The Second Best Party on Earth

May Ball Photos
I believe that any place worth going will have at least one "must do." For example, I believe that any of the Smithsonian Museums, the Washington Monument, and the Udvar-Hazy Center are all "must do's" for the Washington, DC area. In fact, that is only just scratching the surface. In Charlottesville, one must visit The Corner, get Bodo's for breakfast, and take a walk on the Downtown Mall. As they say in England, "it's the done thing." As a student at Cambridge, there is one obvious "must do" before this brief and exceptional time passes: one must attend a May Ball. If one is to do this correctly, as well, one must use all one's influence and connections to attend the best of the May Balls: the Trinity May Ball.

Judging by the timestamp on this post, either I am writing this much after the fact, or Cambridge is being weird. As ever, it is the latter. In Cambridge, "May Week" is the week after the end of exams. This week is chock-full of a variety of celebrations and parties to allow the students to release a little steam following the hell of their exams. Some colleges, Trinity Hall being one of them, offer a more informal affair called a June Event. We attended this in 2008. A June Event is kind of like an all-night grad party, though with slightly greater resources and on a marginally bigger scale. Many friends who we have spoken with have compared it to prom and are not far from the truth. Expecting this to be our last year in Cambridge, and also near to my 25th birthday, we decided instead to shoot for the moon and attend a May Ball.

What is a May Ball? For the textbook definition, check out the Wikipedia article. It is a party unique to the colleges of the University of Cambridge. Calling it a "party," though, hardly does it justice. It is the closest that those of us who don't have diplomatic careers in our future will get to attending official state functions or other similarly pompous affairs. More importantly for me, it was an opportunity to wear full-formal evening wear and a chance for Jackie to dress up really pretty.

How did we score tickets? Surprisingly, getting tickets was easy for us. Our friends were more than happy to ballot on our behalf. Transferring the tickets was a breeze, as well. Being in Cambridge for three years definitely improves one's abilities to work connections.

Some highlights of the evening:
- A punt full of champagne. Not cheap stuff, either. They served champagne continuously from 9pm to 5am and didn't run out.
- All you can eat oyster bar. That works for some people.
- A tent full of North/East African food. Yum.
- Bumper cars, swings, and bungee bouncing.
- Single-malt whisky tasting. Glenlivet 18 and 21 y/o. Wow.
- The most spectacular fireworks extravaganza I've seen this side of July 4th. 15-20 minutes of awesomeness.
- BBQ pork sandwiches with stuffing and apple sauce. Yum.
- A full-service bar that made awesome cocktails at 100 mph (or something not to far off that pace).
- Jazz, swing, rock, dance, blues, folk, and ethnic music. What?
- ABBA UK: the UK's official ABBA cover band. Old enough to be your parents...

Going to May Ball is absolutely a Cambridge "must do" and we are so thankful that we had the opportunity to do so. It was everything we expected and so much more. We had a wonderful time with another American couple with whom we spent the evening. It was like attending a grown-up prom, but much better than that sounds. We're already talking about saving up money for next year...

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Paris Photos!

Because once is never enough when it comes to Paris. Or twice. Or thrice. Or...

After much adieu, the photos from the my 'Girls Getaway' to Paris with my mom are up on Flickr for your viewing delight! Click on the photo above, or the "Paris 2010" link on the sidebar. Enjoy!

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Australia Photos!

The Photo That Must Be Taken. By Everyone.

Dear Loyal Readers,

If you have enjoyed reading my series, Terra Incognita Australis, then you would undoubtedly love to see the photos that go along with it as well! Just click the title of this blog post to visit the Flickr photoset.

Good on ya, mates!

- W

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Terra Incognita Australis Post XII: Leaving OZ

Far too many things in life are over as soon as they begin: childhood, high school, college, weddings, The Lord of the Rings, and long-expected travel. Like a man with no memory, we're saying good-bye just after saying hello. When you consider how much energy is expended just getting ready for a major event or journey--the time, the money, the planning--it's hard not to be somewhat let-down by the result itself. These things always end with a pang of disappointment. The question is whether we are looking forward to what comes next or desperately clawing at what lies behind like a man falling off a sandy cliff.

Leaving Australia, I felt more of the latter.
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Of course, it was a sunny morning. Projected high for the day: 80ºF (85ºF more likely). There was talk that rain could roll in, but it didn't seem likely. My hosts and I took the labs for one last walk up to the dog park. Amazingly, it all felt so natural. Yet, without doubt, it was completely unnatural. As much as Killara felt like Northern Virginia, I had to keep reminding myself that I was actually on the other side of the world...upside down.
After being dropped off at the airport by my amazing hosts, I realized that I was running a little behind on schedule. Thankfully, I had checked in ahead of time online; easily one of the greatest inventions since movable type. Especially so when it seems that at least two families of nine people in which one person speaks anything remotely resembling English would like to check two overweight bags per person. One guy bizarrely insisted on remaining away from the check-in counter somewhere over near the entrance of the airport. His parents--entirely confused--kept letting people pass their entourage in line. When "mystery man" would return he would proceed to rail at them in Arabic and then at his wife in English for not continuing to advance in line without him. Weird.
Thanks to hauling some major butt I managed to make it to the gate in time to get a little snack before boarding. Already it was about 3:15pm (Sydney time). I was taking the time, it being Sunday, to reflect on the trip, write a few blog posts that you all of course will have already read, and to edit my photos. I also was dealing with an important issue (one that would come back to haunt me): when was I going to sleep? What seemed to work best for me on the way to Australia was staying up when it suited, eating at local time, and then sleeping at a sensible local time. I planned to do this again, but the fallacy of this plan would stay with me for the next two weeks for one simple reason: Sydney is 11 hours ahead of London. More on that later.

As I boarded the plane, I took my place next to the window (why did I tell the travel agent that, at 6'3" I prefer the window? It's like that scene in Point Break where Patrick Swayze has a cataclysmic brain-fart and decides to go for the vault, which the Dead Presidents never do because they're too smart for that. Okay, it's nothing like that but you get me). I started to feel the gut wrenching tug of this amazing country. Everyone told me that I was foolish for taking such a short amount of time, and, at this point, I realized how absolutely right they all were. My mind raced with all kinds of thoughts and questions: what if I never get back? what if fires destroy Melbourne? what if I am unable to move my legs when I get to Singapore? I was so involved in reading and ruminating that I hadn't realized that we had left the gate and were beginning what seemed like the longest taxi in the world. It's a little known fact that planes leaving Sydney actually take off from Brisbane. I'm just kidding.

I looked out the window and was shocked to see the Harbour, right there. My mouth dropped open on the spot. Here again, up to the last moment, was Australia making something that is completely unremarkable everywhere else in the world a sight to behold. A golden, antipodean sunset glinting off the wings of a beautiful new airplane while taxiing past the greatest open-water port in the world. Then, as if scripted, a fishing boat--the kind we usually see on the Chesapeake Bay--came racing alongside the plane at full clip; it could barely keep up. A small girl was waving good bye to us, strangers all, from the bow while her dad fought to keep the boat outside the markers. To me, her name was Australia. It is a moment that I will never, ever forget. No other, and I mean no other, country in the world. Period. We reached the end of the taxiway and swung away as Australia raced off into the sunset, water, and red haze.

