Top of the list of must-have accents in any drunken carouser's arsenal is the British accent. The British accent is the standard replacement for other accents in movies where characters are from countries that do not speak English. One's level of class and expected snootiness is kicked up ten notches simply by having a British accent.
I never realized that there was so much variation within the subject, though. Honestly, how many different American accents are there? Most of them are from the East Coast or the South so it's very easy to forget about them, at any rate.
Despite the United Kingdom's comparatively small area, it would seem as though every last little town has their own accent. This particular accent serves to identify a British citizen's origins and perhaps class status.
Note: I have no real discernment skills of my own to speak of between regional accents. Of course, I can pick out Scottish hints, but really, I am simply assured that these regional differences are there, so I must assume that such is true.
I have come to a bit of an indignant conclusion that highlighting differences between people leads to new categories of elitism. (Purposeful or not.) At any rate, My Fair Lady makes a lot more sense after learning a bit about accents.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
readings
I was reluctant to blog about the readings for this course as it somewhat alienates those who have not read them. Not that I am even aware of readers outside of the program, for I didn't go to much trouble to show it to my family or friends back home, but in the odd chance that someone found it via Facebook, these kind of posts are, in a way, duds.
Yet at the same time, I realize that the readings are what allows this trip to be called a 'course' and not simply an 'excursion.' I hereby try to reconcile these differences by concentrating my reading ponderings to one post.
Currently knee-deep in Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, I shall begin here.
My favorite 'book,' (of the mostly-independent sections within the greater novel,) is "An Orison of Sonmi-451." It seems to be set in Korea...in the debatably dystopian future, of course. I bristled at first at how some other non-Korean things had been mixed in, such as the clone name series of Ma-Leu-Da, being rather sensitive to the lumping-together of Asian cultures that occurs far too frequently, but the book later informed that Japan had been absorbed and was called "East Korea" (my, Japan subjugated by Korea, fancy such a notion!) and it would be feasible to say that at least part of China had also joined.
This chapter reminded me of the film, "The Island," because of the similarities in cloning for soullessly pragmatic reasons. Both also approach the subject from the perspectives of the captives.
I feel a bit distracted at the way I must always stop and practice pronouncing the name with a Korean accent. Romanizations of Korean names bother me. "Boom-Sook Kim" looks so odd. Especially since Koreans would say "Kim Boom-Sook." In English romanization, the name might seem silly, but written in Hangul, it seems so natural. 김붐숙
I also wanted to remark on In-Yer-Face theatre. I do believe that graphic and shocking depictions are sometimes necessary. I remember when I was little, I used to read the Redwall series (written by a Liverpool native, actually) and, during the fights and death scenes, I would gloss over actual visualizations of what it would be like to throw swords around or actually kill someone. Perhaps I am of a rare bunch, but because I did not bother to imagine the realities of violence, I was generally rather unaffected by it -> it did not make me retch or flinch. A few years later, the film Atonement (based on the novel by Ian McEwan, also a Brit) was released, and my rosy world finally understood blood.
But only because the film bothered to open my eyes to the realities of what it would be like to participate in war. Come to think of it, Atonement wasn't all too graphic, but it was enough to make me realize. Until that point, I had been against war merely because of my parents' pacifist tendencies, but now I could see how horrible it was for myself.
I think that is what the In-Yer-Face theatre writers must understand. Especially in Blasted. The main character, Ian, peacocks his gun, but when faced with real violence, on which he is on the receiving and not the dealing end, he realizes he never really understood.
Lastly, I find it interesting how cloning became such an issue here after Dolly. Perhaps it also did in the U.S., but I think I was too young to be anything but oblivious in this time period. Yet in the present-day, one could pore through an entire week's worth of news and hear nothing on the subject. In a way, it makes me feel as though all of these moralistic debates and "what-if"s are somewhat pointless after a while. We could talk about, if one were suddenly made Jesus, if one would continue requiring death of every individual, from dawn to dusk, but really, what's the point?
