Slower than a Bunny

Today, one of the other Arizona exchange students studying here at the University of East Anglia had a birthday party. Etta is turning 20 on Tuesday, and instead of having a normal college party, she decided that she wanted to celebrate NOT being old and threw a “kitty party.” This party included an ungodly amount of both sugar and caffeine (to the point that my hands are still shaking as I’m typing this out.) The party was in one of the kitchens in our dorm, looking out onto the lake.

Like most universities, UEA hosts a ton of different clubs – except here they call them societies. The club baseball team I’ve been playing on is technically called “the baseball society.” They have some more outlandish ones, such as the cocktail society (which the members of have shortened to The Cock-Soc) and the unanimous favorite: The Game Society.

UofA has something similar – as do a lot of universities. Except UEA’s game society has a large group of people who, every Sunday from noon until sundown, LARP. For those of you who are not huge dorks, I’ll explain. (For the record, I am including myself in the former group.)

LARPing is a lot like the renaissance festival. It is an acronym for Live Action Role Playing. People who LARP generally take it even more seriously than those who just role play – because LARPing involves costumes, real weapons, and most importantly: real battles.

Every Sunday, from noon until sundown – there is a battle at UEA. It starts on the field by the lake, and is driven deep into the forest. Every Sunday. Let me reiterate. Every Sunday.

This Sunday was no exception. We had our sugar party in the kitchen and watched them sword fight, throw dice at each other and then belly flop onto the ground after the numbers read a critical hit. Their HP was depleted and they didn’t have enough mana to cast a greater healing spell on themselves. Their only hope was that someone could resurrect them before it was too late.

As the party wound down the LARPers were much more entertaining to watch than the sugar. In fact, we all were watching pretty intently.

And then someone said, “We should go attack them.”

I laughed at this, liking the idea and imagining a battle of epic proportions in the forest. Our whole motley assortment, hyped up on sugar and caffeine, wielding sticks and screaming our cries of combat.

And then Dom turned to me and said, “You want to mate? I’ll do it if you do.”

Another gal at the table said if we both went, she would come too.

That is what I call an offer you cannot refuse!

We took a 10-minute break to prepare. Dom and I returned to the flat while Etta and her friend went to theirs to get shoes – and weapons. I immediately put on my catchers mask, throat protector, and grabbed the most fearsome weapon I had: a large, plastic, slotted spoon. I also grabbed a frying pan, with which to bang my large plastic spoon while I shouted an epic war cry.

Dominic put my colander on his head, grabbed a wooden spoon and a pot, and we headed back to battle stations.

We exited our base and approached the battlefield with vigor and bravery. A few cars passed us on the way, eyeing us the way anyone would eye a man wearing a catcher mask and waving a slotted spoon in the air. I gave them a thumbs-up – they honked.

“Think anyone has ever done this to them before?” I asked.

We had a few things that the LARPers didn’t. Actually, we probably had more than a few things that the LARPers didn’t… but the most immediate of those things was the element of surprise. While we clearly were doing something out of the ordinary, our appearance alone was not what made it obvious that we were preparing for an ambush.

From about 100 yards we could see them battling it out in the forest, standing in the middle of the dirt road that cuts through it. Dom said, “should we just run up the road yelling?”

In my casual Dave fashion I responded, “Yeah right, I’m not running that far.”

With a brute force charge out of the question, we elected to use more stealth tactics. Down on our knees, crouching under branches and hopping over fallen logs, we drove our way through the dense forest. We were ready.

We stood silently in the brush for a moment – listening. They had no idea what lay in store. With the sugar, caffeine – oh yeah, and that “adrenaline” stuff, I stood as still as I could, feeling my heart beating quickly and breathed in and out heavily.

“SPARTANS!!!!” Dom finally shouted. “PREPAIR FOR GLORY!!!”

“HA-OOH! HA-OOH! HA-OOH!”

“SPARTANS!?!?!?!?”

“HA-OOH! HA-OOH! HA-OOH!”

