Matthew-upon-Avon

After finishing one of my more difficult term papers, I decided to flee the soot and grime of London’s urban jungle to visit the Bard’s hometown. Stratford-upon-Avon is everything you’d expect from a sleepy British market town; timbered buildings with whitewashed plaster crowded around cobblestone streets, ducks and swans frolicking in the cool waters of the Avon beneath the weeping willows, and locals discussing the weather while lounging in one of the town’s ancient tearooms. In other words, the town is a total bore. Of course, sometimes it’s good to be bored, so I can understand why young William decided to leave for London and why old William decided to return. We took a walking tour of the city and stopped at various Shakespearian points of interest (you can see William’s birthplace in the above photo). I was really disappointed that our tour guide never quoted from any of Shakespeare’s plays – like giving a tour of the Grand Canyon with only passing reference to ‘that great big hole’ over yonder. At least she threw in some interesting etymological references. For instance, in William’s time the dinner table was known as the ‘board’ (from whence we get ‘room and board’, ‘board game’, etc.) and the head of the table was reserved for the man of the house, who sat in the only chair and was known as the ‘chairman’ (putting two and two together, we get ‘chairman of the board’). Also, the denizens of Stratford left gaps between the walls of their homes and the eaves of their thatched roofs, allowing smoke from cooking fires to escape. Passersby could stand below the eaves and listen to the conversations taking place within the dwelling – a practice soon referred to as ‘eavesdropping’. Towards the end of our tour, we entered Stratford’s Holy Trinity church and visited Shakespeare’s grave, marked by a rather plain memorial stone on which is written: “Good Friend, for Jesus' sake, forbear To dig the dust enclosed here; Blest be the man that spares these bones And curst be he who moves my bones.” I don’t know if Shakespeare wrote this inscription, but if he did, it’s definitely not his best work. When the tour concluded, our guide asked if we had any questions, and I was going to ask about the controversies surrounding the true identity of Shakespeare – whether the plays were actually written by Christopher Marlowe or Francis Bacon – but this woman was such a Stratford-booster that I decided to hold my tongue.





After lunch we caught the bus to Warwick Castle, one of Britain’s most visited tourist attractions (first photo above). This massive medieval castle is operated by the Tussauds Group (the wax museum folks), so there were many wax figures arrayed in period dress throughout the Castle complex. The Victorian Exhibit even boasted a wax figure of Winston Churchill, who visited this castle as a young man. Erica commented on how odd it is to think of Sir Winston as a Victorian figure, but he really did bridge the gap between the Victorians and British modernity. I really don’t like the Victorian Era, probably because it reminds me too much of a Jane Austen novel where landed gentry do nothing but dress for dinner and concoct schemes to better their social status. Shane and I liked the armory and torture chamber the best, as evidenced by our medieval gangsta’ pose in the above photo. As you can see, the novelty of my Cambridge scarf hasn’t yet worn off… I’ve even been tempted to wear it while sleeping – I love it that much. Why am I just discovering scarves now? Oh, and you may be able to see Shane’s hideously large mustache beneath his helmet. I think he looks like a Swiss version of Wyatt Earp, or like Dustin Hoffman’s Captain James S. Hook. With the help of styling gel Mr. Nelson has even gotten the thing to curl! You might think I’m being unfair to the mustache, but then again, you don’t have to share a room with it. Talk to you again soon. Grace & Peace.

Holy Trinity Brompton

It occurs to me that I haven’t yet told you about my church home in London. Since arriving in the UK I have been attending Holy Trinity Brompton, an ‘evangelical’ Anglican church serving the Kensington parish in London since 1825 (sorry for the scare quotes, but you have to be careful with your adjectives when you’re part of the Anglican Communion… it’s all pins and needles at the moment). HTB is a vibrant and growing church with a serious focus on evangelism: the Alpha Course, a sort of investigative Bible study for the post-modern world where seekers can ask honest questions about the Christian worldview without having to endure any “howdily-doos” or “okily-dokilys” from Ned Flanders types, was created in this church and in the past fifteen years HTB has sent out ten church planting teams to revitalize dying Anglican congregations on the verge of redundancy. Apart from strong teaching and incredible worship, the thing that excites me most about HTB is the crypt. A large subterranean crypt lies beneath the sanctuary, providing space for the church library, kitchen, nursery, and children’s Sunday school. Have you ever been to a church where you could drop your kids off at the crypt to learn about Jesus and His disciples? I didn’t think so. Awesomeness. The heart of adult education and fellowship in the church is the pastorate, a small group of about 25 people who meet weekly for dinner, worship, and Bible study. And where do you suppose my Tuesday night pastorate meets? That’s right – we party in the crypt! It’s been a lot of fun hanging out with my British brothers and sisters, though our differences come through every once in a while. Just last week, on Armistice Day, the congregation paused to thank God for our freedom and remember those who have died in various conflicts defending it (in my mind I ditched the conflict with Argentina in the Falklands and replaced Northern Ireland with Vietnam). When the congregation began to sing a moving rendition of “God Save the Queen”, I silently mouthed the words to “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” in typical rebel fashion.