I think I remember Professor Reed mentioning something about this in relation to the British approach to truth: while Americans agonize over defining "truth," it seems that Britain has decided that truth is concrete and are all in unanimous agreement of a "single truth" in academics.
The idea of a "single truth" in America would be so dangerous. We have enough trouble getting evolution to be considered worth teaching as it is.
Yet at the same time, I realize that the readings are what allows this trip to be called a 'course' and not simply an 'excursion.' I hereby try to reconcile these differences by concentrating my reading ponderings to one post.
Currently knee-deep in Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, I shall begin here.
My favorite 'book,' (of the mostly-independent sections within the greater novel,) is "An Orison of Sonmi-451." It seems to be set in Korea...in the debatably dystopian future, of course. I bristled at first at how some other non-Korean things had been mixed in, such as the clone name series of Ma-Leu-Da, being rather sensitive to the lumping-together of Asian cultures that occurs far too frequently, but the book later informed that Japan had been absorbed and was called "East Korea" (my, Japan subjugated by Korea, fancy such a notion!) and it would be feasible to say that at least part of China had also joined.
This chapter reminded me of the film, "The Island," because of the similarities in cloning for soullessly pragmatic reasons. Both also approach the subject from the perspectives of the captives.
I feel a bit distracted at the way I must always stop and practice pronouncing the name with a Korean accent. Romanizations of Korean names bother me. "Boom-Sook Kim" looks so odd. Especially since Koreans would say "Kim Boom-Sook." In English romanization, the name might seem silly, but written in Hangul, it seems so natural. 김붐숙
I also wanted to remark on In-Yer-Face theatre. I do believe that graphic and shocking depictions are sometimes necessary. I remember when I was little, I used to read the Redwall series (written by a Liverpool native, actually) and, during the fights and death scenes, I would gloss over actual visualizations of what it would be like to throw swords around or actually kill someone. Perhaps I am of a rare bunch, but because I did not bother to imagine the realities of violence, I was generally rather unaffected by it -> it did not make me retch or flinch. A few years later, the film Atonement (based on the novel by Ian McEwan, also a Brit) was released, and my rosy world finally understood blood.
But only because the film bothered to open my eyes to the realities of what it would be like to participate in war. Come to think of it, Atonement wasn't all too graphic, but it was enough to make me realize. Until that point, I had been against war merely because of my parents' pacifist tendencies, but now I could see how horrible it was for myself.
I think that is what the In-Yer-Face theatre writers must understand. Especially in Blasted. The main character, Ian, peacocks his gun, but when faced with real violence, on which he is on the receiving and not the dealing end, he realizes he never really understood.
Lastly, I find it interesting how cloning became such an issue here after Dolly. Perhaps it also did in the U.S., but I think I was too young to be anything but oblivious in this time period. Yet in the present-day, one could pore through an entire week's worth of news and hear nothing on the subject. In a way, it makes me feel as though all of these moralistic debates and "what-if"s are somewhat pointless after a while. We could talk about, if one were suddenly made Jesus, if one would continue requiring death of every individual, from dawn to dusk, but really, what's the point?
I think I remember Professor Reed mentioning something about this in relation to the British approach to truth: while Americans agonize over defining "truth," it seems that Britain has decided that truth is concrete and are all in unanimous agreement of a "single truth" in academics.
The idea of a "single truth" in America would be so dangerous. We have enough trouble getting evolution to be considered worth teaching as it is.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
bristol and bath
Though it's been a few days since our return, I wanted to document the trip a bit.
On Saturday, we left via train for Bristol, which is near the southern part of the border with Wales (and incidentally, only a train stop or two from Cardiff. These little excursions hammer out British geography better than any class could.)
The idea to visit Bristol came when we were passing through on the way home from Cardiff. Truthfully, the decision to go was a bit impulsive, but even more truthfully, nothing is accomplished without a bit of impulse.
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Bristol turned out to be quite a lovely place. Tourist destinations were sparse, but that lent a certain peacefulness to the city, and the streets were filled with locals instead of foreigners in baggy pants and rumpled fishing hats.