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Regarding my plan to beat jet lag, my thought was,
"Well, when I leave Sydney I will arrive in Singapore at 9pm. So I will stay up until the plane takes off at 11:30pm and then go to sleep."
That all seems sensible, right? Of course, until I set my watch to London time. Now 11:30pm becomes 3:30pm.
"No problem," I thought. "Since it's a 13+ hour flight I can just stay up the next five hours and then go to sleep at 8-9pm, GMT and get some reasonable rest."
Now, those of you playing the home game will have realized what failed to occur to me. I woke up at 8am, Sydney time. If I stayed up until 9pm, GMT, that's 8am Sydney time. The other thing--that did not escape you avid travellers--is that this is assuming that I get to sleep.

I didn't. On every other flight we had "Parents of the Year" (or PoYs, as I will now call them). When their little ones would start crying, they would get up, give them a pat on the back and take them for a little walk round the aisles. Brilliant. Worked a charm. On this flight though, we had the anti-PoYs. Their infant was screaming (and I mean SCREAMING) the whole way to London. Yikes. No sleep for Will and a 6am (5pm Sydney) landing was interesting. By this point I was so jet-lagged and backwards, running on years of my life and the folly of youth, that I decided to stay up until that evening. J will admit that by the time 5pm (4am Sydney, 2-days later!) I was falling asleep standing up. All told, I went to bed at 7:30pm, Monday in London (6:30am, Tuesday in Sydney). I had stayed up for 46.5 hours. I am never doing that again.

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As an epilogue, it would be impossible to thank all the people who made this entire adventure possible. It was everything that I had hoped for from the moment that I took up a studentship funded by an Australian governmental organization. The things that I learned, saw, and experienced will stay with me as long as I live. I know I have said that a lot throughout this series of blog posts, but it is not hyperbole.

I titled this running journal "Terra Incognita Australis" as a corruption of Terra Australis Incognita; "unknown southern land" in Latin, the name given to the posited but undiscovered land that most cartographers assumed must exist south of Asia prior to the discovery of what is now Australia. I did so to emphasize my own ignorance of the place and how, to me, it really was an unknown. It is no more.

As a vain attempt at a summary, here are my final thoughts on Australia:

1) It's big

2) It's hot

3) It's still really far away (from everywhere)

4) It is the most wonderful place on Earth.

Every day of my life will be one that takes me further from this first meeting, and hopefully closer to the next one with this incredible country.

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Terra Incognita Australis Post XI: A Beach Called Manly and a Sunset

I ended my last blog post with a thought on how much I love water and how much Australians do, as well. Despite my affinity for all things aquatic, I have spent a strikingly small amount of my life on or around boats of any shape or size. So, when the opportunity arises, I am immediately enthusiastic.

Perhaps the most famous beach near Sydney is Bondi (bahn-dye, people. Believe me, I got it wrong). Bondi, though, seems to be famous for all the wrong reasons. Thinking of beaches that I have been to (or near to), I guess it is more like Daytona or Miami than say the Outer Banks. Most Sydneysiders suggested that, unless I felt inexorably drawn, I should avoid Bondi for the quieter beaches to the North of the harbor. In fact, nearly all suggested that I visit Manly, instead. Being an ardent supporter of all things 'manly' for four years as an undergrad, how could I sensibly pass the opportunity? When it was further posed that I go there by ferry from Circular Quay, I was sold.

Both Bondi and Manly are known for being tourist beaches (predominatly because they are the only two beaches accessible by public transportation). The Manly ferry was jam-packed with tourists, but that was hardly a deterrent. While most people I know would use their weekend to pursue hobbies like golf or gardening, in Sydney it would seem the pastime is sailing. Therefore, the ferry run to Manly was a trip through a forest of sailboats; what I can only hope was typical of all Saturday afternoons in this beautiful city.

One begins to get a feel for Sydney's topography from sea level. To say it is hilly is an understatement. I always used to joke that there wasn't a flat piece of ground anywhere near Charlottesville; one must go further afield from Sydney to find something plain. It just makes the winding coves and cliffs of the New South Wales coast even more striking and beautiful.

When we arrived in Manly, I wandered my way up the pedestrianized mall called "the Corso" (presumably not after Lee) to the bay. All I can say is, what a beach. Gorgeous white sands ringed in by cliffs. It was my first view of the Pacific from the beach and I nearly went into the water. I say nearly because: 1) the beach was closed, and 2) the Surf Lifeguards were promptly issuing an announcement upon my arrival that bluebottle jellyfish had been spotted in the area. For those of you not familiar with the finer points of Australian biological slang, a bluebottle is a Portuguese man-o'-war; one of the most venomous animals on the planet. A single sting will cause searing, almost unbearable pain for 45 minutes to one hour. More than one sting may be fatal. So, despite the surfers' cavalier flouting of the rules, I was staying on shore. Manly, indeed.
While I tucked into a magazine and enjoyed the sunshine, I decided that I would rename Manly Beach to Self-Consciousness Shore. Australians have to be the most favored race of people on the planet. Ample sunshine means an almost year-round beach season; no time for 'fat-pants' then, if you know what I mean. I already have commented about my run in Melbourne and how dedicated Australians seemed to be to fitness. Sydney was no exception. Everybody was well-tanned and well-built. I managed to isolate myself well away to avoid the embarrassment of my UK fluorescent light tan.
Speaking of the sunshine, though, "punishing" takes on an entirely new definition. You have never seen sunshine until you have been in a country with no ozone layer. Spending the entire day outside was really starting to wear on me by the time I got to Manly; I would wear the consequences well into returning to Britain. What sunshine I lacked from the dark depths of English winter were more than made up for in the time I was "down under." Yeah, I was loving it.
About 45 minutes after I arrived at Manly, the most bizarre thing happened: an air raid siren went off. At least, I thought it was an air raid siren. While I considered scrambling for cover and searched the horizon for Japanese fighter-bombers, the Surf Lifeguards came over the P.A. system again; sharks had just been sighted in the water. Immediately, four red zodiac rafts zipped off into the water to round up all the surfers until the sharks had been cleared or decided that a "man-snack" wasn't on the menu. Two surfers whose towels were in proximity of my hearing started chatting. It went something like this:

Surfer A: "Yeah, you know, it just isn't worth it staying out anymore, mate."

Surfer B: "I know. Especially after last year being such a 'sharky' year."

The implication being that, prior to 2009, when the shark alarm sounded it was worth it to risk one's life to catch another wave or two. In 2009, though, it seems the sharks started biting.