One thing I have to give the Christian limeys – is that a derogatory term? ‘cause I don’t mean it in the pejorative sense… I’m really quite fond of the limeys – these kids are bold in their witness, and they rarely hesitate in telling people about Jesus. I’ve been convicted by it really, and I’ve finally decided to do something about it. After all, I’ve used lots of pretty pictures to get you hooked on my blog, so I might as well take this opportunity to tell you about my faith. If I’ve never told you about my faith before it’s probably for one of three reasons: (1) I didn’t want to offend you with a worldview that believes not only in absolute truth, but in the knowability of absolute truth, (2) I didn’t want to be revealed as a hypocrite since I may have done things in your presence that weren’t very Christlike, or (3) It simply didn’t cross my mind. The blog takes care of the first reason, since this has to be the most non-confrontational format available. As far as my hypocrisy, let me apologize in advance and tell you that any measure of righteousness I have comes from Jesus alone – I could not bare the thought that my actions would in any way keep you from confronting the claims of Christ. And concerning the third reason: Sorry, I’m an idiot.

I grew up in the church and, at an early age, became well acquainted with the three basic tenants of the Christian faith: (1) We are sinful. We have rebelled against God and our actions and attitudes fall short of His perfect standard (Romans 3:23), which results in our separation from God (Habakkuk 1:13) and there’s nothing we can do about it; we deserve death (Romans 6:23). (2) Because of His great love, God sent His only Son Jesus to die in our place (John 3:16) so that through Jesus’s death and resurrection, the penalty for our sins might be paid and our separation from God ended (I John 4:10). (3) Jesus claimed to be the only solution for our sorry state (John 14:6) and it is our responsibility to accept or reject the free gift of salvation He offers (John 1:12). Specifically, “[i]f you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.” (Romans 10:9).

So I suppose the relevant question becomes: Was Jesus really the Son of God? Jesus certainly claimed to be on various occasions, with the most glaring declaration coming at His trial before the chief priests when they asked Him, “Are you the Christ, the Son of God?” Jesus replied, “I am, and you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of God and coming with the clouds of heaven.” (Mark 14:60-62, Matthew 26:63-65, Luke 22:67-70). The chief priests certainly understood that Jesus was claiming to be divine, as they condemned Him to death for His answer on the grounds of blasphemy. As Josh McDowell famously observed when summarizing the apologetic writings of C.S. Lewis, the claims of Jesus create a ‘Liar-Lunatic-Lord’ trilemma forcing us to accept one of three mutually exclusive possibilities: (1) Jesus didn’t really believe He was the Son of God (Jesus as Liar), (2) Jesus believed He was the Son of God, but was merely delusional (Jesus as Lunatic), or (3) Jesus believed He was the Son of God, and was the Son of God (Jesus as Lord). Here’s my man Lewis in his own words:

“I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: ‘I'm ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don't accept his claim to be God.’ That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic – on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg – or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God; or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon, or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come away with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.” (Mere Christianity, pp. 40-41)

I confronted the claims of Christ when I was in elementary school and while I’ve struggled through some sticky theological issues and still have a lot to learn about God’s character, my faith remains very much the same: I believe that Jesus is the Son of God, that He paid the penalty for my sins on the cross, that He rose from the dead on the third day, and that He offers each of us the opportunity for salvation, if only we will admit our need for salvation and place our faith in Him. Like St. Patrick I was “… lying in the deep mire; and He that is mighty came and in His mercy lifted me up.” Christianity isn’t about being good or effectively managing your guilt through a series of feel-good rituals; it’s about following Christ and living a life of gratitude in recognition of His grace and mercy. It was gratitude for God’s work in my life that compelled me to write this post, and it is my prayer that you will take this opportunity to confront the claims of Christ for yourself. Before this becomes the longest post in the history of blogdom, I’ll end by admitting that my simplistic explanation of the gospel of Jesus Christ may not answer your questions or criticisms concerning the Christian faith. If you have a question about Jesus, Christianity, life, the universe, or anything, please don’t hesitate to ask (simply e-mail me at ‘cairo_jennings@yahoo.com’), or look for the answers yourself by signing up for an Alpha course in your area (http://alphacourse.org). Grace & Peace friend.

Oxford is Older but Cambridge is Better

There are five term papers, due in just a few weeks, that have yet to get themselves written, so you’d think I’d be in a knuckle-down buckle-down panic, but you’d be wrong. In fact, I was so unconcerned about my term papers that I decided to hitch a ride to Cambridge. I suppose I should explain my academic philosophy so as to put my parents’ minds at rest. It takes a special kind of fool to diligently research areas of study and work out multiple drafts for a term paper. Paper topics should be slowly and methodically thought through before meaningful research begins, a critical percolation if you will, and there’s no better facility for this erudite pursuit than the subconscious. So I prefer to travel Britain and Continental Europe while keeping the term papers on my cognitive backburner. Later, under successive waves of gale-force stress, my subconscious will be forced to regurgitate the fruits of its learned endeavor, and five brilliant, if not borderline-genius, term papers will be birthed. I can rest confidently in this phenomenon because “Matt of the Future” has never let me down and I know that under sufficient fear and duress, he’ll do me proud. Of course, I have a sneaking suspicion that should “Matt of the Future” ever discover a way to time travel, he’ll ignore the rather awkward Space-Time repercussions and beat me senseless. The train ride to Cambridge was absolutely beautiful since the normally pastoral English countryside was blanketed by snow and ice. Once in the college town of Cambridge, it became obvious that the temperature would remain below freezing, so I finally relented and purchased my first ever scarf and pair of gloves. We joined a walking tour led by the most archetypal British woman I have ever met (above photo). Apart from enrapturing us with the history of this 795 year-old institution, our guide provided the driest deadpan humor imaginable, with scattered jabs at Europeans and bits of praise for Lady Margaret Thatcher. In the above photo, we’re posing in the courtyard of King’s College, not on the grass mind you, since only proper ‘fellows’ of the college are allowed to traverse the green.