For future reference: those bus tours that are double-decker with the open-air top level are really worthwhile. The ticket gets one access for 24 hours, and consequently, one can get off the bus at any stop to poke around at sightseeing in-depth, and then simply board the next bus to come round.
We did the bus tour for a while, seeing heaps of fine architecture, the Clifton Suspension Bridge, and Clifton College (where Kate Middleton's dad went?), among other things. We stumbled into the main square just in time for a fundraiser event for Water Aid that involved a thousand-person choir and money collectors dressed as taps (alas, no photos for that one.) We laid in the shade in a green park and watched the clouds go by. Note: Clouds travel faster here, it seems.
After a night at the Victoria Square Best Western, we took off for Bath.
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Bath would have been fantastically peaceful and scenic but for the swarms of tourists. (We were even shocked to see a gaggle of EF tour groups had also decided on Bath for the weekend.) But at any rate, it was quite lovely.
The Roman Baths were a bit underwhelming for me, though perhaps that is because it is always hard for me to grasp the gravity of how old the structures here are, most especially how ancient the ROMAN bathhouses are. I was more impressed by the Museum of Fashion, where Kaitlin and I were able to try on corsets and hoopskirts.
A short weekend, yes, but I was quite satisfied at how much we were able to pack into two days. Better a short, fulfilling visit than a long and strung-out one, no?
On Saturday, we left via train for Bristol, which is near the southern part of the border with Wales (and incidentally, only a train stop or two from Cardiff. These little excursions hammer out British geography better than any class could.)
The idea to visit Bristol came when we were passing through on the way home from Cardiff. Truthfully, the decision to go was a bit impulsive, but even more truthfully, nothing is accomplished without a bit of impulse.
For future reference: those bus tours that are double-decker with the open-air top level are really worthwhile. The ticket gets one access for 24 hours, and consequently, one can get off the bus at any stop to poke around at sightseeing in-depth, and then simply board the next bus to come round.
We did the bus tour for a while, seeing heaps of fine architecture, the Clifton Suspension Bridge, and Clifton College (where Kate Middleton's dad went?), among other things. We stumbled into the main square just in time for a fundraiser event for Water Aid that involved a thousand-person choir and money collectors dressed as taps (alas, no photos for that one.) We laid in the shade in a green park and watched the clouds go by. Note: Clouds travel faster here, it seems.
After a night at the Victoria Square Best Western, we took off for Bath.
The Roman Baths were a bit underwhelming for me, though perhaps that is because it is always hard for me to grasp the gravity of how old the structures here are, most especially how ancient the ROMAN bathhouses are. I was more impressed by the Museum of Fashion, where Kaitlin and I were able to try on corsets and hoopskirts.
A short weekend, yes, but I was quite satisfied at how much we were able to pack into two days. Better a short, fulfilling visit than a long and strung-out one, no?
Friday, July 8, 2011
british etiquette
I have never personally worked in the food service business, so I am a bit unsure as to how the entire system of payment for waiters and waitresses works in relation to tips. However, things get even more inscrutable here.
In America, tips are not usually required for the bill. Fast food completely omits the obligation for tips. Otherwise, the generosity of the tip is a direct reflection of the service quality and the tipper's disposition.
In England, the tipping game is a bit of a free-for-all. Usually the tip is included in the bill. When it isn't, you might get any sort of notification from a reminder on the receipt to a small addition to the fine print at the bottom of a menu (these places are betting that hungry customers are much keener than I would imagine!)
Those times when it is not included and requested, I always raise an eyebrow. So then, where is the money going for my fourteen-dollar (approximately) burger? The VATs (value-added tax, I didn't know that til just now) can suggest sums as much as 20% too! Shockingly (to an American), Pizza Hut was asking for a 20% tip. How often do customers actually grant them this much?
