Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Caledonia!

Home sweet home, blessed Caledonia!

Allow me to explain my absence. Just after my last post, I made like a bird and went south to London. As an adopted son of Scotland, I go to England only when business requires it. As it happens, the academies' graduate societies of London jointly hosted a cocktail party for academy scholarship winners. To us this was as good of an excuse for a mini-reunion as any.

Six-hours on the train is a long time to sit across from someone and not start a conversation. As it happens, I learned about the Battle of the Britain from an old woman who lived through it. I also learned that Rooney can't be held responsible for his behavior-- "a product of a real punch-up family." "And who let the Chinese in Britain? Your generation doesn't have a chance," she continued. The old lady's daughter, 50 years old or so, returned from the rest room and silenced her right away.

Then the daughter asked me what I was studying at school, and I told her 'philosophy.' She asked if I wanted to be an academic. I said 'maybe.' Then she told me that I'll probably just end up married and with a family.

As I made to leave King's Cross, the old woman warned me that London was full of communists. The daughter elbowed her, sparking banter about her right to free speech. They continued to their vacation home in southern France.

It was refreshing to see my West Point classmates. People say strange things when less tethered to the institution. I'll leave it at that.

The cocktail reception was standard fare. I hovered around the corners of the room. I enjoy social situations, but I like to keep my back near the wall anyway. Since my classmates were occupied with conversation and I was tired from the train, I was struggling to keep engaged.

Then a few British officers came to crash the party. To their surprise, the bar was not free. A black officer, the first of his regiment, called 'The Boxer' by his associates, explained to me why the American military is 'pound for pound' weaker than the British. He told me that at the Falklands the British were only defeated because they went in without proper support, and that Americans would never have been so 'pound for pound' brave to do the same. I told him that 'pound for pound' it is doesn't really make sense to go into battle without supplies, and after some argument he conceded the point ("You're a good chap," he said). Needless to say, I was having the most interesting conversation of anyone in the room, and I kept returning with more drinks for this engaging trio.

I bumped into an academy pal from my Rhodes interview in California. One hell of a shared experience. We exchanged complaints, email addresses, and promised to continue the conversation at a later date.

The party came to an abrupt conclusion (the room was full, then it was empty). The British officers invited me to go drinking with them, to "see how many bars the Boxer will get kicked out of." I really wanted to, but I came to London to catch up with my classmates. They accused me of saying an "Irish goodbye."

I wouldn't want to live in London. I saw Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, etc. and so on. London saw me, at every street corner, at every crosswalk, everywhere, fixed in the sights of the ubiquitous CCTV network. That doesn't bother me, but I did expect that the fabled 'Fish and Chips' would be better than they were.

I headed back up to Scotland after that. This was last, last Saturday. I spent Sunday reading epistemology. It wasn't making sense. On Monday I learned how hard it is to learn 'possible world semantics' on the fly. Then it comes easy, as it should to anyone who won or lost a scholarship. Oh yes, it could have been very different.

Tuesday evening I went to the first Philosophy Society meeting of the year. The Society slated Dr. Jeff McMahon to give a talk on killing and self-defense. His name caught my eye, and I quickly realized that I had met him at a military ethics conference at West Point. He gave his paper, I gave some criticism (perhaps good, perhaps not), and the Society headed to the pub after the talk. We chatted about the possibility of a decent military ethic ever being endorsed by the Army. He invited me to a conference in Oxford on Thursday where the issue would be relevant and a few philosophy instructors from West Point were presenting papers. I got home at midnight, booked my ticket to Oxford for early Wednesday morning, and by Wednesday night I was at Oxford, again reunited with some of my classmates.

The conference was okay. I was glad to see some officers from West Point that I had worked with. I don't agree with the majority of the presentations, but it was important to "be there," as Vonnegut would say, nonetheless. At the pub one night in Oxford, a drunk English man went on a tirade about minorities without any provocation. I wished him well, but quickly went my own way. For the record, I've met stronger opinions about race from strangers in the UK than I have anywhere else.

On Friday I made the pilgrimage to the Oxford philosophy department. Too many brilliant people have worked there to recount. It was a possible world for me, yes, but Oxford is a busy place. Throngs of people shift along George and High Street. The only ones you notice are wearing some kind of neon tights or a mo-hawk. The Bodleian beckons, but antiquity in the clutches cosmopolitans is less than ruins.

I met many former cadets from the other service academies. They were all fascinating and well-worth the trip.