Cambridge University is composed of myriad colleges where students eat, sleep, socialize, and worship – these colleges maintain a strict self-identity and University centralization isn’t nearly as prominent as it is in the States. In the above photo you can see the chapel at King’s College, which looks very much like a grand cathedral. The building is classified as a ‘chapel’ simply because its stewardship rests with private interests, and not with any ecclesiastical body. King Henry VI began construction of the chapel in 1441, and despite various assassinations and the War of the Roses, the chapel was eventually finished under the patronage of Henry VIII almost one hundred years later. The building contains the largest gothic fan vault in the world, and the stained glass and intricately carved stonework are really breath taking. There are two large towers dominating the entrance to the chapel, and our guide told us of one of the more clever pranks played by students recently. One night a student climbed the eastern tower and placed a traffic cone on the highest point, which maintenance workers couldn’t seem to reach. The dean decided to have workmen erect expensive scaffolding for the removal of this blaring anachronism, but just as they had nearly finished erecting the massive bulwark, again in the middle of the night, the same student climbed the tower, removed the cone, and placed it on the western tower instead. Cambridge students pride themselves on their reputation as pranksters and they seldom disappoint.



We visited the Wren-designed reading library at Trinity College and viewed the handwritten edits of Isaac Newton to his 1686 manuscript entitled “Pricipia Mathematica”, which single-handedly created the field of physics, until then only a disrespected subset of mathematics. In the colonnade below the library Newton famously clapped his hands and timed the echo interval for the first-ever measurement of the speed of sound. Nearby at Cavendish laboratories, the electron and the phenomenon of radiation were discovered. The masonry stones in the laboratory still contain elevated levels of radiation, since early researchers were ignorant of radioactive dangers – Madam Curie shipped some of her radium mojo here in a paper box! In more recent times, Watson and Crick sat in the nearby Eagle Pub where they first revealed to the world the molecular structure of DNA. In total, the colleges of Cambridge have boasted no less than 80 Nobel Prize winners. In the above photo you can see the courtyard of Trinity College, home to 31 of those Nobel scholars, where students try running the perimeter of the quad in the time it takes the bell tower to ring in the noontime. You may remember seeing a famous scene in “Chariots of Fire” that reenacts this tradition.



Lord Byron, a famous graduate of Trinity College and accomplished Victorian poet, was so frustrated by the college’s policy forbidding the ownership of dogs that he acquired a bear instead. After all, the policy was completely silent concerning the ownership of bears. I love this guy. In the above photo you can see a seedling from Newton’s famous apple tree (the one that jogged his noggin and sparked the discovery of gravity). While the original tree was blown down in a storm hundreds of years ago, some botanist had the presence of mind to extract the roots from the tree and nurse them into saplings. With no other apple trees nearby, this poor loner doesn’t get any cross-pollination and there aren’t any apples to speak of. True to form, Cambridge students attach apples to the tree by bits of string each year to commemorate Newton’s discovery.





No visit to Cam-bridge would be complete without visiting the Cam. This sleepy river meanders through the campus and provides some of the more scenic views of Cambridge. We traversed the river on a ‘punt’ by means of a ‘punter’ who agreed to ‘punt’ for us; basically, punters provide the means for locomotion by pressing against the riverbed with a huge stick. Blake will understand why I wasn’t terribly excited to meet swans along the way (first photo above) – they may be beautiful, but I know how ill tempered they can be. Mom complains that I don’t post enough pictures of myself, so I turned the camera around and took a self-portrait on the river (second photo above). After punting we attended an evensong service in the King’s College Chapel and headed for home. After my Cambridge visit, it seems the only thing I can think of is how to get myself enrolled there… there has to be some postgraduate degree I could stomach. Maybe it’s just an irrational craving for a college town, but I really miss the collegial atmosphere (something that’s been lacking from law school). Of course, the longer I stay in school the more I come to realize how little I know, so I should probably cut my losses and get out before I’m brain-dead. Grace & Peace.

#37 Curzon Street

I finally decided to go scouting for my parent’s old London flat, so after consulting my pocket map of the Underground, I made several connections and emerged from the Green Park Tube station. When you’re traveling the Tube, you have no sense of direction and no proper understanding of how the stations are positioned from one another – they’re just straight lines on the map, and where these stations may be placed in the actual physical outlay of the city remains a mystery. I felt pretty stupid when I realized that Green Park station sits on the perimeter of Hyde Park not far from my dorm room. I could have walked a pleasant 15 minutes through the park to Curzon Street. Oh well, London only reveals itself piece by piece. I have to say that my parent’s old neighborhood is really posh… leaded glass and bay windows awash in a sea of granite and limestone. The whole area surrounding Curzon Street is populated by swank apartments and numerous embassies (the Japanese Embassy was particularly spectacular). I never realized how much Mom and Dad gave up to start a family in Tomball. I guess they could’ve had kids while living in London, but most of the children you see in central London (and there are very few) look sickly and exceedingly fragile. In hindsight I’m really grateful for all the fields and woods of RoseWood Hill that allowed for exploration, tree fort development, and the massive military-industrial complex that supported our pinecone wars. As with all my navigational efforts, I wasn’t able to find their flat until I finally gave up and decided to consult a map. I rested for a moment underneath a building’s awning, broke out the map, and thirty seconds later realized I was standing beneath #37 Curzon Street (photo above). I wasn’t able to see any of the flats, since all the occupants were out, but the nice doorman (how can there be a uniformed doorman for just 4 flats?!) told me a little about the building and gave me promotional literature given to potential residents. I’ll be sure to bring it home for my mom.