Secondly, the fact that the tip is usually contained in the regular price gives the waitstaff a certain liberty to let their personalities and moods govern their customer relations. I expect that I am being a bit stuffy and stubborn, spoilt in America where customer is king, however I am a bit indignant when I have to actively flag down a waiter for a bill after 15 minutes of pushing my plate away, or when orders are mysteriously forgotten or bungled. Also on my list of negative dining experiences: unhelpful, exasperated, or unfriendly staff (or staff that decide to simply take breaks from paying attention to customers for 20 minutes but continue to stand at the cash register,) dirty dishes, peculiar aromas, and an aggravatingly frequent tendency for everywhere to be out of stock of several staples. (One bar was completely out of Bailey's when 75% of their cocktails required Bailey's, while McDonalds had inexplicably turned off their ice cream machine in the middle of the day.) Such things would be considered embarrassments for the establishment in the U.S. -> when we would run out of half-and-half for italian sodas at the movie theater where I worked, "We're out of that" had to be preceded by "I'm terribly sorry."
I suppose these things are normal here. In truth, I'm a bit of a self-conscious traveler, so I often wonder if I am being taken advantage of because there is little hope of us Americans being regular customers, though this is a bit of a paranoid approach.
This is definitely a learning experience. At the very least, I'll appreciate the promptness at McDonalds exponentially more.
In America, tips are not usually required for the bill. Fast food completely omits the obligation for tips. Otherwise, the generosity of the tip is a direct reflection of the service quality and the tipper's disposition.
In England, the tipping game is a bit of a free-for-all. Usually the tip is included in the bill. When it isn't, you might get any sort of notification from a reminder on the receipt to a small addition to the fine print at the bottom of a menu (these places are betting that hungry customers are much keener than I would imagine!)
Those times when it is not included and requested, I always raise an eyebrow. So then, where is the money going for my fourteen-dollar (approximately) burger? The VATs (value-added tax, I didn't know that til just now) can suggest sums as much as 20% too! Shockingly (to an American), Pizza Hut was asking for a 20% tip. How often do customers actually grant them this much?
Secondly, the fact that the tip is usually contained in the regular price gives the waitstaff a certain liberty to let their personalities and moods govern their customer relations. I expect that I am being a bit stuffy and stubborn, spoilt in America where customer is king, however I am a bit indignant when I have to actively flag down a waiter for a bill after 15 minutes of pushing my plate away, or when orders are mysteriously forgotten or bungled. Also on my list of negative dining experiences: unhelpful, exasperated, or unfriendly staff (or staff that decide to simply take breaks from paying attention to customers for 20 minutes but continue to stand at the cash register,) dirty dishes, peculiar aromas, and an aggravatingly frequent tendency for everywhere to be out of stock of several staples. (One bar was completely out of Bailey's when 75% of their cocktails required Bailey's, while McDonalds had inexplicably turned off their ice cream machine in the middle of the day.) Such things would be considered embarrassments for the establishment in the U.S. -> when we would run out of half-and-half for italian sodas at the movie theater where I worked, "We're out of that" had to be preceded by "I'm terribly sorry."
I suppose these things are normal here. In truth, I'm a bit of a self-conscious traveler, so I often wonder if I am being taken advantage of because there is little hope of us Americans being regular customers, though this is a bit of a paranoid approach.
This is definitely a learning experience. At the very least, I'll appreciate the promptness at McDonalds exponentially more.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
fourth of july
This was one of those times where I was curious to see if any 250-year-old tensions could possibly resurface.
Yesterday was the 4th of July, and for some reason, (likely the irony of celebrating Independence Day in dependence of the nation the U.S.A. split from), I felt like being especially patriotic (read: obnoxious) in celebration.
Not to say that I succeeded in being as celebratory as I had in mind, but I did don red, white, and blue in my outfit (same colors as the Union Jack -> the founding fathers did not expend much creativity in the aesthetic details of the new nation.) We didn't (weren't able to) light off fireworks or organize ourselfs enough for a rousing Independence carol or otherwise do anything that the British locals could really react to.
