Just so everyone's aware, my phone is out of calling credit, which means I can't place calls or texts. If you call me and I don't respond, I'm not ignoring you. Just try me again until I pick up the phone. I'll top up this week, but in the meantime, that's why I've gone AWOL.
In related news, happy belated birthday, Dad! Sorry I wasn't able to call for the aforementioned reason...but I did in fact remember. Donna, I know you probably read this more than my dad does, so pass along the message. :)
So on to updating. I didn't know so much homework existed in the world. I've probably already said that in a previous blog. I don't know. My brain is so clogged up with Latin that I now have trouble concentrating on anything that's not written in the ablative case...on the homework note, I went to the library to pick up some of the recommended reading for a class I have on Friday. Neither of the books are in English. Naturally. I'm slowly becoming of the opinion that a day without spending at least 4 hours in the library is a day wasted. What a sad existence I do lead.
On a completely unrelated note and with absolutely no segue whatsoever, I am discovering once again how small the world is...at West Side rehearsal the other day, I started talking with a really sweet girl named Ginny, who's also American. Upon chatting, we discovered that not only are we both in the same department at UCL, but lived 20 minutes away from each other in Maryland and in fact have taken class from some of the same dance teachers. There's another girl in my program who grew up in Silver Spring, and a third who apparantly went to college with me, though she's just sitting in on one of my classes, and is from another program. How small the world indeed is...
On a positive note, I'm slowly starting to feel less stupid. I mean, I always feel stupid in Latin class. That's a given. And in Paleography I feel just kind of average. But in my Cloisters to Classroom course, I actually feel like I'm in my element. Understandable, as it's a course on theology and my background is early Christianity. I've actually got to start picking a topic for our first paper...it's due in December, and we can basically write about anything we want. I'm thinking I might write about the theological connection between the Judeo-Christian Essenes and the 4th and 5th century monks. Not entirely sure, though.
Oh, and I'm playing a Shark in West Side. Like, one of the Puerto Rican chics. I find this endlessly funny. Also amusing is the fact that the guy playing my boyfriend is clearly a fresher and is probably about 6 or 7 years younger than me, though I feel like I look old enough to be his mother. Awkward much? He's a sweet kid, though. I suppose it doesn't really matter. I just find it amusing.
Also, postage is really cheap here, so if anyone wants me to send them letters, just send along your address...I've yet to purchase a DVD player, so I will write letters. I really am THAT bored.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Back in the Saddle
Well, I got cast in West Side. I don't have a main part or anything, and honestly, that suits me just fine. Primarily, they cast me to sing the "Somewhere" solo, and to be in the core group of dancers. Instead of doing the show in the traditional manner where all of the actors also do all of the dancing, they decided to have an extra group of ensemble members who just dance and are not actually members of either of the gangs. But apparantly, I lucked out-the director told me he's putting me onstage for most of the show in one of the gangs, having me dance with the dance ensemble, and having me sing "Somewhere". Not bad, if I do say so myself. I don't have any dialogue, but it looks like I'll actually get more stage time than most of the principles, which is always nice. Sounds like fun to me. :)
In other news...there really isn't a whole lot of other news. I never knew the world contained so much homework. It's only the first week, and I've already got a favorite desk in the library, which I have occupied until the library closed-twice. Le sigh. I'm finally starting to get the hang of Latin again. I'm still not good at it by any stretch of the imagination or twisting of definitions, but when I looked at my assigned translations for the week, they only looked like about 80% gibberish, which is a vast improvement. I hate going to Latin class because it's so above my level, but at the same time, it's really forcing me to remember my grammar. Very, very quickly. Pressure, but productive pressure nonetheless.
Um, let's see....I played the role of classy grown-up this weekend. My friend Kendall entered a photography competition and made it into the top 50, so she and I went to the gallery opening of all the finalists on Thursday, and drank free champagne and ate yummy finger foods. Then last night, I met a friend for cocktails at the bar on top of the Tate Modern, which was really fun and classy and all that. And today I'm going to tea at the home of a professional contact I made from the V&A Museum; basically I'm going to try and whore myself out to her for an internship or something. We'll see how it goes. :)
As the pig said, "That's all, folks!"