Me mum also asked me to check out the nearby Sheppherd’s Market; a sort of outdoor mall where cafés, pubs, and vegetable carts crowd a series of narrow alleys (above photo). It was an eclectic place, and I’m sure that if I lived closer and had more money, I’d probably frequent some of these places. Instead, on my way back to Paddington, I stopped by Starbucks to savor a skinny cappuccino. In the States I almost never purchase anything at Starbucks, since I don’t understand how any drink could warrant a price tag of $3. However, in London Starbucks maintains relative price parity and a £1.79 cup of java seems like a steal, especially when compared to anything else (a single smallish load of laundry costs me £3.20 or $5.92!). Sorry for the constant price comparisons. I guess I’m just still in shock at the cost of living here. I'll post again soon. Grace & Peace.

Didn't Vote for Dubya

To be clear, I tried to vote for G. Dubya but the Travis County Elections Commissioner found various problems with my absentee ballot that could not be rectified in time. I even called the Registrar several times, but they were so dysfunctional that no one ever returned my calls or e-mails. I suppose I could cry ‘voter disenfranchisement’ but I prefer to accept personal responsibility for my actions, and I’m not willing to threaten the foundations of our fragile democracy by undermining public trust in the system. Besides, I can’t say that I’m all that disappointed – it has really protected me from the Bush-haters, as I'll explain later. To my Democratic friends: I know that you’re disappointed by the recent election, and since I don’t want you to remove this blog from your collection of bookmarks, I’ll refrain from any expressions of joy or any biting political analysis. I’ll simply describe what it was like watching election returns from thousands of miles away. First, the level of interest in the American election surprised me. Bush v. Kerry led the news for weeks and on election night it seems that people all over London were intently watching live coverage of the returns. I decided to join the international students at Lilian Penson Hall as they threw an election gala, complete with mock voting and lectures on the American electoral system. It was especially fun to watch students from Eastern Europe complain about America’s ‘backward’ electoral college while suggesting that America might benefit from their more enlightened systems. I should tell you that I decided to leave my New Balance shoes in the room, so I could blend in without people knowing I was an American (you can spot Americans a mile away by their New Balance shoes… no one else in the world wears them, despite the superior design and quality). Since there are two television lounges in the residence hall, I decided to join a large throng of Boston kids – when asked for whom I voted for, I responded, “Well, I sure didn’t vote for Bush.” This immediately endeared me to the Bostonians and relieved that awful tension that lingers in the room when someone finds out you’re a conservative. The Dems were elated because of exit polling, as reported by the BBC, which suggested a total Bush Whacking. When Pennsylvania went to Kerry, and the Democratic love-fest was at its zenith, an Albanian doctoral student sat next to me and struck up a conversation about the dangers of evangelical Christianity. He was in London working on a thesis about America’s Religious Right and how this movement closely mirrors the rise of fascism in Nazi Germany. Now Mom, I want you to know how much I have matured over the past few years – I remained silent for the entire ‘conversation’ (a one-man lecture that lasted for an entire hour). The most painful part was toward the end, when this man told me that evangelical Christians are no different than Al Qaeda and the Taliban. He suggested that these ‘born-again’ nuts are extremely dangerous and will need to be ‘dealt with’ one day, before they become violent. That’s right hippy!, and when the revolution comes you’ll be the first one with your back against the wall! Huahaha!

Later that night, or morning actually, Florida was called for the President and the Bostonians started chain smoking (the string of curse words pouring from their mouths would make Richard Nixon blush). I try to live by the creed ‘hate the smoke, love the smoker’, but I just couldn’t handle the secondhand miasma and decided to go to the other television room. When I entered it became obvious that this was Al Jazeera election coverage – the room was full of Arab students talking about the election and when I entered, the room became dead quiet. I sat down to watch the TV and tried not to focus on the fact that everyone in the room was staring at me. One of the older guys asked me if I was an American, which is unfortunate since the Travis County Elections Commissioner hadn’t in any way challenged my citizenship. My affirmative response quite naturally brought the follow-up question of whom did you vote for, to which I replied, “Well, I sure didn’t vote for Bush.” The tension remained, however, and after a few minutes silence the same guy said, “No matter who wins, I will always hate America.” I really wish I knew where the guy was from, because I was going to say, for example if he was from Jordan, “That’s interesting, because no matter what happens, I will always love Jordan and the Jordanian people.” Instead I just sat there dumbfounded and excused myself from the room. As soon as I left it exploded into conversation again. Seriously, who actually lives with that much hate in their hearts? These are the future leaders of the Arab world?! I decided that secondhand smoke wasn’t that bad after all, and went back to the Bostonian room. I almost revealed myself by accident when the news reports came in about a probable Tom Daschle defeat in South Dakota. My facial expressions are so often subconscious that I’m not aware of them until it’s too late. When I heard that Daschle was trailing in the vote count it was several minutes before I realized that there was a huge grin plastered on my face. I managed to correct it and look properly solemn before anyone noticed. When Fox/NBC called Ohio for the President, the Bostonians finally became so despondent that they decided to drink themselves into apathy and the room cleared of all the depressed Eastern Europeans. At 7am there was just one other person – a guy I had never seen before who was wearing New Balance shoes. He looked at me quizzically and said, “So, I guess you’re pretty disappointed by the election.” To which I replied, “I’m OK. I guess you’re pretty disappointed.” We both busted out laughing, and the guy from Indiana said, “Oh, thank God there’s another Republican here!” We spent the next hour expressing joy and sharing biting political analysis, which true to my word, shall not appear in this blog. The next day the London ‘papers’ were scathing in their response to the election (see above photo, and actually it’s 60,480,957 as of 11/15/04). Contrary to popular European political opinion, the reelection of Dubya hasn’t yet caused the end of the world. Though, we should keep a watchful eye on those dangerous evangelicals… Grace & Peace.