However, I saw a flyer on the ground advertising 4th of July festivities at the Purple Turtle. The flyer was really astute about the 4th as well -> the stars-and-stripes-flying-eagle artwork was the sort of thing you'd see on a motorcyclist's forearm.
But honestly, this was the Purple Turtle (which we have already discovered is the weirdo of the pub locations in Oxford.) I am unsure as to whether or not this speaks for the rest of British culture.
My curiosity goes unquenched. As soon as it struck the 5th of July, however, my odd rush of patriotism disappeared so I am not that concerned.
Yesterday was the 4th of July, and for some reason, (likely the irony of celebrating Independence Day in dependence of the nation the U.S.A. split from), I felt like being especially patriotic (read: obnoxious) in celebration.
Not to say that I succeeded in being as celebratory as I had in mind, but I did don red, white, and blue in my outfit (same colors as the Union Jack -> the founding fathers did not expend much creativity in the aesthetic details of the new nation.) We didn't (weren't able to) light off fireworks or organize ourselfs enough for a rousing Independence carol or otherwise do anything that the British locals could really react to.
However, I saw a flyer on the ground advertising 4th of July festivities at the Purple Turtle. The flyer was really astute about the 4th as well -> the stars-and-stripes-flying-eagle artwork was the sort of thing you'd see on a motorcyclist's forearm.
But honestly, this was the Purple Turtle (which we have already discovered is the weirdo of the pub locations in Oxford.) I am unsure as to whether or not this speaks for the rest of British culture.
My curiosity goes unquenched. As soon as it struck the 5th of July, however, my odd rush of patriotism disappeared so I am not that concerned.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
content
The title refers to content as in peacefully happy, not content as in matter contained.
Anyway, I am in Wales! This weekend excursion happened seemingly at a whim. I honestly knew nothing about Wales prior to departure, other than vague facts, such as:
- They speak Welsh
- They are the model for Tolkien's (and therefore everyone else's) elves
- In The BFG (by Roald Dahl), Wales sent the BFG Wellington Boots as thanks. (Edit: I think I've bungled this recollection. Wellington is in New Zealand, no? Perhaps Wales sent the BFG barrels of fish.)
Upon arrival, I was a bit apprehensive. Cardiff seemed a bit rougher compared to what else I had seen of the United Kingdom. Things seemed more modern and industrial. The skyline is really low here, actually, so when the train pulled in, I did not immediately realize we had arrived.
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We dropped our bags at the hostel, got directions from the receptionist, and stepped out onto a cracked, thin neighborhood street, feeling miles away from the scenic feel of Oxford.
That was not really very true. We were a 5 minute walk away from the main shopping plaza of the city center. The main street was pedestrians-only and gorgeous. I understand now why Cornmarket Street in Oxford gets such a bad reputation for being uptight and hurried. I found myself unconsciously meandering (instead of simply walking) down the streets in Wales.
Cardiff did not really begin to feel friendly until today. After an inconvenient lodging change (due to us booking accomodations rather late), we found our way to Cardiff Castle.
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The entire experience of exploring Cardiff Castle and the Victorian House within was rather surreal, as you might have guessed. And this is all within the heart of the city.
We were a bit hesitant at first to pay 10 pounds for a tour of the "Victorian House," but I am immensely glad we did. You see, the Castle grounds were owned by a man named John Crichton-Stuart, a marquess who was fabulously, ridiculously, magnificently wealthy. This is what his home looked like.
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We left feeling completely dazzled.
And then we went to the seaside.
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It had a completely different feel...more modern, and there were lots and lots of locals. (For some reason, a lot of the tavern inhabitants were dressed in costume. We watched some young men in drag tie four of their friends to a flagpole.) But the fresh air and the sea and the sun and the good Italian food we had all just sort of came together to make me feel calm and content.
I've not been here for two whole days and yet I love Cardiff. I will be sad to leave tomorrow, but mostly I'm just glad that I made it here, seeing as how it was a weird, impulsive decision that brought me here. But that's life, isn't it?