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My host kindly picked me up and we drove up the coast (with the labs!) to Fisherman's Beach. The North Beaches are a part of Sydney that few tourists have the opportunity to visit; Sydneysiders want to keep things that way. There is no public transport up to this mostly-residential part of the Sydney region. The beach crowd starts to thin the further North of the city you go. Fisherman's Beach was all but deserted when we arrived. The world's most beautiful public golf course was hosting a wedding on their terrace that overlooks the Pacific. From Fisherman's Beach, a footpath runs up to Long Reef; a point that offers fantastic sweeping views of the entire coast north of Sydney. It also happens to be one of the most beautiful places on Earth for enjoying a sunset. Some people thought it would be cool to do this while hang gliding on the constant Pacific breeze blowing up to the point; to each his own. As the sun set on my last full day on Australia I couldn't help but feel a tug of longing for what might have been. I managed to run myself ragged on this one day in Sydney, to the point that I had exhausted both myself and my sparse list of things to do. I knew, though, that there wasn't time enough to see everything and that I was only scratching the surface of this phenomenal country. The sun was setting on my Australian adventure, but I knew that this would only be the beginning.

Radar, the Labrador, also enjoyed the view, drooling his assent.

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Census 2010: We Don't Count

N

Nope, sorry, can't see them.

Life comes in cycles. Whether we have established electoral cycles because it is natural, or if this reinforces in us some innate need for repetition, what goes around ends up coming right back around again. Sometimes these things happen annually (i.e. Super Bowl, birthdays, anniversaries...definitely not in that order), biannually (House of Representatives elections... suggestions?), or every four years (presidential elections, the Olympics, the World Cup). Four years is getting on a long time; in some respects, it is just outside the scope of human memory. But how about 10 years? That's right, a decade. By comparison, that seems like a lifetime.
The United States Census happens every 10 years. The last one was the millennial Census 2000. Although it seems fairly droll--it is, after all, nothing more than a questionnaire required by law--it is hugely important. Congressional districts will be redrawn, the shape of the House of Representatives will change for the next 10 years, and federal funds will be reapportioned based on population. It is something that is routinely abused, but it is also one of the last, shining bastions of democracy in our nation that seems fraught by corruption and a disillusionment that comes from an increasingly isolated and hegemonic state. If you stand up (because you are required by law to do so) you will be counted. Beautiful.

Except for us. We don't count. As private-citizens living abroad not under contract to the federal government or in the armed services we cannot take part in the Census. Conceivably because we've unofficially sworn allegiance to a foreign power or something. I am legitimately disappointed in this. We should be sending our best and brightest abroad to represent the country in unofficial as well as official capacities. Those of us who are abroad actually tend to think more about the governance of America and its perception in the rest of the world far more than most Americans living on native soil do. So to find out that Census is taking place and that we can't take part is indeed a let down, if not a tad insulting.

When the next Census occurs we will be 35. Assuming that we are living in the US at that time, it will be the first time that we appear on the record. Who can say whether I will take it so seriously then as I do now?

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Terra Incognita Australis Post X: The Rocks and the Ferry

Australia suffers under the same sort of teasing from Europeans that we receive in America; namely, that our countries are young and have little history. This normally is said with an upturned nose or in defence of some indefensible point (i.e., the fact that many current problems can be traced to Franco/Anglo global meddling). The upside, though, is that when one finds something of genuine historical significance it feels really unique, special, and wonderful.
Sydney grew out of what was the first colony of white settlers in Australia and can therefore date itself from the 1780s; some 170 years after the founding of the Jamestown colony, though substantially older than most Western states. The majority of this old town is grouped in an area around the Harbour Bridge known as "The Rocks." Following my Garden sojourn, I headed down through Sydney's main esplanade and ferry terminal, Circular Quay, and around to the old part of things.
Much to my amazement and satisfaction, it was as if the Caribbean had been dropped out of the sky into Australia. The buildings in this section of Sydney were wonderfully well-preserved and completely juxtaposed with Sydney's modern concrete and glass persona.
Naturally, the area is a giant tourist trap. It is made especially worse by the fact that cruise ships moor at Circular Quay, dumping thousands of holiday-goers directly into this historical haven. Parts of the area are extremely chintz, but parts of it are genuinely wonderful. The market was first-rate and the food vendors were flat-out excellent. I still have yet to figure out Australia's curious obsession with Bavarian sausages and biergartens, yet the presence of a Löwenbräu pub right in the heart of old Sydney was amusing, if nothing else.
I had not planned on making it down to this little enclave of history, but it was a worthwhile detour and something that I can definitely recommend to anyone going to Sydney for a visit. Equal parts England and Colonial Williamsburg, it will be a surprise even if you expect it.

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The second-half of my day was going to be spent (finally) enjoying Australia's ample sun and sand at one of its world-famous beaches: Manly. In what has to have been the work of a genius local planner, the majority of Sydney's beaches are barely accessible by public transport, if at all. The notable exceptions to this are Bondi (pronounced bahn-dye, people) and Manly. Hence, they bear the crushing weight of the tourist demand for a day at the beach. Bondi can be reached from Sydney by rail and bus. Manly, though, is really only reachable by ferry. Since it is a rare occasion indeed that I get to be on a boat, I was giddy at the opportunity.

I've discussed this briefly with J and others, but I have a theory that, in the US, we have no real parallel for the importance of water to Australians. I don't so much mean the nearly constant drought conditions under which the country labours as I do the centrality of beaches and open water to their national psyche. I would wager that no other country in the world places so many of its major cities (that is, all) within a 30 minute drive of the ocean. The benefits are obvious, and it makes me wonder why it took so long for nation-builders to realise this. Weekend pursuits shift from the land to the water. Families go to the beach, rather than to parks or to backyards. Exercise becomes more important (because it's always swimsuit weather!), and therefore the nation is healthier. Men leave the office and go surfing, or better yet, sailing.
Sydney harbour on a Saturday is, therefore, unlike anything I've seen in my life. I still don't know how the ferry managed to make it through the forest of amateur Thor Heyerdahls on the way from Circular Quay to Manly. Perhaps it is some latent connection to the sailing ships that bore their forefathers. Perhaps it is because of the beauty and purity of harnessing the wind for transport. Perhaps it's just because it's fun. Nevertheless, it was beautiful and only served to draw this deeply amazing country further into my heart. I've always loved water; now I had found an entire country that does too.

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Terra Incognita Australis Post IX: Sydney Parklands

Melbourne is a garden city. Much like London (in parts), Paris, and Brussels, every other block contains a small green square of paradise. Sydney, on the other hand, is a city of parks. To the North lie several 'reserves'  of  'bushland' that are as good as any regional or national park that I have seen in the US. Closer in are Hyde Park and the Royal Botanic Gardens.
Hyde Park was undoubtedly named for the similar green expanse in London. Both share a large, tree-lined boulevard, though London's certainly has the measure of Sydney's. Nevertheless, it is surprisingly green and has some impressive trees. It also happened to be hosting the "New South Wales Wine Week;" too bad it wasn't open when I came through.
Much like London, one can seemingly wander through Sydney's Central Business District (CBD) without setting foot in anything other than parkland. Hence, cutting across the corner at Hyde Park leads into "The Domain" and from there to the Royal Botanic Gardens. The Domain is a pleasantly green space of rolling hills. It is also home to the Art Gallery of New South Wales. Personally, I preferred the National Galleries of Victoria and spent little time in the NSW galleries, Also, I knew that my days in the sunshine were numbered and that I had a lot of ground yet to cover in the sprawling expanse of the RBG.
I have come to enjoy botanical gardens. Like wine, seafood, and Al Pacino movies, botanical gardens only make sense to adults. As a kid, I think I would have found them really boring. Now, though, I enjoy a quiet stroll. What this says about me, I don't know, but Sydney's gardens were easily the equal of any that I have been to in England. It is always incredible to be able to step into an alternate reality right in the heart of a major city. The real benefit of the Sydney RBG, though, is its views of the Harbour. Whether this is some great secret, hidden for aeons by Australians is beyond my reckoning. However, I can say that I was the only person that seemed to notice that one could get a really great picture of the Harbour Bridge and Opera House from the Lower Gardens. When I rounded the corner and it all came into view my jaw dropped. There was nobody; literally nobody. I sat and quietly sketched the view in my notebook. Of course, I also snapped every picture I could. In the time that I was sitting there no one came by; a span of at least 20 minutes. The great thing about the Lower Gardens is that it rings a cove and the Harbour remains in view the entire time. The Australians must have an innate sense for design, or the country is just that incredible that one need not try. It was amazing. I did not have enough time to linger long in the Gardens. That is a trip for a different day.