I returned on Saturday night. My household goods shipment arrived while I was out. The boxes were all throughout my anteroom. Lisa's package had also arrived, though wrapped in a giant plastic bag to keep from leaking salsa onto the floor. 'Handle with care' and 'fragile' only empower British post handlers to execute the fullness of their power over you.

Some weeks ago, I had signed up for a tour of the Scottish Highlands for Sunday. Just returning from Oxford, with boxes and salsa all over the place, I really dreaded going. But I had already paid for it, after all, and Google Images speaks highly of the Highlands.

The bus left early Sunday morning. My fellow St. Andrean West Point classmates joined me. The bus driver was also the tour guide. Like all male tour guides in Scotland, he wears a kilt and tennis shoes. The coach fit all 40 of us, but the difficulty of navigating the small roads of Scotland did not deter our guide from narrating, handling his iPod, consulting the map, and driving at the same time. 

Our first stop was the oldest whiskey distillery in Scotland. The tour didn't start for an hour. A Scottish distillery is a distillery like any other, large copper vats and boilers, etc. At the end of the tour we were brought into a large room with a projector. It showed an almost Google Maps flyover of different parts of Scotland. Then we watched the digital mascot of the distillery, a Scottish turkey ('grouse') dance and befall comic misfortunes for fifteen minutes. Then we were told how it was animated. The developers were really proud of their turkey, but I don't think DreamWorks will call anytime soon. You start to miss production value after a while.

We had spent over two hours at the distillery. No one ever returns to the bus on time, except the West Pointers. As we entered the Highlands, our guide cued 'The Gael' over the bus speakers [The Gael]. We were running late, so there wasn't time to stop for pictures. But the highlands are beautiful, on a scale nearing Yellowstone. Bagpipes and fiddle in the background, you wish you were Scottish.

It was beginning to get late. Because people kept returning late, we only had an hour to see the castles and monuments in Stirling. On the way we stopped to see hairy cows. Yes, cows in Scotland have hair. That's it. This stop took us a half-hour.

By the time we arrived at the Wallace Monument in Stirling, we only had 15 minutes to spare. This was, of course, the only thing I had wanted to see all day, but there wasn't time for me to go inside. Remember, we saw the hairy cows instead. William Wallace was one hell of man, but he can't command even a few minutes of attention in the modern tourist scene.

That said, I was able to purchase a stone with the Declaration of Arbroath carved on it. The Declaration reads: "As long as but a hundred of us remain alive, never will we on any conditions be brought under English rule. It is in truth not for glory, nor riches, nor honours that we are fighting, but for freedom - for that alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself." It only takes bagpipes to bring out the patriot in all of us. It invigorates me and yet I feel foolish at the same time. Aye, to philosophy, freedom is just another argument.

Immediately after the tour, now well into Sunday evening, I went to my first St. Andrew's debate practice. I missed the last few practices, so it seemed appropriate even though I was tired. The coach probably forgot our conversation of some weeks ago, and as a consequence I was placed in the novice room and subjected to condescending words of encouragement. This harassed my sense of irony, and I left offended though no one had been offensive. Pride is that way sometimes.

This brings us almost to the present day. I won't bore you with the details of my recent academic triflings. Philosophy is a harsh mistress, and she'll put me on the couch at least until Lisa does.

Pictures of my recent happenings are below:




This is sunrise by St. Andrews. I took this picture on the way to class.


This is one of the cathedral's in Oxford. There are dozens, it seems. But this one photographed well.


This is the entrance to the old moral philosophy wing of the Bodleian Library at Oxford. It's somewhat famous in the world of philosophy.


This is yours truly standing opposite the Black-watch monument (a legendary military unit of mixed review in Scotland, so named for the pattern of their tartan kilts). 


There you have it, the hairy coo'. These dumb things are all over the place, apparently worth half-an-hour of pictures and refreshments.


This is the Wallace monument. It's a tower sitting atop a large hill. It overlooks Stirling. From afar, it looks like something from The Lord of the Rings. It is very striking, perched in watch over Stirling, the 'broach that holds the highlands to the lowlands' (also the site of the Battle of Stirling, one of the places where Wallace, outnumbered 3 to 1, defeated an English invasion force).


Cheers!

2 comments:

  1. Thanks for the update and all, babe..but SERIOUSLY! CLEAN YOUR HOUSE! This means you have to stop obsessing over the stone souvenir...LOL!

    I miss you!

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  2. Well you have definitely been busy. Even the disappointing things are better than sitting around doing nothing or going to the same dead end job every day. You will look back on these times and laugh at the bad and treasure the good. Both will always make good stories and will be missed. Mom

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