Munich
While last weekend was an adventure in Ireland, this (marginal) weekend I spent perusing Chris and Molly's city of residence. Owing to some scheduling and price hassles, I flew in Sunday morning and left Tuesday, so I managed to come over right in the middle of their classes. While I only have fond memories of having classes every day to remind me what it is like, I understand the amount of hassle it requires to take in a visitor, especially when you have more mundane things to occupy your mind. So thanks again, guys, for all your hospitality despite the circumstances.
Making what seemed to be the best of two bad decisions, I decided to try to stay up to catch my 4 A.M. bus to the airport rather than trying to get some sleep and risk missing the alarm. As a result, my only sleep that first night came from about an hour on the bus to the airport and an hour and a half or so on the plane. Perhaps because of these circumstances, I mistook the directions which had been given to me by Chris and got off at the wrong bus stop: the main train station in Munich. For many people this would be reason to start panicking, but given that I was quite tired, I wasn't too worried about it. Apparently other people were, though. I received a call from Andrea, still in Oxford, relaying Molly's worry about me. Having received this call, I decided it was a better plan to just wait in the train station rather than get on the U-Bahn where I would lose reception and have Molly really worried. So, for about an hour I waited. When Molly finally did call me, she gave me the same instructions I would have followed without her. While I can't speak German, I can navigate underground trains. It's like music and karate: an international language.
Having finally arrived at Molly's apartment, the three of us (with Chris) decided on our next course of action; it was a decidedly somber next step. Visiting the reconstruction of a concentration camp is not supposed to be a light and fun outing. The only thing it made me do was think; admittedly something more difficult having only had two and a half hours sleep. The exhibit in the museum segment was entitled: "How did the Nazi party come to power?" but that is at once nearly trivial and yet beyond a museum's ability to answer; this is especially true when coupled with the companion question of Dachau: "How could a modern nation, with all its benefits, systematically, coldly, cruelly, calculatingly murder millions of people who had not lifted a finger against it?" Even Stalin had (or imagined he had) better reasons for his great purges. The holocaust was simply an absolute and needless destruction. While I do not believe that there can be "no art after Auschwitz" as Adorno maintains, I found the art pieces designed as a memorial at Dachau were repellent to me. I wondered why; then I realized that the form of Dachau matched its function. The camp was lifeless: the buildings all at cold right angles, the grass decaying and dying, the paths open and without scale, the guard towers anonymous and forbidding, the wall blank, the empty expanse open to bitter winds. Adding artwork was like putting perfume in a coffin, in order to mask the smell of death, but more than that: to add scent in order to reanimate the body with a little life. This memorial did not need artwork to display its emotion. The camp was enough, as a kind of anti-art meant to make one dull and to deconstruct the person within. After experiencing that, I can add my voice to those who say, nie wieder! Never again!
The next day, I slept in. After having some more problems with finding places on the U-bahn thanks to Chris, we decided to just take a look around some German bookstores before heading to the primary entertainment of the night. The bookstores, I have to mention, rekindled my desire to learn German after I learn ancient Greek. Chris and I met Molly coming out of class at this point, and we went and had some truly German food: sausages, sauerkraut, and a beer; Bavaria at its finest. After this, Chris and I headed to the Rodrigo y Gabriela concert.
Rodrigo y Gabriela, for those who do not know, are a pair of acoustic guitarists who got sick of their heavy metal band and traded in their electric guitars for nylon stringed guitars when they realized they could do more tricks with them. They are probably most famous for their cover of Stairway to Heaven, something to check out on Youtube if you have not. They are two of the finest and most creative guitarists I have ever heard or heard of. They have created an ideal musical situation, with Gabriela playing rhythm guitar in a style I believe to be truly unmatched (she just as often plays percussion on the side of her guitar as she does her incredible strums on the strings) while Rodrigo plays lead with ample nods to his heavy metal roots. Both of them have invented (as far as I'm aware) techniques; but then they are experts at these techniques as well. While many of their songs are not structurally or harmonically impressive (not that that always produces good musical results) their technique is beyond masterful, and is pulled off with a hint of sprezzatura which can only be found in those who truly love and have invested thousands of hours into their instruments. On the one hand, seeing them was slightly depressing: I have so far to go, still! On the other hand, it was inspiring. I want to be able to play like that someday, in a different style, sure, but with their finesse, confidence, and technical ability. More inspiring, still, was the fact that Rodrigo threw his pick out into the audience after the first set and it practically fell into my hands.
Tuesday came with a trip around Munich's historical and traditional shopping center. The markets were fantastic, but I'm not sure how willing I would be to get on the U-bahn every day to get fresh fruit. Apparently, Molly and Chris need to get on the U-bahn anyway, just to get to the grocery store. Personally, I would prefer smaller and more local shops, but everyone has to live somewhere.
Upon my arrival in England, I got another reason why I'm studying at Oxford. I was at passport control in Heathrow, which has very negative connotations for me, and the young lady at the counter was asking me whether I was a resident studying in England. I replied yes, I was studying at Oxford. As she stamped my passport, she asked me what I was studying, and I replied that I was taking tutorials in philosophy and history. Her eyes went wide for a moment, and she said, under her breath, "wow," before waving me through. I only hope that the grad schools I apply to have the same reaction.
For now, then, I just have one more paper to write before I meet up with Chris again; this time it will be in Paris. From there, I'll be taking the train to Istanbul to visit Sara. I'll be on the road a lot, which always tires me out; but I'm pretty sure it's worth it.
On Aqua Vitae and plain Aqua.