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Terra Incognita Australis Post VIII: Morning Sydneyside

Having ducked out first thing in the morning (admittedly, leaving my host slightly unaware and a tad frantic that I was going to have no idea where I was or what I was doing), I was keen to get as quickly as possible from the gorgeous confines of Sydney's Central Station; as stately and gorgeously Victorian an edifice if ever there was one. My breakfast spot was handpicked by my lovely wife: bill's. How could I say no to having breakfast at a place called "bill's."
A couple of things occurred to me as I trekked up from the station to Crown Street:

1) Sydney is hilly. No lie. I've never been to San Francisco but I can imagine that the two are topographical sisters. I was sweating profusely by the time I finally crested the hill at Crown Street.

2) Sydney is older than most people realise. Obviously, Australia takes the same knocks as does the United States when taken in comparison with Europe. The perception that we have is of a country largely incorporated and settled in the mid-late 19th century and to a large extent this is true. However, there are parts of Sydney that date from the late 18th century, and it shows. The particular neighbourhood I was hunting for food in felt more like Bermuda or other British tropical colonies than some recently constructed metropolis. I was very pleased.

I arrived at Bill's at about 9am and the place was jammed. I took my place at a table right next to the door (as if eating by oneself is not awkward enough!), pulled out a fresh copy of The Economist, and tucked into a bowl of homemade toasted müsli and a spectacular "flat white." It was expensive, but I felt as though I had earned it after my barrage of presentations the day before. I also had the opportunity to contemplate my first impressions of Sydney, especially in relation to Melbourne.

Melbourne and Sydney are the Boston and New York of the antipodes. Both are large, sprawling metropoles. Both are the respective commercial and transportation hubs for their respective states. Both hate each other with a passion that extends back into time immemorial. There is no hope for you if you try to argue for the other city with a Melburnian or Sydneysider. They will be stubborn to a fault. Sydneysiders will concede that Melbourne has more "culture" than Sydney. However, they will chastise its weather and its isolation. Melburnians will concede nothing to Sydney. In my opinion, they do not have to. To me, Sydney is the London  of the Southern Hemisphere. It is large, cosmopolitan, and international. I could not live there, personally, but I would love to visit it.

After my relaxing and contemplative repast, I hotfooted it from bill's up Elizabeth Street to Oxford Street and from there to the ANZAC Memorial. ANZAC stands for "Australia-New Zealand Armed Corps." Colloquially, they were known as "diggers." The exploits of the ANZACs are--in my opinion, unfortunately--little covered in American accounts of the World Wars. It was striking for me to learn that, per capita, no country last more men than Australia in World War I. They suffered a 68% casualty rate fighting in the Levant, Gallipoli, and Europe; a strikingly high number for a nation that at the time had little more than 5-7 million inhabitants. ANZAC Day is a great national holiday for both countries. I personally have always felt a strong pull towards the ANZACs and I don't know why. Partially because it is one of history's great acronyms, but also because of the bravery, courage, and valour with which these men fought. Their homes were in Australia, but in their minds, they were still British and owed a duty to protect a land and a people thousands of miles away. I had to see how a nation like Australia would honour its war dead.
If you are antipodean and you have never been to the Sydney ANZAC memorial then you must go. Living in Europe, I have seen a fair number of World War memorials. None is so strikingly poignant and dignified as the ANZAC memorial. it is a brilliant example of art deco architecture. But the centrepiece of the memorial--a bronze figure lying dead across two swords forming a cross--sends chills up the spine. Looking at this statue from the lower level of the monument, the visitor is confronted directly by the words "Let Silent Contemplation Be Your Offering." The waters of Australia's remembrance and national feeling are deeper than many would giver her credit for. It is rare, indeed, that so young a nation has so mature a perspective on the sacrifice of combat.

At this point I was emotionally overwhelmed and had to move on to greener (literally) attractions. I don't think I will ever forget the ANZAC memorial. It is a powerful reminder that the price a nation pays in war is levied in the currency of her sons in the short term and her memory in the long term. 

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Terra Incognita Australis VII: Getting to Sydney Pt. II

Having dealt with the macro scale of traveling to Sydney, it's time to address the micro. By fortune, by providence, by happenstance, my lodgings for my brief stint in New South Wales would be with a friend's brother and his girlfriend at their home just to the North of Sydney in the erstwhile borough of Killara. While this was a serious benefit in many ways (accommodation gratis, a knowledgeable guide, not one but TWO black labs), it also meant that getting into Sydney was going to be slightly more difficult than just hopping a tram as I had in Melbourne. This involved a 20-30 minute walk through the suburbs to the train platform and then a train down to Sydney Central Station.
When I say the suburbs, you really would not be far off if you pictured a cross between Florida and McLean or Great Falls, Virginia. In this respect, Sydney is bizarrely like the United States. Walking around constantly reminded me of different aspects of home. It was simultaneously comforting as well as annoying. Having come to appreciate a slightly higher density of living in the UK, anything more spacious feels a tad extravagant. And extravagance is the rule in Killara. Have a look online; most of the homes have at least a tennis court if not a swimming pool as well. In spite of this, there are some really lovely homes with excellent views of the parkland that is interwoven into the fabric of Sydney's northern suburbs.

You did not misread above; I did say that I was taking a train. I found this simply marvellous and I consider it to be one of the most admirable things about urban Australia; it has a Victorian (period, not state) railway network. Had America remained in the Empire, well, there would have been all sorts of untold consequences for history. For all the benefits that Independence has granted us, we did miss out on one of the greatest periods of cultural optimism in the Victorian Age. Australians are direct inheritors of this legacy and still benefit from it to this day. Especially so in the form of a lovely train system. The Killara platform would have been at home on any rail line in the UK. Check out the pictures; it's really bizarre. It's not so much the fact that Australia has a railway network, it's that it is so good. With what little exposure I had to it, I can draw several conclusions (as written in my notebook):

1) Just because a ticket office is advertised to open at 7:30 am need not imply that it actually will. I was left with a moment of panic on the platform at Killara when I realised that the ticket office was not open. The ticket machine did not seem like it would accept my card and I had no bills. By what can only be the grace of God I had exactly $4.20 Australian in change; the fare from Killara to Sydney Central.