…and then, in the spirit of my old room mate, Kinsey - as I banged on my frying pan with the large slotted spoon - I shouted:

“TOTAL WAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Out of the brush we came with ferocity! Twigs snapped and a cloud of dust was left in our wake as we threw our war-ready bodies from the woods and onto the gauntlet with only our screams of combat brave enough to follow in front. The sky above us drew together in anticipation, casting a shadow on the dirt at our feet, which soon would be soaked with blood and glory.

At the end of our 20-foot charge, we stopped in front of a group of 10 who stood there, motionless and silent – kilts flapping in the breeze and bits of rain dripping down their leather tunics.

“Uhh…. total… total war?” I asked.

Nothing.

Dom lightly hit one of them with his wooden spoon.

“Look Mortimer,” said a paladins, “he’s spooning you.”

Someone chuckled.

“Really?” I asked. “That’s it? You’re not even going to chase us?”

They stared back at us.

I gave my pan and slotted spoon a rattle.

“Go bug them,” the paladin said, pointing off into the forest “they’re much more likely to fight you.”

I put the spoon in my back pocket and picked up a stick, then took off running in the direction I had been pointed, yelling, “TOTAL WAR!” and banging the stick on my pan, which, to my pleasure, made much more noise than the spoon had. Dominic and the other girl followed.

We got within 20 feet of this group, a group much larger than the first, and we hesitated.

“They have bows and arrows…” Dom said.

“TOTAL WAR!” I yelled, giving my pan a few more good whacks. Dom followed in close suit.

“SPARTANS, PREPAIR FOR GLORY!!!”

“HA-OOH! HA-OOH! HA-OOH!”

They too, ignored us.

“Come fight us, you cowards!” I yelled, waving my pan and stick in the air.

And thus, my invitation was accepted.

A small fellow, wearing a studded leather vest and a black robe drew his sword in both hands and hurled it off into the forest. He undid his belt and let that drop to the ground before throwing his wooden shield in the other direction.

“Oh, shut the fuck up!” he yelled, and very angrily, started marching towards us.

I wasn’t entirely sure if this wee-fellow was a dwarf of an elf, though when he got within a few yards of us it was clear that if he’d even broken five-feet, it only happened yesterday. Because he had neither a beard nor a battle-axe, I decided he was an elf.

I stood my ground, eyeing the little bugger, waiting to see what was going to happen. Dom took me by the shoulder and said, “Lets walk away Dave. This isn’t worth it.”

Then the elf started to yell.

“I HAVE BEEN HAVING A REALLY SHITTY WEEK, AND I AM TRYING TO DE-STRESS BY HAVING A BATTLE IN THE FOREST WITH MY FRIENDS, IF THAT’S QUITE ALRIGHT WITH YOU!!!”

“Look man,” said Dom, “we’re just trying to have a little fun. We’re not being malicious.”

“Oh, fun, huh? Yeah. Well, it was funny the first few times you did this, but it stopped being funny MONTHS ago, so fuck off!”

Question answered.

Two more guys started coming toward us – though unlike the elf, they seemed a lot calmer. One put his hand on the elf’s shoulder, while the other one came around to talk to Dom. Paladins, probably – but maybe Bards. I forgot to ask.

The man who approached Dom identified himself as the president of the game society. He told us that indeed, people really do come out of the brush in similar fashion frequently, though some of them actually try and start real fights. He apologized but told us “it’s hard to tell whose joking and who wants trouble.”

The elf shouted a few things about his parents getting a divorce and his grandmother being sick. I bit my tongue and let him yell despite my temptation. His Bard friend now pulled on his shoulder and led him back into The Shire.

“I’m sorry for the confusion, but I really appreciate your enthusiasm,” said the president-Bard. “If you guys really want to join us, show up by the lake at noon next Sunday and you can battle with us. It would be great!”

“Can I wear my colander?” Dom asked.

“No, it has to be approved gear, but we have plenty that you can borrow.”

“What about my noble war-axe?” I asked, pulling out my spoon.

“No, but you can use this one if you like,” he said, pulling a dagger out of his boot.

In the background I could see the elf trying to find his sword in the brush. The Bard stood glaring at us and a few people fiddled with bows and arrows.

Etta, the birthday girl, and a few friends had been standing about 100 yards back watching the excitement. As we approached them Etta asked, “what happened?”