In other news...there really isn't a whole lot of other news. I never knew the world contained so much homework. It's only the first week, and I've already got a favorite desk in the library, which I have occupied until the library closed-twice. Le sigh. I'm finally starting to get the hang of Latin again. I'm still not good at it by any stretch of the imagination or twisting of definitions, but when I looked at my assigned translations for the week, they only looked like about 80% gibberish, which is a vast improvement. I hate going to Latin class because it's so above my level, but at the same time, it's really forcing me to remember my grammar. Very, very quickly. Pressure, but productive pressure nonetheless.
Um, let's see....I played the role of classy grown-up this weekend. My friend Kendall entered a photography competition and made it into the top 50, so she and I went to the gallery opening of all the finalists on Thursday, and drank free champagne and ate yummy finger foods. Then last night, I met a friend for cocktails at the bar on top of the Tate Modern, which was really fun and classy and all that. And today I'm going to tea at the home of a professional contact I made from the V&A Museum; basically I'm going to try and whore myself out to her for an internship or something. We'll see how it goes. :)
As the pig said, "That's all, folks!"
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Whoops
When I got here, I had resolve. I really did.
And then I saw the announcement for an audition for West Side Story.
Oops.
Needless to say, I went. Because I'm more addicted to performing than Paris Hilton is to fame. I promised myself that I was done, that I was retired from performing, that I'm now officially an academic. But then I realized something. Pursuing one thing professionally doesn't have to mean sacrificing who you are. I started thinking about this the other day when I was having dinner with Ashley, my next door neighbor. I mentioned to her that I really liked everyone in my course, and I think I'll be able to be friends with all of them. Her response was, "well yeah, except that as soon as classes start you're all in competition with each other for either grant money or Ivy League PhD slots, so you don't really have room to be kind to them." And she's right. She's absolutely right-we are each other's competition.
And I refuse to be that way.
Of course I will always do my best, and I will always try as hard as I can to be thorough in my research. But if someone wants help with a translation, I'll give it to them. If someone doesn't have time to do the reading, I'll give them my notes. I have tried to make kindness a part of who I am as much as possible (whether I've succeeded or not is for you to decide, not me), and I don't want to give up that part of who I am in pursuit of a career goal. Just as I don't want to give up performing for it. I love academia, and I really, truly do want to get my doctorate, get tenure, write something groundbreaking, all that stuff. I do. But not at the expense of my identity. I won't give up my thoroughly non-competetive nature, and I won't give up my hobbies.
Maybe that makes me silly. Maybe that's the formula that makes people who were almost successful, but in the end didn't quite have that extra edge. Maybe. But to me, all the success in the world isn't worth giving up the pieces of myself that I love the most. So I've decided, from now on, I will be a non-competitive academic who sings and dances when she could be doing extra research. That's who I am making a choice to be. And oddly, even though nothing's really changed, I feel better knowing that. More confident. I'm determined as hell to make it in this program, but at least I know that whatever happens, I'll emerge from it on the other side the same person I was when I went in.
And then I saw the announcement for an audition for West Side Story.
Oops.
Needless to say, I went. Because I'm more addicted to performing than Paris Hilton is to fame. I promised myself that I was done, that I was retired from performing, that I'm now officially an academic. But then I realized something. Pursuing one thing professionally doesn't have to mean sacrificing who you are. I started thinking about this the other day when I was having dinner with Ashley, my next door neighbor. I mentioned to her that I really liked everyone in my course, and I think I'll be able to be friends with all of them. Her response was, "well yeah, except that as soon as classes start you're all in competition with each other for either grant money or Ivy League PhD slots, so you don't really have room to be kind to them." And she's right. She's absolutely right-we are each other's competition.
And I refuse to be that way.
Of course I will always do my best, and I will always try as hard as I can to be thorough in my research. But if someone wants help with a translation, I'll give it to them. If someone doesn't have time to do the reading, I'll give them my notes. I have tried to make kindness a part of who I am as much as possible (whether I've succeeded or not is for you to decide, not me), and I don't want to give up that part of who I am in pursuit of a career goal. Just as I don't want to give up performing for it. I love academia, and I really, truly do want to get my doctorate, get tenure, write something groundbreaking, all that stuff. I do. But not at the expense of my identity. I won't give up my thoroughly non-competetive nature, and I won't give up my hobbies.
Maybe that makes me silly. Maybe that's the formula that makes people who were almost successful, but in the end didn't quite have that extra edge. Maybe. But to me, all the success in the world isn't worth giving up the pieces of myself that I love the most. So I've decided, from now on, I will be a non-competitive academic who sings and dances when she could be doing extra research. That's who I am making a choice to be. And oddly, even though nothing's really changed, I feel better knowing that. More confident. I'm determined as hell to make it in this program, but at least I know that whatever happens, I'll emerge from it on the other side the same person I was when I went in.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
You Want Me To Read WHAT?