2) "Beware Gap when Boarding" lacks the cheeky simplicity of "Mind the Gap"

3) I was disappointed that the train wasn't called the "Emu Express" or "Wacky Wallaby." Come on Australia, it isn't stereotypical, it's a part of your heritage.

4) The Sydney rail system reminded me more of the German S-Bahn than British Rail. Again, it's not so much that Sydney has rail, it's that it is so bizarrely out of place and that much better than the British rail system.

Much like the remarkable flight from Melbourne I described in my last blog post, the North Shore line does not fail to disappoint with scenery as it approaches the city. The closer one gets to Sydney proper, the more rocky, hilly, and grand the landscape becomes. Eventually, it all opens up into a spectacular view overlooking the harbour and the old town down on the rocks. Easily the best 25 minutes I've spent on a train, ever.

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Terra Incognita Australis Post VI: Getting to Sydney

Getting to Sydney is something that one does in stages; micro and macro, if you are of a more economic bent. On the macro scale is the matter of domestic air travel within Australia. On the micro level, one has to navigate Sydney's congested highway system or (surprisingly) capable rail network.

Air travel within the US has always been a bit of an inconvenience and a nightmare. The regulations seem to change deliberately so as to be incomprehensible. Our airlines go out of their way to make the skies unfriendly. I'd like to say that it was not always like this, but that is probably my own perception from the rose-colored glasses of childhood. Similarly, Ryanair and its competitors in Europe seem to establish new lows for blatant commercialism and standards for the "passenger = living cargo" model of air transport. My surprise was quite genuine, then, when I found the Melbourne to Sydney leg run by Virgin Blue to be an altogether hassle-free, pleasant, and enjoyable experience. Melbourne airport is little bigger than Stansted, so it is easy to navigate. Security was actually helpful, and the terminals were clean. The flight itself was unremarkable, which is to say a lot in this day and age. I happened to be sat next to a young couple from California who, along with their delightful two year old daughter, were travelling in Melbourne and Sydney. The views afforded by flying from Melbourne to Sydney are singular. I am still filled with awe by the view as we flew into New South Wales over the Blue Mountains. Literally everything about this country is picturesque and amazing. Even something as mundane as a morning commuter flight from Melbourne to Sydney involves a sweeping arc around the Central Business District (CBD) out over the Pacific coast and a striking landing path over the harbour waters.

I had not originally intended to wrote about this, but as I had some pictures I thought that it would be worthwhile. To paraphrase the end of John's gospel, if I were to write down everything that was remarkable or beautiful about Australia there would not be enough books in the world.

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Terra Incognita Australis Post V: Leaving Melbourne

I apologise for not having sufficient time (or mental capacity) lately to post. As my primary purpose for travelling to Melbourne was business, it was business that came first. For reasons of professionalism, I cannot comment on the conference other than to say that it was an interesting and enjoyable experience, and that if I eventually decide to leave the field then I will have a great deal to write about. Forgive the stream-of-consciousness writing as I do have a lot of ground to make up.

Yesterday was my last full day in Melbourne. What I have to say, is that Melbourne is one of the greatest cities for running on the planet. When we left the hotel at 6am, we headed straight for the path that runs around the garden border; the famous “Tan.” As was explained to me, it is called the “Tan” not because of gorgeous sunbathers (though assuredly there are many), but instead because it at one point in time had been covered in tan wood. This was done for the sake of exercising the horses. For reasons lost to Australian history, men started running on it eventually giving birth to the 3.5km metric by which all Melburnian runners are measured. Now, in any other city in the world, running at 6am puts you into a fairly limited crowd; especially if you’re heading towards a semi-darkened path. Running the Tan, though, is such a phenomenon, that the path was chock full of people. It was incredible; like everyone secretly decided that we could reverse the order of things and nighttime really was the best time to go out for a leisurely stroll or jog. In the middle of our hour long run, my partner and I managed 13:30 on the Tan, enough to open a few eyes at the conference.

Despite having been trapped in a room with no windows for the better part of the last three or four days, my enthusiasm for this city has not diminished. While I have had more of an opportunity to see it, I still am disappointed that I cannot see more of it. It is a wonderful place. There are beaches, old buildings, magnificent skyscrapers, good cafés, good public transit, friendly people, and of course, good weather. I fly out for Sydney and the unknown, yet again, and I do so with the distinct trepidation that I am leaving my heart behind.

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Terra Incognita Australis – Post IV: Two Hours in “Singapore”

Terra Incognita Australis – Post IV: Two Hours in “Singapore”

Picking up where Post III left off, allow me to continue expounding the virtues of the Airbus A380. In Singapore Airlines configuration, the A380-800 (that is 800 passengers) actually seats only 470. Hence, there is more room available. Granted, on the 2205 Heathrow-Singapore route (which I will forever dub the “Breeder Line” because of the unexpected proliferation of infants. Thanks Mom and Dad for not taking me on a 22-hour plane ride when I was that young. Either they breed them differently Down Under or the parents really are just that crazy), the plane is hardly at capacity. Thanks to my luxury lie-flat Economy seating, the four-hours of kip I got was easily the most restful sleep I have ever had on an airplane. I am not kidding when I say that the 7186 miles between London and Singapore felt nowhere near as long as the 9-hour London to Washington journey of 2008, all thanks to having a row to myself.

---

Flying into Singapore Changi was—without hyperbole—one of the coolest experiences I’ve ever had the pleasure to enjoy. This is putting it into the same spine-tingling realm as the first football game I attended at Scott Stadium, the first time I raced track and field, and the first time I kissed my wife. Seriously, it is simply that cool. You descend through the clouds with the Malay Peninsula off to the East and the sea is literally full of ships. I grew up going to my grandparents’ house in South Florida and I always would watch ships coming into Fort Lauderdale and Miami harbours, but I’ve not seen a thing like this. The closer one gets to Singapore, the more ships appear. They dot the surface like water bugs.

Despite the fact that I know not all international airports are created equally, the contrast between Heathrow and Changi is stark. The contrast is brought into even greater relief when you consider that both airports act as the major hubs for their respective regions. Yet, Heathrow seems to bumble along, barely able to function, while Changi runs with a breathless efficiency that is downright tranquil. You know that there are thousands of travellers passing through to go off to all corners of Asia, yet the hallways are wide, quiet, and above all else, clean. The airport even has a butterfly garden and Koi Ponds. Seriously? It’s like driving an American car all your life and then getting behind the wheel of a BMW. You immediately wonder why they aren’t all made this way. Heathrow, for all its girth and notoriety, is no BMW.

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Terra Incognita Australis – Post III: How does one go to Australia from England?

The short answer—for those of you who wonder about this sort of thing—is: You fly straight there, or at least, near as the Earth will allow.

The long answer:

If we had had the “Flight Path Channel” on flights when I was a kid, it would have been simultaneously one of the most maddening and fascinating things available. I don’t know if I could have turned it off on a given flight. Yet, I feel as though I would have sat there anxiously and, let’s be frank, boringly, counting the minutes away. Thankfully, I am older and wiser than I was; that is, I know how to turn the screen off.