Through the Iron Curtain

Last week, after visiting York but before the Texas Embassy, I scored some really cheap tickets to Berlin and decided that Eastern Europe couldn’t wait after all. You’d be amazed at the cheap airfares in Europe at the moment, especially from the massive London hubs – my roundtrip tickets to Austria and Ireland set me back $6 combined! Of course, taxes and fees conspire to increase the cost to something like $40 per roundtrip… but at these prices, I’d be a fool not to take advantage. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write about my five-day jaunt through Berlin, Prague, and Krakow, but the timing of this post has proven providential since the Berlin Wall fell this week fifteen years ago. I relied on Shane to take most of the pictures, since his camera is by far superior, but as Shane is currently in Italy (are we ever going to study?!) I’ll have to use my own scant photo library. And sorry if this post feels like a history lecture – you must understand that my education has been so painfully technical that this whole ‘history’ and ‘culture’ thing is a totally new experience for me, and I really need to write it down. When we arrived in Berlin, we did what we always do upon arrival – scoured the city for the cheapest accommodations. We dropped our backpacks off at the Clubhouse Hostel, not even realizing that we were staying in East Berlin… when Shane pointed it out later, I became a little paranoid and kept looking over my shoulder for Stasi agents. We signed up for an extremely ambitious 8-hour walking tour of Berlin; our guide, a post doctoral student currently writing his thesis on modern German history, was living in West Berlin in 1989 and promised a lot of personal anecdotes. I made the mistake of leaving my tennis shoes in London, so my tour of Berlin was done in dress shoes. The swelling pain was easily worth it, however, as this was the most interesting tour I had ever been on. In the picture above, you can see the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, known to locals as the “rotten tooth”. The church tower, damaged by allied bombing in WWII, symbolized Berlin's resolve to rebuild and reminds onlookers of war’s destructive power.



After the war, Berlin was fractured into administrative districts controlled individually by the Americans, Soviets, Brits, and French. Of course, the city itself was deeply within Soviet controlled East Germany, and early in the Cold War the Soviets threatened to consume the Allied districts by blockading West Berlin. Threatening mass starvation as a weapon of political coercion proved to West Germans, and indeed the free world, that communism was as morally bankrupt as the fascism it so ardently opposed. The Allies organized the largest relief campaign in history with the Berlin Airlift, and West Berlin remained a democratic island of capitalism in the Soviet sea. The most potent symbol of Churchill’s Iron Curtain, and of divided Berlin, was the Berlin Wall, which was erected by the German Democratic Republic (funny how totalitarian regimes always throw in the ‘democratic’ moniker… DPRK, PRC… it’s a safe bet that if you have to call yourself ‘democratic’ you’re anything but) in 1961 to prevent the large-scale emigration of East Germans. Even the S-bahn (subway system) was partitioned, and our tour guide took us to an old ‘ghost station’ in former East Germany, where West German carriages would travel through without stopping. Since the fall of the wall, the Brandenburg Gate (photo above) has become the symbol of a reunified Berlin. Situated on the Pariser Platz, the Brandenburg Gate is the only remnant of a medieval wall that once surrounded the old city. This gate has witnessed the triumphant marches of Prussian Kings, various European political dynasties, a short and belligerent Frenchman who eventually got himself defeated at Waterloo, the Nazi Party, Soviet ‘liberators’, and finally a massive throng of East and West Germans celebrating an end to isolation. Passing through the gate was a surreal experience – especially since I remember seeing film footage of the Third Reich traipsing through – and I actually muttered a prayer asking God to protect me from evil. It felt that creepy. On the other side of the gate you can see a huge field of massive granite blocks, all of differing height, which create thousands of small alleyways. This memorial to Jews murdered in WWII was extremely controversial since it provides no context to the Holocaust, but I can tell you that the artistic display packs quite an emotional punch regardless. At one point our tour guide took us to an old communist government-housing block, where prefabricated concrete legos were stacked to create the most depressing architecture imaginable (think Jester, but without unnecessary artistic embellishments like windows). He explained that we were standing on the remains of Hitler’s bunker, unearthed in the late 80’s. His stories about the Nazis’ rise to power and the Fuhrer’s fall were enthralling. I think it perfectly fitting that were Hitler to rise from his bunker today, he would be surrounded by communist housing and a memorial to the Jews he sought to exterminate. I allowed the tour group to walk a ways before pausing to spit on the place where Hitler died. After Hitler committed suicide with his wife Eva Braun (notice I said ‘wife’ and not ‘mistress’ – it turns out he actually asked her to marry him shortly before committing suicide; in fact, he made suicide a condition of the proposal… how romantic), Nazi henchmen doused the body with gasoline and set it ablaze. When the Soviets arrived, they extinguished the mostly cremated megalomaniac and the Fuhrer’s ashes were kept in the Soviet Embassy until the fall of communism, when a departing ambassador anticlimactically flushed the remnants into a storm sewer. I only wish Dietrich Bonhoeffer could have seen it. Auf Wiedersehen Hitler.