Well, I've done it-I've officially signed up for my courses. No turning back now-looks like I'm stuck in it for the long haul. In the end, I signed up for Medieval Manuscipts and Documents, Internediate Latin (ACK!), and Cloisters to Classroom, which is basically a study of how the first universities were formed and how they dealt with the problem of studying theology and secular academia at the same time. Should be pretty cool. I'm also auditing an undergraduate class in archeology, since the graduate level one was cancelled. Another guy from my course is doing the same, so that should make it more fun.
Now, I realize that graduate school will be harder than undergrad. Obviously, this is how it should be. Not only am I at a much higher academic level, but I'm also going to a much better school (not that I won't always have a fondness in my heart for UM, particularly the on-campus frat parties to which I was so partial). I expected a lot of independent learning, extra recommended reading, private study in the library, etc.
What I did not expect was to receive the syllabus for just one of my courses and find attached to it a full 7-page bibliography. Not 7 books, not 7 subjects with a few books each, 7 pages. 12-point, single spaced pages. Of books. Which I am expected to read.
Oh. My. God. I wonder if I should just commence the suicide attempts now. But unfortunately, my refund cheques haven't arrived yet from the school, so right now I can't even afford a bag of crisps, much less a razor blade. Damn. I guess I'll have to stay the suicide attempts until I can afford to purchase a length of rope or the like. I feel like I'm going through freshmen hell week, when you try to join a sorority but all they do is haze you. My terror has now increased 10-fold.
However, it's not all bad and horrifying. I know a lot of grad students who are treated like vermon, and told repeatedly that they are academically worthless until they prove otherwise. This does not appear to be the case at UCL. First off, all of my professors insist on us calling them by their first names. Secondly, they refer to us as "colleagues", not students, which is weird, but nice. Thirdly, we've already had 2 departmental welcome parties, and both involved a lot of free wine, which the professors drank freely alongside us while discussing things having nothing to do with academia. That bodes well for this year; they treat us as equals, which seems to be a rare find in postgraduate programmes.
As there are only 11 of us in my degree programme, it's very personal. David, my dissertation advisor, arranged for us all to go on a free trip to the Tower of London, where we got to go into the private research offices and handle 17th century letters and archives. Also, we got to try on an original suit of armour from the 16th century. Bad. Freakin'. Ass. After the tour, he gave us £40 to go out to a pub together and get drunk, simply because "it would be sociable to go out and get drunk together before the term starts". Which we did. And it was fabulous. I really like everyone else in my programme, which is good as we're going to be stuck together without escape for the next year. And they all seem to be as petrified as I am. Well, except for the Princeton guy, who's just an anomoly.
Wish me luck.
Now, I realize that graduate school will be harder than undergrad. Obviously, this is how it should be. Not only am I at a much higher academic level, but I'm also going to a much better school (not that I won't always have a fondness in my heart for UM, particularly the on-campus frat parties to which I was so partial). I expected a lot of independent learning, extra recommended reading, private study in the library, etc.
What I did not expect was to receive the syllabus for just one of my courses and find attached to it a full 7-page bibliography. Not 7 books, not 7 subjects with a few books each, 7 pages. 12-point, single spaced pages. Of books. Which I am expected to read.
Oh. My. God. I wonder if I should just commence the suicide attempts now. But unfortunately, my refund cheques haven't arrived yet from the school, so right now I can't even afford a bag of crisps, much less a razor blade. Damn. I guess I'll have to stay the suicide attempts until I can afford to purchase a length of rope or the like. I feel like I'm going through freshmen hell week, when you try to join a sorority but all they do is haze you. My terror has now increased 10-fold.
However, it's not all bad and horrifying. I know a lot of grad students who are treated like vermon, and told repeatedly that they are academically worthless until they prove otherwise. This does not appear to be the case at UCL. First off, all of my professors insist on us calling them by their first names. Secondly, they refer to us as "colleagues", not students, which is weird, but nice. Thirdly, we've already had 2 departmental welcome parties, and both involved a lot of free wine, which the professors drank freely alongside us while discussing things having nothing to do with academia. That bodes well for this year; they treat us as equals, which seems to be a rare find in postgraduate programmes.