When I tuned into the FPC for the first time it happened to be a little less than one-quarter of the journey from England to Singapore. You can imagine my surprise to see that we were flying straight through the heart of the Ukraine. I then tucked in to my luxury bed (see previous post) for four hours of the best sleep that anyone has had in Economy class, ever. With my kidneys feeling sufficiently pulverised and ready to be served for lunch on the next flight, I decided to wake up and get a little work done. Not bad. Went to bed at midnight UK time only to wake up at noon Singapore Standard Time. Nothing like air travel to make one feel slightly less than useful.

Having woken up from my nap, I had an even more striking revelation waiting for me: we were flying straight over Afghanistan. I mean right over it. Somewhere a few hundred kilometres north of Kandahar, a few hundred kilometres south of Kabul, right through the middle of the Swat region that has been so much of a pain for Pakistan recently. Oh yes, we’ll be flying straight through Pakistan, as well.

It is never lost on me how much of a blessing it is for me to be at Cambridge. This is rarely more apparent than when I go for runs out Madingley Road past the American Memorial Cemetery. The majority of those soldiers in WWII would have been about my age, or maybe even younger. Here I am, then, benefiting from the peace that their sacrifice bestowed. While it is less first-person, here I am now winging over one of the most troubled and disputed nations on Earth while many of my fellow countrymen are engaged in fighting for the freedom of her people in a country far from home. It is not a good feeling, but flying to Australia means flying straight there.

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Terra Incognita Australis – Post II: The Unbelieveabliity of Heavier than Air Flight

    I’ve flown a fair amount in my 24 years on Earth; very little of which has been long-haul. In fact I can tell you exactly how many times, to where and on what airline. Never have I flown on a 747, and thanks to Singapore Airlines, I will never have to. Humanity has engineered some incredible things: the Pyramids of Giza, the Great Wall of China, the seedless orange, and the Apollo Program. After less than an hour, I can confidently add the Airbus A380 to this list. Without the benefit of Wikipedia I can’t regale (re: bore) you with meaninglessly huge statistics or metaphors bordering on the galactic. However, take it from someone who knows a thing or two about things that move: the A380 is huge. Unnervingly huge. In an economy class row there are 10 seats; three at each window and four in the middle. Currently, I have a row of three to myself; this isn’t premium economy, it’s luxury economy. Rather than feeling like chattle, I feel like a person; with people amounts of space. Hell, I know there isn’t anything wrong with it, but it feels like it. And, I think you all know what I mean, that makes it even better.
    Takeoff in an A380 is like when your friend with the annoyingly deadpan sense of humour tells you something and you don’t quite know what to make of it. At first, you think he’s serious. Then you think, no way, he’s got to be kidding. Isn’t he? And you get strung out long enough that you really start to panic, and then yeah, he was kidding all along. That’s what it is like. Never have I been in a plane that needed so much runway to get off the ground. When we were on the ground I could see the canards at the ends of the wing. The further down the runway that we went, the higher the canards lifted. At the moment, I can’t see them. As someone who knows something about materials engineering, take it from me: the A380 is flexible.
    Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to return to watching “The Blindside.” Did they really have to start with the LT on Theismann hit? Dang.

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Terra Incognita Australis – Post I: Leaving the Shire

Imagine this: you’ve spent your entire life, or at least the majority of it, within a 20-30 mile radius of the same place; perhaps, even less. You’ve dutifully tended your Master’s garden as your father had and his father before him. Then one day you overhear something you shouldn’t have and you find yourself carrying a loaded rucksack and leading a donkey on a journey that you would never willingly take.
    This is the world into which Samwise Gamgee was thrust in The Fellowship of the Ring. He didn’t need to travel, he didn’t want to travel. He had all he ever needed or wanted in the Shire. Nevertheless, duty-bound, he undertook the adventure of his life. Not even one day into the errand, Sam stops dead at the edge of a wheat field. He realizes that this is as far as he has ever travelled in his entire life. One more step and the personal record is broken, and the way is unknown. We of course benefit from literary omniscience; we can view Sam’s pause as cute, poetic, and perhaps even a bit juvenile because we know just how much further he must go. He must face the wickedness of men, the treachery of Gollum, and the trials of Mordor. One more step, indeed.
    I find a comforting parallel in my own story. When we left Virginia a little over two years ago, we were going to England. We knew it wouldn’t be that far, or different, though it would turn out to be both. For my part, it was like that first step out of the wheat field. Now I find myself sitting in the cattle pen that is Heathrow Terminal 3, anxiously pounding away a stream of consciousness blogpost on the very cusp of a 22-hour flight to Melbourne, Victoria via Singapore. To me, these places are names on a map. Now they are about to be permanently transfixed in my memory as real, physical locations. We’ve seen Scotland, England, Wales, France, and Germany. Now it is time to go to the other side of the world. One step, indeed.
    My intent is to post daily, both photos and words from my travels. Sometimes it will be humorous and satirical; sometimes it will hopefully be deep and insightful. I know that my time in Cambridge is unique enough; even rarer still is to be able to take the vaunted and historic “Kangaroo Route” from London to OZ. As I leave ‘the Shire,’ I do so knowing that it is a great and fantastic adventure. One that, thanks to the wonderful tubes of the Internet, I can share with you all.

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Hello March!

Today has been a beautiful, sunny day. Such days are rare in the UK, particularly this time of year. Yet it is days like today that make the desire to live one's life on this island in the North Atlantic understandable. The sudden bursts of sunshine have not only awakened the daffodils and crocus, ushering in the beginning of spring in Cambridge, they have also reminded us that time is passing, and passing quickly. Though we are certainly excited for what the coming months may bring, we are also sad at the prospect of leaving a place we have only begun to understand and appreciate. Not to mention a style of life we enjoy, and people we love. Ah, but such thoughts are not for now. No, as we continue to savor our time in Cambridge, let us share with you a short photo post of our recent adventures and activities. Cue 80s montage music!


Celebrating Jackie's 25th birthday. Highlights included: a Will-planned + exceptionally executed SURPRISE PARTY (complete with 25 years of photos slideshow); weekend in London at Hotel 41; cupcakes from hummingbird; dinner at Moro; high tea at Fortnum + Mason; and buying The Tray.


Receiving a quick visit from Will's Mom. Awwww.


Exploring previously-unfamiliar parts of London, such as The City, Southwark, Notting Hill, and Wherever the River Cafe is Located.

Sometimes Will secretly dreams of becoming a City Banker.

The Tate Modern: A World All its Own. And one with GIANT lightsaber displays at that!

Why, yes, we now know how to find Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. Not to mention, Vinopolis + Terroirs!

Loving Borough Market, despite the Saturday crowds.

Curry makes everything better. So does coffee from Monmouth.

Wine is good too.

Enjoying a visit from KRISTA! Our first, and only friend thus far, to plan a trip to Europe solely for the purpose of visiting us. (She, in fact, joined us on many of the excursions mentioned above and below.) Yes, we felt special. Not enough photos were taken (blame it on the cold) to do justice to her time here, but trust us, it was awesome. Space was tight, but no one got hurt. We think we can now say with confidence, that, yes Krista, if Will should ever become a City Banker, you can come live with us and Jackie will bake bread for breakfast.