“They didn’t think it was funny!” I responded, feigning surprise.

“They should have been appreciative – we spent like 20 minutes planning that!” Dom told her.

“That’s like – four times as long as it took to plan the Iraq war!” I responded.

When we were almost back to the dorm, still in combat gear with weapons drawn, I turned around and, one last time – for good measure let out a war cry.

“TOTAL WAR!!!”

Photos from Backpacking

Prague

Interlaken, Switzerland

Atop the Eiffel Tower

Paris

Inside Sigmund Freud's office. Vienna, Austria

On a bridge with Paris in the background.

Flowers in a park in Paris.

Amsterdam

Austria

Bruges, Belgium

At a gunnery post in Edinburgh Castle, Scotland.

Playing chess with Teri in Interlaken, Switzerland



My faithful travel buddies: Teri, Lauren and I in Berlin, Germany.

I AM CULTURAL REVOLUTION!!!!

Okay, not really – but I have gotten Sam and Dom into watching baseball. Dom seems to actually be getting into it – while Sam seems to be enjoying hanging out with us and rooting for the other team. The three of us sit and watch it on my laptop, drinking beer, and as always, teasing each other unmercifully. Last night after Dom got some good zing in on Sam, Sam put on my catchers mask and announced “THIS IS NOT ONLY A PHYSICAL BARRIER BUT MY EMOTIONAL PROTECTION SHEILD!”

At this point, Dom smacked him across the front of the mask with my fielding glove. Sam kind of yelped and then said “BUT AT LEAST YOU DIDN’T HURT MY FEELINGS!”

Pictures of this whole ordeal are currently uploading…

I do feel I’ve done my part in sharing culture with the Brits though. Dom gave me rugby – I gave them baseball. And, conveniently, because neither country shows the other ones sports – I’ll probably never get to watch another rugby game again after I go home, and unless Dom buys the MLB.TV subscription, he’ll never see baseball again. Yay for media rights monopolies.

One of the most astonishing things I have learned since being over here is how little American History we actually learn in American schools. My mother can recited all of the American presidents Washington-Truman! (Truman was president when she learned this neat trick.) I’ve always thought of this as some cute oddity that only she could do. BUT ALL OF THE BRITS CAN DO IT TOO!!! What the hell!?!?

I’ve also realized I never learned anything about World War II, or WWI for that matter. My AP History class in high school started with Pearl Harbor and ended with the US single handedly defeating the Nazi’s, saving the Jews and then going headlong into fighting communism. Regan said his “Mr. Gorbachev tear down this wall” bit and there again, we single handedly defeated communism while the rest of the world cowered in our greatness.

I realize now how stupid this all is, but, when the American education system teaches you that, and nothing but that, you never have any reason to object. Seriously, from the time when they taught us that ‘the Indians were our friends and then they all decided to move to Canada,’ to ‘World War II was a war between the US and The Nazis… we’ve had not a moment of intervention where someone said ‘by the way, everything you have learned is bullshit.’

Granted, part of this “OMFG” is because Sam is an American History major. I know he’s going to know more about the history simply because of that, but it’s more that I’m amazed at how much they actually teach us in school is just blatantly wrong.

For the record, people in Europe give absolutely no credit to the US for the Berlin Wall falling. When we were in Berlin, and went on a “The History of Berlin” tour (Which was great, by the way) neither the US or Regan were mentioned once… oh, and apparently WWII was not a war between the US and the Nazi’s exclusively. (Okay… I already knew that, but I knew that because of what my parents and grandparents taught me – NOT because of what school did.)

Conclusion: my cultural awareness continues to expand. Horray!

I believe that’s all the story I have for now. I’ve got a lot of homework to do today, as we are hosting a baseball tournament against a bunch of different universities this weekend, including Oxford. Stories about that and our past few practices to come!

Thanks for reading!

(NOTE: The Weekly Brit has just reached it’s 100^th typed page.)

He lives to write again!

Hellllloooooo faithful readers!