As there are only 11 of us in my degree programme, it's very personal. David, my dissertation advisor, arranged for us all to go on a free trip to the Tower of London, where we got to go into the private research offices and handle 17th century letters and archives. Also, we got to try on an original suit of armour from the 16th century. Bad. Freakin'. Ass. After the tour, he gave us £40 to go out to a pub together and get drunk, simply because "it would be sociable to go out and get drunk together before the term starts". Which we did. And it was fabulous. I really like everyone else in my programme, which is good as we're going to be stuck together without escape for the next year. And they all seem to be as petrified as I am. Well, except for the Princeton guy, who's just an anomoly.
Wish me luck.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
What Am I Doing Here, and Why Do These People Think I'm Smart??
I had my first meeting with the other students in my course today. There are 11 of us in total, plus 4 professors. The head of the programme, Dr. D'Avery, had us do that thing where you introduce yourself to the person sitting next to you, and then in turn you introduce your partner to the class. So fine, we start doing introductions. Then after my partner was done introducing me, Dr. D'Avery added in an announcement to the whole class, "Also, according to her recommenders, Colleen is one of the foremost up-and-coming experts in the history of religion, so if you need help in that area, she's the one to speak to."
whosa-jigga-WHAT?
OK-realistically, I know I've written some good papers. I've penned a couple of theories about the evolution of Satan in early Christianity that I haven't seen anybody else touch on. But still...that was just undergraduate work. That was playtime. I don't consider myself an expert in any way, shape, or form. But apparantly, some poorly misinformed person told somebody otherwise. As if I wasn't intimidated enough!
And intimidated I am. I mean, yes, I've got a good base of early Christianity, but I've had an estimation of ZERO experience in Medieval Studies. I couldn't even tell you the dates of the Hundred Years War. As everyone else got introduced, I found that the guy next to me graduated from Princeton and has already written an original thesis on Henry III. Another guy has been studying the medieval period since high school. Every time someone new was introduced, I felt more and more like the pity case who got in because she had a really good social worker or something. Like the bad egg in the omelette. I'm horrified at the prospect of even trying to compete with these people! And now, apparantly, I have to live up to being an authority on a subject where I feel more like a second-grader learning to read than an expert.
Terrifying.
whosa-jigga-WHAT?
OK-realistically, I know I've written some good papers. I've penned a couple of theories about the evolution of Satan in early Christianity that I haven't seen anybody else touch on. But still...that was just undergraduate work. That was playtime. I don't consider myself an expert in any way, shape, or form. But apparantly, some poorly misinformed person told somebody otherwise. As if I wasn't intimidated enough!
And intimidated I am. I mean, yes, I've got a good base of early Christianity, but I've had an estimation of ZERO experience in Medieval Studies. I couldn't even tell you the dates of the Hundred Years War. As everyone else got introduced, I found that the guy next to me graduated from Princeton and has already written an original thesis on Henry III. Another guy has been studying the medieval period since high school. Every time someone new was introduced, I felt more and more like the pity case who got in because she had a really good social worker or something. Like the bad egg in the omelette. I'm horrified at the prospect of even trying to compete with these people! And now, apparantly, I have to live up to being an authority on a subject where I feel more like a second-grader learning to read than an expert.
Terrifying.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Open mouth, insert foot...
Major lesson of the week: just because you're in a country that speaks your language, that doesn't mean you speak the same "language".
I discovered this the hard way. Up until last week, I was staying at my friend Charlene's house. When the day came to finally move into my dorm, I was looking all over the place for my favorite pair of black pinstriped pants. Being completely unable to find them, I went down to the living room, where her roommate Emma and Emma's boyfriend Tom were watching TV. I asked them if they had seen my pants, and proceeded to describe them and mention where I'd last seen them.
This sounds entirely innocent. Unless, of course, you think the word "pants" actually means "underwear". Which apparantly, British people do. They stared at me with their mouths hanging open for a good 30 seconds before Emma, being into fashion, finally remembered that the term "pants" means something very different to Americans. Lesson learned: unless you're discussing your recently purchased thong, call them "trousers".