Traveling to Paris. Just a quick hop across The Channel for Jackie and Krista, but a nice trip nonetheless. Many baguettes, bottles of wine, and French pastries were consumed.
Annnnnd Jackie's traveling back in less than 2 weeks to meet up with her Mom while Will's in AUSTRALIA.
Many more baguettes, bottles of wine, and French pastries will be consumed.

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The Great Summer Omnibus Post Part II: Germany

Photos
Having taken our roadtrip around the Scottish Highlands, one would not be presumptuous to suppose that we had had our full measure of travel for the summer. Yet, with our time being limited, and the opportunities plentiful, we set off a mere two weeks later to rendezvous with Jackie's family in the picturesque German city of Heidelberg for a (slightly) more relaxed tour of Southern Germany. Three countries and two weeks later we had 600 photos and even more memories of what was a beautiful and amazing family holiday.

Lesen Sich mehr über unseren wünderschönen Ferien nach Deutschland! (Ins Kursivschrift nur für Herr Damm).



Stop 1: Brussels


With a acknowledgments of convenience, history, and irony, we decided to travel to Germany via Belgium. It was a blessing to be able to stay with family friends who currently live in Brussels and were gracious enough to let us use their home as a base for launching on our wider European adventures, whilst still having the opportunity to explore a very unique city. Will's first impressions of Brussels were quite unfavorable, having had to navigate an incomprehensible one-way system with his colleagues in April on returning from Luxembourg. For those of you who have had the joy of driving in Brussels (and are still among the living) you will appreciate how this is not the most flattering perspective of the city. Bonus points if you have also had to drive the wrong way down the tramway to get into Gare du Midi. 
Yet, when the pace of life slows down to a French/Flemish pace (re: significantly slower than the automobile), we found Brussels to be a charming city of cafés, chocolate, and lovely parks. It is a supremely pleasant city to just wander through without agenda. We also were scoping out the lay of the land for when Jackie's parents would return with us through Brussels. Culinary highlights were waffles at Wittamer, tartines and coffee at Le Pain Quotidien, and the beautiful dinner of spätzle and sausage that our friends cooked for us our first night in.



Stop 2: Heidelberg

After our brief time as Belgians, we got our first chance to experience the European high-speed rail network in earnest. Our readers will know how much we thoroughly have enjoyed Eurostar (despite twice now having been frustrated by difficulties with the Channel Tunnel). However, put Eurostar next to its continental cousins and it starts to seem a few years behind. To get to Heidelberg we had to take a Thalys train from Brussels to Köln via the Ardennes and then a Deutsche-Bahn InterCity Express service from Köln to Mannheim via Frankfurt. While the Thalys could only go so quickly through the hilly parts, this was easily the most picturesque train journey we've ever had.  It seemed that around every bend was some quaint Belgian hamlet with an old church and houses built up the forested slopes. We even saw a cycle race! Thalys is an absolute joy to use. The seating is more like Virgin Business Class than coach. There are even power plugs at every seat and the cars are whisper quiet.

Transferring in Köln was an experience. Will had taken all of three weeks of German this past summer and hadn't used it at all in the month and a half leading up to the trip. Thankfully, the Germans appreciate the fact that not everyone travelling between their largest cities will be German. When we arrived at our platform there was a train, however, it did not have the coach that we needed. With five minutes until our scheduled departure we started to get nervous that half of a train would be leaving on time and our seats would never materialize. Then, as if by magic, Will said "Well, if another train was going to couple up to this one then it would have to arrive right about..." 


WHOOSH!


... and so arrived the other half of our ICE. Naturally, we left promptly on schedule. While the Eurostar and Thalys are both fast, nothing could quite prepare us for the inhuman pace of the ICE. As we got into the more remote parts between Bonn and Frankfurt the conductor let loose. It felt like the train was going to come off the rails and achieve takeoff. At the same time, though, there was the same solidity one finds in a BMW or a Mercedes as if to say "Fear not, my American friends, this was built by Germans." Recognizing the fact that we have not been to Japan, we can say that in this world there are the German trains and then everything else. Even the normal S-Bahn between Mannheim and Heidelberg was spotless. Despite the relative ease of our travel, we arrived slightly wearied and hungry in Heidelberg.

Heidelberg, like Cambridge, is an historic University town. Founded in 1328, Universität Heidelberg is one of the foremost universities in Germany and is, as they say in Germany, weltberümte. When it comes to surroundings, though, Heidelberg easily outpaces its older, English peer. Situated in the Neckar River valley, Heidelberg climbs the forested slopes on either side of the aforementioned river. Unlike the rest of Germany, Heidelberg was spared the worst of the war having been conquered early by General Patton. Since 1945, the US military has maintained a significant presence in this part of Germany that is still apparent today. The Germany that many Americans picture of little streets, cute houses, and castles is born largely from pictures and family ties to this city. Jackie's brother was, in fact, born in Heidelberg, West Germany, whilst her family was stationed there. This trip was a homecoming after more than 20 years away.
For us, it was exciting to be in such a hilly place. Our first run was straight up the opposite side of the Neckar to the Philosophen Weg; a mountainside path overlooking the Altestadt and the river. Not only was it healthy, it was inspirational! We also walked up from the Old City to Heidelberg Castle which also had beautiful panoramic vistas. Arguably, our favorite thing about Heidelberg was a small bakery chain named Mantei. Not only did they serve local Janssen Coffee, they also introduced us to something we would seek out the rest of our trip: mohnkuchen. If you have never tried this German poppy-seed cake before, book a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt or seek out an authentic German baker in your area. It is like a dense, dark gray slice of pure wonder. We also enjoyed beautiful sunshine and hot weather (finally!) our entire stay. The unfortunate side effect from this was that we paid for the lack of midge flies in Scotland. German wasps are fearless and abundant in summer. They also have developed a taste for Weißbier; something of a problem in a city full of outdoor cafés flowing with the stuff. They would even fly onto your lips after you take a sip! To these expats fresh off Ol' Blighty, though, this was not about to discourage us from getting some long-awaited time in the sun.

Stop 3: Garmisch-Partenkirchen, München, and Bayern in General

Our first destination post-Heidelberg was, funnily, on the other side of Germany in the Alpine village of Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Like Heidelberg (and the rest of Baden-Wurttemburg), the US military also continues to, how can we put this delicately, keep property in Bavaria. This includes a ski-resort for servicemen in Garmisch. For the next five days, we stayed in what can only be described as the most surreal hotel in Europe. If Coloradoan ski towns were inspired by their Alpine forebears, then the US military has managed to bring things full-circle by bringing a Coloradoan ski resort to the Alps. Don't think us at all ungrateful; we never would have made it to this area without substantial help from Jackie's family. It was just very weird to be staying in an American hotel in Germany.
Garmisch-Partenkirchen is famous for hosting the 1936 Winter Olympics, after Adolf Hitler forced the mayors of the two towns to unite into one entity. To this day, the Olympic ski jump and park remain dominant features of the small towns. G-P reminded us quite a bit of (unsurprisingly) Banff in the Canadian Rockies; lots of flower boxes, small houses, and a heavy reliance on the tourist trade. G-P is a popular resort area for people who live near Munich and lies at the end of the A95 autobahn; a direct link to the city. The town seems to spill out onto the plain from the mountains that surround it. Highest among these is the Zugspitze, the highest peak in Germany at 2,962m (9717 feet).
Not surprisingly, we gorged ourselves on mohnkuchen  from the two konditorei-cafés not far from the resort. We also found a delightful little cheese shop and green grocer. While many of the servicemen staying at the resort seemed to eat exclusively in the installation, we were heartened to see that most of the staff (who lived outside the fenceline) had good knowledge of the local area and food.