I took the above photo of Humboldt University, a prestigious school in the eastern part of the city where 29 Nobel Prize winners conducted their scientific research, including Einstein and Planck. A spoiled rich kid by the name of Karl Marx also earned his degree here. Isn’t the ivy remarkable? It looks like the building is bathed in flame… as a recovering pyromaniac I think I’ve finally found my favorite plant species. Speaking of fire, across from this courtyard Nazi brown shirts collected ‘un-German’ books from the college library and set them on fire. Not far from the University, but on the opposite side of the wall, JFK claimed common cause with West Berliners by declaring “Ich bin ein Berliner!” Unbeknownst to his speechwriter, use of the article ‘ein’ objectified the word that followed, and ‘ein berliner’ was a popular food item at the time… namely, a jelly doughnut. So with forceful resolve, Kennedy defiantly told the Evil Empire “I am a jelly doughnut!” I’m sure his audience understood the intended meaning, but it is still quite humorous. At the tourist shops you can actually buy plastic doughnuts that play the President’s speech when squeezed. Towards evening we stopped at Checkpoint Charlie, one of three Allied Checkpoints in West Berlin (Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie), and the only one allowing entry to East Berlin. There are some great pictures of me at the checkpoint and of what remains of the Berlin Wall, but unfortunately those pictures are somewhere on the Mediterranean coast with Shane. Our tour guide spent at least an hour telling us harrowing stories of escape from East Germany, and about his own experiences on the night of reunification.



The tour ended late that night after stops at myriad museums, churches, and plazas. Shane and I headed for the Reichstag, seat of the German Bundestag (Parliament) since 1999, when the federal government was moved from Bonn to Berlin. The picture of a Soviet soldier raising the red hammer-sickle flag over the Reichstag is one of the most famous images of the 20th century. The communists left the heavily damaged building as a derelict shell, and it wasn’t until 1995 that a reunited German government decided to refurbish the building. The centerpiece of their effort was a massive steel and glass dome that sits above the parliamentary chamber (above photo). A huge mirrored cone descends from the top of the dome and a spiral walkway allows visitors to peer into the chamber. I suppose the symbolism is obvious: The State, when administered in the open for all to see, is much less likely to embrace the ideological extremism of the right (fascism) or the left (communism). Of course, it should be noted that the Nazis enjoyed widespread popular support during their rise to power (before Hitler dissolved the German Republic) – so open and democratic institutions can still be rotten.



While one day was not nearly enough time in Berlin, there was much more to see, so early the next morning we caught a train to the Czech Republic. When you ask hostellers about the best places to visit in Europe, they will usually pause their diatribe of irrational hatred against President Bush long enough to talk about Prague. As the only European capital spared the bombing campaigns of WWII, it’s easy to see why tourists flock to this quaint city. And wow – there are a lot of tourists. We had a hard time finding a place to stay, but finally settled for a spare room in some communist-era housing project. We shared a bathroom with a crazy old Czech woman who kept wandering into our room in her pajamas, speaking rapid-fire Czech with an occasional “George Bush” thrown in. I assumed that she was just another Michael Moore disciple, until she went into her room and brought back a large photo of George Bush the Father – she started kissing and hugging POTUS(41) while saying, and I’m only guessing here, how much she loved Americans and hated Russians. I learned to enjoy playing charades with her, and it’s amazing how much you can communicate without a common spoken language. Of course, sometimes you get it terribly wrong: one day she came in and started imitating a machine gun and I was laughing pretty hard until I realized, wait for it… wait for it… she was talking about how her family was murdered by the communists. Ouch. Well on the bright side, I should be much better at Cranium upon my return. In the above photo you can see Castle Hill, where countless palaces and chapels litter the acropolis. The main attraction is St. Vitus Cathedral, a massive gothic-renaissance-baroque cathedral started in 1344. The crowds in the church were absolutely ridiculous, and it took our small group (Shane, Dan, Erica, and I) about an hour just to ascend and descend the spiral staircase leading to one of the cathedral towers. The most beautiful section of the cathedral was dedicated to King Wenceslas, a revered saint who used his wealth and position to help the poor. You probably know him as “Good King Wenceslas” who looked out on the Feast of Stephen in the famous Christmas Carol. Outside the church we visited the large Royal Palace where Bohemian Kings used to rule. The Great Hall is still used to swear in the Czech parliament every four years. Finally, we finished with a stroll on the Golden Lane, named after the goldsmiths that inhabited the street in the 17th century. A series of tiny colorful houses are built into the arches in the castle wall, and are stocked full of tourist merchandise today. Franz Kafka lived in house 22 on the Golden Lane – I don’t know much about him except that he wrote really dark and depressing books about oppression, which is probably why the intelligentsia fell in love with him. Blah.





One of the most photographed sites in Prague is the Charles Bridge (first photo above), which connects the Lesser Town with the Old Town. Named after Emperor Charles IV, this bridge accommodated wheeled traffic for 600 years before being converted for exclusive pedestrian use just a couple of decades ago. Thirty mostly religious statutes line the bridge while merchants and musicians compete for the attention of passersby. The Old Town Square is a site to behold at sunset when tourists crowd into the restaurants and cafés situated between pastel colored Romanesque and Gothic buildings. In the above photo you can see Prague’s famous Astronomical Clock (ca. 1410), which apart from keeping time, displays the course of the heavens and reveals medieval animatronics on the hour – doors open to dancing apostles, sinners, and skeletons. And while you may ask for whom the bell tolls, it’s at least obvious who tolls it – a large mechanical figure of Death leers over onlookers and tolls the great bell. What a pleasant way to be reminded of your own mortality.



