revise for final exams, and prepare drafts for their essays. But another group exists, who see the absense of lecture for a week as a mandate to travel. Being amongst this last group, one might spend reading week this way...

Fly to the south of France to enjoy warmer weather.

French Riveria from a few thousand feet.

En route, one might decide to detour in Torino, Italy to watch an olympic event or two.

Location of the down hill ski competition at the 2006 Winter Olympics in Torino, Italy.

Leaving one tourist crowd, for another, one might then end up on the French Cote D'Azur. Being a student from the UK in France would not sit well with French anymore than being American, thus one might decide to humor themselves and peers by dressing distinctively American.

On the beach, dressed "American" as ever.

Reading week may just happen to line up with Carnival festivies, and the traveling student may see a parade go by.

Daytime Flower Parade for Carnival.

Desiring to get off the beaten path of parade goers, one may seek rest along the less than popular spots along the shore.

Finding a niche to rest in along the coast.

Rest can only last so long, as Carnival is a mutli-day celebration. Another parade is innevitable.

Float in the Parade of Lights.

Excitement from multiple parades could inspire one to travel by train toward Italy to Monaco, and bear witness to the obnoxious lives of the "rich and famous."

Outside The Monte Carlo Casino in Monaco, trying to make the best of my silhouette on the one of seven fountains that lead to the casino's entrance.

Baffled by the thousands of Euros being gambled away at a casino could quickly put someone back on a train to find another less trendy spot to relax.

Sunset in Nice, France.

This how one might spend their reading week.

Yesterday, more than 10,000 Muslims gathered in Trafalgar Square (the sight of previously blogged about cultural celebrations) before proceeding with their organized march through the busiest streets of London. Their march was peaceful, but anxiety was certainly present. I received two e-mails from the United States Embassy to "avoid the areas of demonstrations if possible." Such a warning seemed to reflect the "Islamaphobia" these marchers were hoping to unite against. Further insights from The BBC News:

Ishmaeel Haneef, from the committee, said the demonstrations were continuing because "the provocations have not stopped".

"These things are still being republished across the world," he said, using the example of an Italian minister wearing a T-shirt depicting the cartoons.

He said the way to "get back to being a civilised world" was to "give the copyright [of the cartoons] over to the Muslim community".

That appears to be a more than reasonable single request. But many Muslims I have spoken to here, when responding on the topic, almost always frame this issue within a larger context of feeling attacked. They are not upset only about this issue, but find it an accessible tool for expressing frustrations on other broader topics.