One of the highlights from this part of the trip was touring Neuschwanstein Castle. Neuschwanstein is a monument to the crazy things that spoiled, insane, and hyperwealthy tyrants consider to be not only normal, but necessary. "Crazy" Ludwig wanted to build a castle as grand and epic as the operas of his favorite composer: Richard Wagner. Naturally, this meant bankrupting his people. The enormous white palace sits high up on a mountain, imperiously overlooking the picturesque Bavarian scenery below. Inside, it is a psychotic's fantastyland. Each room's decor is inspired by a different Wagnerian story. There is even a fake cave! It was a surreal trip through the mind of a madman. In case you were curious, yes, Neuschwanstein Castle was the inspiration for Walt Disney's Magic Kingdom. Happy family vacations everybody!

From G-P we did something we've never done before: we hopped onto a tour bus. Controversial as this decision was, rail links between G-P and Munich were expensive and seemed infrequent. While we had originally considered driving, the fear of foreign road signs and a massive logjam in Munich convinced us that the more relaxing (if hurried) option was to take the bus. Thankfully, we did not have to stay on the tour with the rest of the old people guests because we had plans. Oh yes, precious, we had plans. After being dropped off in Max-Joseph Platz (after arriving late argh!), we ran to the nearest U-Bahn station and hopped a train to Olympiapark, home of BMW. You will see a few pictures from there. It was an amazing museum full of information about arguably the greatest car company in the world. Will was in his element, perhaps a little too much so.
We left Olympiapark a little after lunchtime and made our way back to the city center to pick up lunch in the Viktualienmarkt; a huge urban market full of every type of produce, bread, meat, cheese, whatever that you can think of. Of course, it was packed, but that's the fun of markets, right? The weather had already started turning a bit gray, but we proceeded undaunted to Marienplatz, location of the famous glöckenspiel and the heart of the old city. No trip to Munich for these two foodies would be complete without a trip to Alois Dallmayr, the German equivalent of Fortnum & Mason. We've thus far been to the French and German equivalents and, really, there is only one F&M. Dallmayr, to its credit had an amazing foodhall vastly superior to the Harrod's equivalent. Jackie was elated to find some high-quality, good German mustard (Will, of course, was nonplussed).
In our ambition, we hurried off towards the Englischer Garten to try and make it to the Chinisischer Turm biergarten in time to get a maß of beer, but found that it would be too far to make it, sit down, and get back to our bus. Disappointed though we may have been, we were thoroughly impressed with the serene Japanese garden at the entrance. We also saw young Müncheners surfing the Eisbach at the Prinzregentenstraße bridge where the canals flow out into the garden. In this land-locked German state, these surfers found permanent waves a stone's throw from the Alps.
A real treat on this leg of the trip was being able to take the Seilbahn up to the top of the Zugspitze. Although Will is certainly afraid of heights, the appeal of ascending the highest peak in Germany was too great to resist. He was also tempted by the possibility of getting a lukewarm mug of buttermilk (an Alpine tradition) at the top. Jackie, perhaps more sensibly, was enthused with the promise of real Glühwein; the thick, German equivalent of the mulled wine that we've come to love here in England. To our surprise, the door to Austria was left open so we popped over to the other side of the mountain and into Austria (yay! another country!). At the bottom of the mountain we met up with Jackie's family and began the next phase of our trip. Sadly, this meant leaving Bavaria.

Epilogue

After the German part of our trip, we drove across Germany (literally) and North into France to the city of Epernay; home of the great champagne houses. While in Epernay we toured Moët et Chandon; an enjoyable and educational venture. Champagne is fascinating because, like diamonds, the price is completely fixed. If they charge $100 for Dom Perignon in the US, they'll charge £100 in the UK and 100€ on the continent. Furthermore, Moët is a flagship of Louis Vuitton-Moët-Hennessey whose business is making money. Lots of money. After a couple of days relaxing in France and consuming organs (don't ask), we completed our journey by doing something that Will resolved never to do again: driving to Brussels-Midi Station to drop off our intrepid Peugeot. Thanks to some earlier reconnaissance (and gratuitous map-review), a detailed street map of Brussels, and not one but TWO functioning GPS units, we took the most efficient route straight into the gut of one of the most ill-planned cities in the world. And we can't wait to go back.

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Sand + Snow

Our Cozy Cube covered in snow.
It's been an uncharacteristically cold and snowy winter in the UK. In fact, Cambridge had its first white Christmas in almost half a century as a result of a pre-Christmas snowstorm: a whole 7 inches. While this is nothing compared to past winters spent in Virginia (or -dare we even mention- Massachusetts), any accumulation of snow in the UK that consists of more than a flurry is cause for a Snow Day.
Snowy branches against the morning sky.
Currently in the midst of our second significant snowfall (3 inches and counting) in nearly as many weeks, we find ourselves "snowed in" at home and, of course, slightly amused by the UK's inexperience (and incompetence) in the snow department. Will is taking the opportunity to work from home in our cozy (and warmer than his office) cube. Jackie, who would normally be in London today if the city wasn't shut down because of the weather, is reading, relaxing, and oh yes reviewing a 700+ page law textbook for her internship (at least she finds the material exciting!).

A well-traveled path along The Backs.
View over The Cam from Garrett Hostel Bridge.
Gardens at Trinity Hall
As much as we enjoy a good Snow Day, however, when it comes to snow vs sand, beach vs mountains, for us, sun, sea, and sand win hands down. When living on an island in the North Atlantic, where sunny days, temperatures above 80, and even excursions to the seaside are rare, the preference of one over the other becomes even stronger. Of course it doesn't help remembering that this time LAST year we were in South Florida. At the beach. Probably right at this moment. Beeeeaaaach.

The photo is relevant. Promise
Anyway, though the rocky shore and cool (read: freezing) water might not make it ideal for swimming, we have visited several lovely beaches across the UK during our 2 1/2 years here. Our favorite little seaside town, Southwold, in Suffolk is also home to Will's favorite English brewery (Note that I said English; his fav British brewery is on the Isle of Skye in Scotland aka the mostbeautifulpleaceintheworld. Keep this in mind should you ever visit these places. Try some beer, then buy some for Will. He'll pay you back. Promise.). Back in October (yes, we've kept this photos from you that long), we took a daytrip with our friends J + C to visit the brewery, as well as the beach (fish + chips were also involved).

See?
Beach Huts
Will At: the beach!
Whether you are partial to the sand or the snow, enjoy these few photos from Southwold (hint: clicking the post title takes you to the Flickr album), and, of course, from snowy Cambridge. Stay warm; summer is only a few months away!

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