There was so much hype surrounding Prague and the crowds of tourists were so annoying that I was a bit disappointed. However, when it came time to spend money, the Czech Republic totally redeemed itself. Cheap, cheap, and again I say cheap. A large and satisfying dinner in a Czech restaurant set me back a whopping $2! In London I’d have to spend $7 for a lousy little sandwich, and proprietors charge even more if you want to sit down while you eat. After living like a refugee on the streets of London, it was nice to indulge in luxury – for the first time in a while I sat down for a meal and actually ordered bottled water! Various people had told us that Prague brews the best beer in the world, so after dinner we headed for a local beer hall and tried some Pilsner Urquell – the original Pilsner beer brewed in the Czech city of Pilsen. At $1 per hefty pint, I expected the Czech brew to taste only a little better than Pabst Blue Ribbon (well Graham, I finally worked in a gratuitous Pabst reference) but surprisingly, it was the best beer I‘ve ever tasted – and remember, I’ve been to the Guinness mothership in Dublin.



After a couple of truly affordable days in Prague, Shane and I left for Poland. We reserved a sleeper coach on the train ride to Krakow and the experience was straight out of an old spy movie. We were woken at various border crossings by uniformed guards banging on the cabin door and asking to see our papers. When we first checked in, the conductor told us to keep our belongings close and to always lock the cabin door since this particular train route was the most notorious gypsy target in all of Europe – on several occasions gypsies had even thrown smoke bombs into these cabins while their children ran through and grabbed people’s bags. We didn’t need convincing, and I remained ready at a moment’s notice, should a smoke cloud suddenly envelop our cabin, to begin throwing punches and kicking low to the ground. I don’t like violence, but my backpack contains my every earthly possession, apart from the Tercel, and besides, kids are resilient… especially gypsy kids. Fortunately the train ride was uneventful, apart from a broken heater that raised the cabin temperature so high that it perfectly recreated the malarial experience, sweaty sheets and all. When we arrived in Poland, a girl on our train realized that the gypsies had managed to steal all the valuables from her backpack. I think the Pentagon should start a recruitment program to catch these little urchins and allow them to use their skills and moral flexibility in the US Special Forces. We might not be able to find Osama Bin Laden, but at least we could rob him blind. Once in Krakow, we quickly realized that Poland has to be the most Catholic country in the world (the Italians probably feel intimidated by Polish devotion). Of course this isn’t surprising since Pope John Paul II is originally from Krakow – and I can tell you that in Poland the Pope is a rock star. Our Protestant ignorance of Catholic tradition proved unfortunate since on the day of our arrival the entire country was shut down in celebration of All Saints Day, a somber holiday where families visit the graves of their ancestors. We wandered the nearly deserted city snapping photos of various churches and squares. In the above photo you can see the Basilica of the Virgin Mary in the city’s Grand Square – note the fantastic golden-crowned gothic spire built in 1478. With nothing much to do in Krakow, we decided to take the hour-long bus ride to the small industrial town of Oswiecim. Of course, when the Third Reich confiscated the Polish barracks located next to the city, they renamed the town Auschwitz.



I really didn’t want to visit Auschwitz. The trustees in charge of the concentration camp have done such an amazing job of preserving the atmosphere of evil in that place that you don’t feel a distance from the tragedy as you do with other events in European history. The six hours spent in Auschwitz-Birkenau were emotionally draining to say the least, and I don’t think I would visit a second time if given the chance. The tour started with a screening of the original Soviet films documenting the horrors of Hitler’s Final Solution. No censorship here – totally graphic and disgusting. Next, out tour guide took us through the entrance to Auschwitz where the Orwellian camp motto “Arbeit Macht Frei” (Work Makes you Free, above photo) welcomed prisoners with the false hope that hard work and cooperation would keep them alive. In reality the vast majority of arriving Jews and political prisoners were murdered immediately while others were left to slowly starve while being forced to participate in the death machine. Between 1941 and 1945 approximately 1,500,000 men, women, and children were murdered here.





It was just too much. At one point I walked into a large room dominated by tons and tons of women’s hair – the Nazis used it in their textile industries – baled like cotton. Hoping to get some fresh air before vomiting I turned to discover a pile of children’s clothing. In the first few years of operation, children were immediately gassed and cremated. However, the Nazis discovered that children were easily controlled and wouldn’t resist medical experimentation, so in the last year, children were used as lab rats… German scientists would pump them full of various chemicals and observe the results. Scientists dissected the children postmortem, or if they managed to survive the experiments, the children were killed and then dissected. I’ll spare you the rest, except to say that we ended our tour of Auschwitz inside a giant crematorium (second photo above). Those trolleys were filled with corpses and used to keep the furnaces working at capacity. I challenge you to experience this evil and still hold to the humanist theory of man’s inherent goodness.



Wow. After that emotional detour, I’m not sure how to end this post. On our last day in Poland, Shane and I visited Krakow’s Wawel Hill (above photo), site of the aptly named Wawel Royal Castle and Wawel Cathedral. The Castle’s magnificent arcaded courtyard was of such a scale that it could only be described as a skyscraper of masonry and the armory contained the most impressive collection of weapons I have ever seen. The Cathedral acts as Poland’s national sanctuary and is the final resting place of most Polish royalty, two poets, four saints, and Krakow’s bishops. After shopping for Christmas gifts for my Polish sister-in-law, I left for the airport and made it back to London just in time to watch the election returns. Thanks for reading. Grace & Peace.

Texas, Texas, YeeHaw!