I've yet to run into any other huge cultural snags, but I still worry that I might. Within the academic realm, I'm not too worried, but it's everyday life that concerns me. For example, I have a date set up for this week, the first date I've ever had here. Now, anyone who knows me well knows that I thoroughly enjoy dating. I'm good at it. I can manage to have a dinner-length conversation with a newel post if required, and having done the casual dating thing for so long, I've got the American dating standards down to a science, at least up through date 6 when you actually have to stop being "date" you and start being "real" you. But when it comes to dating here, I'm totally clueless. Do guys pay for first dates here? When we say we're going out for a drink, is it just a drink or do they also mean dinner, a walk, a movie, etc? Is it normal to kiss on a first date here? Does the holding hands come before the first kiss or after? And how do you do it when you're not going to separate cars, but are both on public transportation? Do you get off the train and walk the person to their door before getting back on? Do you part at the tube station and just awkwardly travel in the same direction and try to be seated in separate cars of the train? Do guys here open doors and pull out your chair or not? Is it OK to have a drink with dinner on the first date, or is it awkward? Is it a cultural faux pas to share dessert, or is it expected? Do guys here actually like girls who eat salad, or do they prefer a screw-it-I'll-have-a-cheeseburger kind of girl? Do British people kiss on the cheek when they greet each other for the first time, or was that a Miami hispanic thing? If so, is it one kiss like the Spanish, 2 like the French, or 3 like the Italians? Are heels sexy or impractical in a city where everybody walks everywhere? What if he does try to kiss me on the first date? Should I let him, or will he think I'm easy? But if I don't, will he think I'm a prude? Is my British cultural ignorance still cute and quirky, or is it annoying?
This should be interesting...
I discovered this the hard way. Up until last week, I was staying at my friend Charlene's house. When the day came to finally move into my dorm, I was looking all over the place for my favorite pair of black pinstriped pants. Being completely unable to find them, I went down to the living room, where her roommate Emma and Emma's boyfriend Tom were watching TV. I asked them if they had seen my pants, and proceeded to describe them and mention where I'd last seen them.
This sounds entirely innocent. Unless, of course, you think the word "pants" actually means "underwear". Which apparantly, British people do. They stared at me with their mouths hanging open for a good 30 seconds before Emma, being into fashion, finally remembered that the term "pants" means something very different to Americans. Lesson learned: unless you're discussing your recently purchased thong, call them "trousers".
I've yet to run into any other huge cultural snags, but I still worry that I might. Within the academic realm, I'm not too worried, but it's everyday life that concerns me. For example, I have a date set up for this week, the first date I've ever had here. Now, anyone who knows me well knows that I thoroughly enjoy dating. I'm good at it. I can manage to have a dinner-length conversation with a newel post if required, and having done the casual dating thing for so long, I've got the American dating standards down to a science, at least up through date 6 when you actually have to stop being "date" you and start being "real" you. But when it comes to dating here, I'm totally clueless. Do guys pay for first dates here? When we say we're going out for a drink, is it just a drink or do they also mean dinner, a walk, a movie, etc? Is it normal to kiss on a first date here? Does the holding hands come before the first kiss or after? And how do you do it when you're not going to separate cars, but are both on public transportation? Do you get off the train and walk the person to their door before getting back on? Do you part at the tube station and just awkwardly travel in the same direction and try to be seated in separate cars of the train? Do guys here open doors and pull out your chair or not? Is it OK to have a drink with dinner on the first date, or is it awkward? Is it a cultural faux pas to share dessert, or is it expected? Do guys here actually like girls who eat salad, or do they prefer a screw-it-I'll-have-a-cheeseburger kind of girl? Do British people kiss on the cheek when they greet each other for the first time, or was that a Miami hispanic thing? If so, is it one kiss like the Spanish, 2 like the French, or 3 like the Italians? Are heels sexy or impractical in a city where everybody walks everywhere? What if he does try to kiss me on the first date? Should I let him, or will he think I'm easy? But if I don't, will he think I'm a prude? Is my British cultural ignorance still cute and quirky, or is it annoying?
This should be interesting...
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Rules, rules rules
It's been so long since I've been in a dorm that I completely forgot about the insane amount of rules they've got going on here. Unbelievable! I went out with a couple of friends last night who both live way out in the suburbs, and since we were all not what you could call sober and it was 2:30 in the morning, we decided that they would come over and sleep on my floor. But when we got to the dorm, I found out that not only am I not allowed to sign anyone in after midnight, but I can only have 1 person in my room at a time, and there's not really any getting around this as you have to have the front desk buzz you through the turnstiles to even get into the building. Seriously? I'm 24 years old and I can't have a couple of friends come over to chat and then sleep on the floor? Seriously? So then they had to turn around and take the hour long 4-bus commute to get back home in the middle of the night. That really sucks. Ugh, I'm annoyed.
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