Last Day in Bristol

I'm spending my last day in Bristol remembering details.

Maybe that's the punishment for spending Saturday afternoon cleaning up the uber-nasty kitchen.  It took two-and-a-half passes through Green Day's "21st Century Breakdown" -- a 70 minute album -- to get everything done.  I did it not because I wanted to, or because I felt it'd be a nice parting gesture, but because Unite House charges mucho pounds for anything left untidy.  Since I'm the first to leave, and I have very little faith in the cleaning diligence of my flatmates, I now have an Ace in my pocket in case Unite House wants to cut into my security deposit for a sloppy flat.  

But details.

I'm beginning to believe more and more that most genius, success, and BIG accomplishmentes are all about details.  Boring, drab details.  The obvious example is marathon running.  Step by step, tolerating increasing increments of pain until its excruciating and you're only on mile 21, so you keep going until the next step is impossible and then the next step is really impossible and then the next step is obscenely impossible and then you're done and you've run a marathon.

Science is sometimes the same way.  Carl Woese is a University of Illinois scientist who discovered archaea, the third branch of life (prior to archaea there were only prokaryotes and eukaryotes).  I'm lucky enough to be taking a foundational evolution seminar with him next semester that he's teaching in order to jumpstart college courses on evolution.  In discovering archaea, Carl worked long hours for years and years, often by himself, only to reveal his discoveries and be ridiculed.  Now, he's hailed as one of the greatest scientists of our time.

Likewise, details make my four months of study? travel? life? in England and across Europe.  They're the grains of sand that build the pyramids of experience.  So this post is about commemorating some of the details that never made it into a blog post.  It's impossible to get all of them.  The only way to do that is to live it all over again.  But every now and then, a couple of these sand grains make pearls...

• The Chinese CD.  I was helping Jimmy from China with one of his essays when he said, "I have a gift for you."  That gift turned out to be a CD and several MSword documents.  He had made a history of China through music -- starting with ancient songs, progressing through the centuries of music, and arriving at modern times.  The documents described the tracks, why each is important to China, and how each relates to his life.  His gift worked.  I tried extra hard to make sure his essay was spic 'n span.  This one's called "Jasmine."  According to Jimmy, "This is a South-China folk song, famous in the whole China. It expresses the feeling of Chinese people to jasmine, pure and beautiful."  Have a listen:  

• Brinners: Artery-clogging, fat-sopping, syrup-drenched Brinners.  Troy and I had two of 'em.  We made beer pancakes, bacon, hash browns, and eggs fried in bacon grease.  Delish.

• Park St: The vibrant hill that connected my residence with the university.  I must've walked up and down Park St. hundreds of times.  I knew it was a good street because it never got old.  The people-watching opportunities were Vegas-quality.  I got to know this wooly mammoth in a business suit guy who sipped coffee every day at Woodes, a cafe at the base of the hill.  If he was still there with coffee and newspaper as I started walking to class, then I knew I was right on schedule.  If he wasn't there, or packing up to leave, then I knew I had to hoof it to make it to class on time.  

• BBQ on the Downs: Yes, it was rainy and windy and cold.  Yes, it was in the middle of nowhere.  Yes, it was a blast.  Some study abroad students bought a disposable grill; the rest of us brought meat skewers, marshmallows, chips, beer, etc.  We kicked a football around. 

• Football (i.e. soccer) in Pubs: They say football is a gentleman's game played by thugs; rugby a thug's game played by gentlemen.  Gus from Hong Kong and I watched several matches in pubs, happily blending with the gathering of glassy-eyed men (and their semi-bored girlfriends) draining pints and screaming at the television.

• The Hatchet: My very first impression of England was a door made of human skin.  (Allegedly).  Jet-lagged, I stepped out of the taxi and into the rain.  I'd given the cab driver 20 pounds and he'd driven off before my jet-lagged brain could think to demand change.  The cab driver didn't know where exactly Unite House was, but swore it was nearby.  I ended up going into the Hatchet and pulling my big fat suitcases through the throbbing heavy metal.  I asked a guy with a big bull ring through his nose and little studs running from his eyebrows down each side of his nose where Unite House was.  Since then, I've had a heart-to-heart connection with the Hatchet, it's door of human skin, and it's wall-shaking heavy metal.