Wednesday we took Mr. Nelson out to the Texas Embassy for his 25th birthday. When the Great State of Texas was its own sovereign country (1836-1845), the Republic set up an Embassy in the Berry Brothers wine store on St. James Street in London. The Brits made a generous offer to defend Texas and help Her remain independent forever (they didn’t want the Yanks to get their sticky fingers on it), but alas, the Texans decided to cast their lot with the Americans and the Embassy closed in 1845 when Texas became the Lone Star State. The restaurant sits next to the now defunct Embassy building and occupies the former home of the famous White Star Shipping line, owners of the Titanic. This is the very building relatives came to when news of the sinking hit the British press. That infamous tragedy has long since been forgotten; its memory replaced with the joy that comes from a Tex-Mex Cantina. Having contracted various tropical diseases over the years, I can tell you that none compare to the horrors of salsa-deprivation disorder (SDD). I cannot describe to you how painful London has been culinarilly – when the British label something as “spicy” it means they have used extra sugar in the tomato ketchup base… my kingdom for a jalapeño! The salsa and fajitas we consumed at the Texas Embassy were twice as expensive as they would otherwise be back home, and only half as tasty, but it was absolutely wonderful. It’s actually been really easy to eat healthfully in London – the food is that bad. When Sam came down for the UT-OU game, he bought some crisps and wanted me to try them. I have a special weakness for crisps and had been purposefully avoiding them, but it turns out I was unnecessarily cautious, since crisps are really disgusting here – I ate one handful of “Lamb and Mint” crisps before swearing off British flavors for good. Beef Stew also seems to be a very popular crisp flavor here. I love the British, but I don’t understand how a people could straddle the globe with their Empire, and not gleefully abandon their domestic cuisine. Painful. Oh, and a short note on homesickness. You never feel so much a Texan as when you leave Texas. I have always been critical of my State and Her people, and indeed there are many things we must change about our society if we are to meet the challenges of the Texan Century… but I digress. Traveling Europe and living abroad makes me appreciate what we have in Texas. Brothers and Sisters of Texas, please don’t take it for granted. Apart from missing family, friends, and food, I suppose I miss Hispanics most of all - seriously, there aren’t any Hispanics over here and I really miss their language, music, food, and culture… Texas would be pretty lame without them. Grace & peace y’all, and enjoy the jalapeños.

Old York, Old York

I love public transportation. Sure, sometimes it’s slow and cumbersome, but where else can you find yourself sandwiched between Labor MPs (that’s “Member of Parliament”), Aussies, Indians, and Haitian immigrants all barreling toward Kings Cross Station several hundred feet below the streets of London? Pretty cool. Plus, I’ve become a Tube expert and running from carriage to connecting carriage has become somewhat of a game for me – I climb hundreds of steps two-at-a-time and run past throngs of commuters trying to make connections that the Tube planners never intended for me to make. I’m that fast. The other night I ran onto the Barbican platform and dove head first into a departing carriage with the doors closing just inches from my feet. The commuters in the cabin broke into spontaneous applause at my accomplishment. I just refuse to wait for the next train. In contrast, catching a regional train is much less demanding. I rode the Flying Scotsman once more toward Edinburgh, but got off in York this time. York is a really fun city to explore, and it’s a shame that I only had one day in the medieval walled city. My first stop was York Minster, the largest gothic cathedral in Northern Europe, and the second most important seat of church government in the Anglican Communion behind Canterbury (photos above). The highlight of the visit was a tour of the undercroft, treasury and crypt, where you can see the remains of a Roman fortress, Viking and Norman fortifications, and medieval carvings. It was here in 306 AD that Constantine was proclaimed Emperor of the Roman Empire. Constantine, as the first Christian Emperor, declared the Edict of Milan, which granted religious freedom throughout the Empire and marked an end to the open persecution of Christians.



I was especially impressed by the massive stained glass panels in the Minster. In the above photograph you can see the Rose Window, erected in 1500, which commemorates the unions of the houses of York and Lancaster, and an end to the vicious War of the Roses. On the north transept you will find the Minster’s oldest window, the Five Sister’s (c. 1260), which contains green and grey “grisaille” glass placed in geometric patterns that look very Moorish. It’s believed that parishioners returning from the crusades erected this window, and the intricate nature of the design was influenced by their experiences in the Holy Land. I was kicked out of the cathedral in the early afternoon to make way for an impending wedding – can you imagine getting married in a massive gothic cathedral? – so I decided to return for services in the evening.



Shane and his Aggie friends had visited York a few weeks previously and had talked about there being animatronics at the Viking museum, so I purchased my ticket and waited with anticipation. Unfortunately, the Viking exhibit was in desperate need of some Disney Imagineering… a simple swiveling head and gyrating arm do nothing for me – I want to see a Ben Franklin climb stairs in the Hall of Presidents! You could even hear the loud pneumatic pumps used to drive the models with hydraulics… hydraulics!? No self-respecting imagineer would be caught dead without elastomeric skin and digital servos. How disappointing. I left the Vikings for the more palatable history of the Victorian Era, as presented by the York Castle Museum. The curators did a masterful job of recreating entire period streets indoors (photo above) – the objects on display were all originals and even the store fronts on the Victorian and Edwardian streets were authentic, transported from towns and cities throughout England.



The medieval city wall surrounding York closes after dusk, so I quickly climbed the fortification and walked the several-mile long path along the wall (photo taken from wall above). At several points along the wall my walk took me right next to a multi-story dwelling where you could look directly into someone’s home… creepy. I made my way back to the Minster just in time to catch the Choral Evensong service that night. I was directed into the church quire, an intricately carved wooden sanctuary at the heart of the cathedral (think “Holy of Holies” but without the Shakina Glory), followed by various ministers and the York boy’s choir. The heavily liturgical service was lovely and I really enjoyed the corporate worship – as you can imagine, the acoustics were unbelievable… long after finishing a song, our voices would linger in the cathedral like plucked chords. The service lasted for a while, and afterwards I had just enough time to call my folks before catching the last train home. Grace & Peace.