I apologize for the delay in my blogging. The reason I haven’t yet posted anything since I got home is feeling the pressure of the daunting task of writing down my entire month of backpacking. This caused me to go into “I’ll do it tomorrow…” mode. So, here’s what I’m going to do… I’m going to wait and do the month of travel part at another time. I took lots of notes while I was gone. Quite honestly, it was all memorable enough without notes and I PROMISE it’ll be up eventually, but it’s realistic to say it might not happen until I get back to the states.

Mom is coming to visit in a week. Maggie and Marja are coming on the 15^th of May. Pat is coming at – some point – in his traditional Pat fashion. I’ve got finals to study for, and a short story to make perfect in the next week.

But, I’m back! I promise! I’ll return to doing my normal “whats happening” blogs, and maybe if I have a slow day here and there, I will pound out a few words about the backpacking.

This is a long way of saying I’ll do what I can. It probably won’t be very well organized, but I’ve got this all on a word document on my computer, so, I will organize it when it’s complete.

After the month was over, we got to Amsterdam Schipol Airport, and flew back to London. Hopped the train to Norwich, and then got the bus from the station to the dorm. I turned my phone on and sent a text message to Dom, reading: “Crack the champagne, bitch! D-Funk-Robbins is back in town!” Dom sent me one back saying “I’ll chill the bubbly. Good to have you home.”

Now, I’m a fan of demanding people ‘crack the champagne’ for minor accomplishments. I don’t ever really mean it, and though I don’t think Dom believed I was serious… he indeed WAS chilling a bottle of champagne, and cracked it when I walked in. I felt very, very loved. Most of my 9 roommates were in the kitchen and they made a toast. It was a wonderful welcome home.

The next few days – hell – the rest of the week was almost entirely dedicated to resting, doing laundry, grocery shopping, oh yeah – and homework. I had an interesting experience in my fiction class.

The first story of the semester I turned in I turned in thinking “Yeah! This is bad ass!” I turned it in then emailed Mom a copy. I’ll break here to say that Mom is an excellent editor, and has been trying to prove to me for years that she won’t just say she likes something ‘because she’s my Mom.’ She proved it, once and for all with this story.

“Uhm… well, sweetie – at no point, anywhere in this entire story does it make any rational sense, resemble anything such as coherency, or have believable characters…” I took this criticism like a champ and IMMEDIETLEY got defensive and suggested that she just didn’t get ‘what I was going for.’ Well, the rest of my class thought it was pretty bad, also. But, the work shopping process succeeded, and I actually think the story turned into to one of the finest pieces of craft I’ve written.

So, I was suppose to turn in my second story of the semester the day I returned. I didn’t. I emailed the professor to inform him this wasn’t going to happen. He said this was fine but I needed to have one into him by Thursday AT THE LATEST. I pounded out 1,800 words, edited it a few times, sent it in. I was thinking “This is shit, this makes no sense.” I sent it to Mom.

“It’s really good…” says Mom.

“You’re just saying that because you’re my-”

“DON’T YOU DARE SAY I AM JUST SAYING THAT BECAUSE I’M YOUR MOM! I WAS HONEST ABOUT YOUR LAST STORY, WASN’T I?!?”

Point taken.

“Okay… but… I think it sucks. How can it possibly be as good as you’re saying?”

She told me what she liked about it, and we agreed that I’d see what the workshop group said.

Even they liked it! Even the metal-head who writes about snapping people’s necks and kicking zombies in the face seemed to like it.

Conclusion: I’m a terrible judge of the quality of my own work.

Well, maybe. I think right now it’s apparent that I’m writing this when I’m tired. I need to get me some sleep. More stories soon. Thank you all for reading, and thank all 6 of you who emailed me and asked me when I would be blogging again. Yay for encouragement!

Back in England - Safe and Sound

Hello readers!

I'm back in Norwich for the start of beautiful Spring! (Spring here means it's freezing cold, pouring rain, and I'm still wearing a down jacket. Joyous Joy!)

Just wanted to post that I'm back in one piece and had a great time. I'm not sure how I'm going to go about posting about the month of backpacking, and at the same time post about the current goings on... but I'll figure something out... it'll probably just be scattered...

I said in my last post that there wouldn't be any new ones until the 16th... simply becuase I knew then that I probably won't have a ton of time in the next few days... which I still don't.

So, sit tight! Plenty of stories to come!