Anyway, I am in Wales! This weekend excursion happened seemingly at a whim. I honestly knew nothing about Wales prior to departure, other than vague facts, such as:
- They speak Welsh
- They are the model for Tolkien's (and therefore everyone else's) elves
- In The BFG (by Roald Dahl), Wales sent the BFG Wellington Boots as thanks. (Edit: I think I've bungled this recollection. Wellington is in New Zealand, no? Perhaps Wales sent the BFG barrels of fish.)
Upon arrival, I was a bit apprehensive. Cardiff seemed a bit rougher compared to what else I had seen of the United Kingdom. Things seemed more modern and industrial. The skyline is really low here, actually, so when the train pulled in, I did not immediately realize we had arrived.
We dropped our bags at the hostel, got directions from the receptionist, and stepped out onto a cracked, thin neighborhood street, feeling miles away from the scenic feel of Oxford.
That was not really very true. We were a 5 minute walk away from the main shopping plaza of the city center. The main street was pedestrians-only and gorgeous. I understand now why Cornmarket Street in Oxford gets such a bad reputation for being uptight and hurried. I found myself unconsciously meandering (instead of simply walking) down the streets in Wales.
Cardiff did not really begin to feel friendly until today. After an inconvenient lodging change (due to us booking accomodations rather late), we found our way to Cardiff Castle.
The entire experience of exploring Cardiff Castle and the Victorian House within was rather surreal, as you might have guessed. And this is all within the heart of the city.
We were a bit hesitant at first to pay 10 pounds for a tour of the "Victorian House," but I am immensely glad we did. You see, the Castle grounds were owned by a man named John Crichton-Stuart, a marquess who was fabulously, ridiculously, magnificently wealthy. This is what his home looked like.
This is right next to the little fort in the picture above. We toured the inside of the building, which was fantastic, to say the least. Every inch of every room was decorated to an astounding degree of detail.
And then we went to the seaside.
I've not been here for two whole days and yet I love Cardiff. I will be sad to leave tomorrow, but mostly I'm just glad that I made it here, seeing as how it was a weird, impulsive decision that brought me here. But that's life, isn't it?
Saturday, June 25, 2011
first impressions
Confirmed Stereotypes:
- It is green. There are rolling fields (see above) and statuesque trees and shady hills and it is deliciously cool and beautiful. The breezes on hot days are indescribable
- The buildings are OLD. I was surprised that there are habited residences here with peeling paint and cracked wood paneling, but the fact is that most of the structures are just so incredibly old that some level of disrepair is expected. Regarding the actual Oxford buildings, the bricks are so ancient that they have developed this particular yellowy-gray (or should I say, grey) hue. When I stand among many of these buildings, I'm reminded of the desert, which is a very odd feeling indeed. Perhaps this bit should have gone under "Debunked Stereotypes."
- The accents are every bit as strange and wonderful as I imagined. Sometimes, after I have been in town for a while, they start to sound normal. In fact, after I left the airport, by the time I was on the bus, my heart had stopped skipping beats when I heard accents, which was far quicker than I imagined. And then someone will come along and sound just like Michael Caine or have an extra dash of cockney mixed in and I will be unable to resist a smile. I hope they don't think I'm making fun of them. It just tickles me.
- In other news, I noticed that it even sort of smells like how I (unconsciously) imagined England would. I remember thinking this on the bus to Oxford. It smells like dust and old perfume (like something an elegant elder queen might wear), broken every now and then by the freshness of a cool breeze. So glad the weather is being like this.
- Everybody is not drunk or at pubs all the time. Unlike the U.S., however, pubs do have some booze customers pretty early in the day. (Or maybe I just don't have a great idea of what American taverns are like.) For some reason, U.K. pubs card even if one does not intend to drink, and it is early in the day. American pubs usually let all ages in for food until the late evening.
- Police cars are green? They have that PT-cruiser-ish shape but are white with neon green stripes. Also, I only had a vague concept of this stereotype, but one of the ladies pointed out that these police cars do not make the "wee-woo" sound and instead make the exact same noise as the cars of the American fuzz.
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