(This is, shamefully, just a copy-paste work from the travel blog for the honors program at Gonzaga, linked to under My Other Blog. Chris, Molly, and Anna are all classmates of mine. I think the rest speaks for itself -Ed.)
Since Chris, Molly, and Anna seemed to have so much fun visiting each other in Cork and Munich, I've decided to join in the excitement. This weekend I visited Anna in Cork, and next weekend I'll go bother Chris and Molly in Munich. Then I'll be traveling pretty much until Christmas break, so I won't be able to really return the favor of having my schedule being disrupted and getting behind on my work. Sorry guys...
I must admit, I had rather romantic expectations for Ireland. I'd never visited before. Looking back, that seems strange, but since the opportunity was there, it was something I couldn't turn down. I had an image in mind of small villages with people speaking in Gaelic, playing violins at the pubs at night, and lots of green rolling hills before you got to the silvery blue sea. Perhaps there are parts of Ireland like that, just like there may be parts of England where people still wear monocles and speak snootily on every subject. Cork, however, seemed to me to be just like England; even the different accent didn't throw me off, since it was about as different as a Cornwall accent.
The flight over was a little exciting. Flying on Ryanair, I have a vague hope that my chances are better for sitting next to someone who is interesting and hygienic, rather than the usual people who seem to take over half my seat and snore the entire flight. This trip, I managed to avoid that problem. Instead, a few minutes after being seated, I found a sharp pounding in the middle of my shin. The source of the pain was a foot attached to a three year old girl, quite precocious and energetic. After a little while, her mother noticed and put an end to this quickly. She apologized, I said it was nothing, and figured that would hopefully be the end of any interaction between us. What I found instead was that she was the source of my cleanliness when her daughter decided to vomit upon landing. I took her wet wipes appreciatively, and again waved off her apologies. She wasn't the one who needed to apologize to me.
Everything was uphill from my arrival. Even the pouring rain which greeted me (thanks again for putting up with that, Anna) was better than the plane. Though it seemed like it would last forever, the rain just meant I had a chance to learn a new card game. After quite a while, the downpour receded. Anna and I decided it would be worth the risk to go visit a couple of the local drinking establishments. The first was large enough so that it didn't seem crowded, but the second place was packed shoulder to shoulder. The drinks, however, was very good. The Guiness was, in my opinion, superior to the export product, and Anna introduced me to a local beer, Murphy's, which is one of the better beers I've ever had in my life. Too bad it's only made in Cork and not likely to be found in England.
The next day we visited the Jameson Distillery. It was an interesting trip. I didn't ever even think about the difference between fermentation and distilling was, but, after the visit, I can even tell you the difference between Irish whiskey, American whiskey, and Scotch. The highlight of the visit was at the end, where they took volunteers to be whiskey tasters. After a slight moment of indecision and fear, I raised my hand and was hustled off to a separate table with three other people away from the rest of the group. There they gave us samples of three different kinds of Irish whiskey, Scotch, and Jack Daniels'. They do indeed have very distinct tastes. After I picked up my certificate labeling me a qualified whiskey taster, Anna and I were both starving, so we found the cheapest fast food place in town and had wings and chips. It was funny going from sophisticated to dirt poor in a matter of minutes.
That evening the rain continued. It was raining when I got back to Oxford as well, so instead of blaming it on the fact that I'm living in the British Isles where it rains a good portion of the year, I'm going to say there's a good chance I'm a rain god, like the Douglas Adams character. Perhaps places with droughts will pay me to visit them; alternatively, perhaps vacation places like Malta will pay me not to visit them. I can see lots of opportunities here. Still, the rain kept us inside for the rest of the evening, so it mean playing more cards and watching The Usual Suspects, a brilliant movie.
My visit was far too short. Someday I'll have to go back to Ireland and take a good tour around the country, but for now, I suppose it's enough to say that I've been to the homeland at last.
The link really doesn't have much to do with what I'm going to write about, except that it prompted a line of thought and one of its assertions: that terrorists are not, on the whole, uneducated but generally have at least moderate education. The author explains this in economic terms, but I'm not convinced of the causal link in such arguments, since they seem to be post facto instances.
Anyway, along those lines, at Oxford I've been attending the Doctor Who society, where we sit around with people who like the good Doctor and watch episodes. Some of us are fairly casual fans, but others have obviously spent a good deal of time and effort into knowing the series intimately. This is obviously not a unique phenomenon. I know, for example, far more about the Star Wars universe than anyone who has simply watched the six movies could ever pick up. Other science fiction series have similar fans. Dr. Who, however, beats the rest in terms of length and depth, along with the lack of a cohesive chronology, at least as far as I can determine. The fans have very impressive intellectual knowledge. One of the more knowledgeable of them has cross-referenced events that took place in episodes spanning decades. They can point out multiple plot holes based on which incarnation of the Doctor one considers to be legitimate.
To some people, this just seems ridiculous, like these young adults are caught in a game of make-believe that has outgrown its roots. Why would anyone, they ask, spend so much time and effort learning about things that do not in fact exist? Why are they so interested in events which are not real?
What I believe the advent of science fiction accomplished was the idea of alternate realities. Not necessarily just holding to the future and advance societies, but just the idea that the world can be constructed differently from how we perceive it. I hypothesize that, before science fiction, fiction was supposed to be construed in our world or else a obviously distorted version of our world, for example in Gulliver's travels. Anyway, it is definitely a recent idea. Alternate realities can have their own logic, their own history, their own science, their own metaphysical foundations. They can have a God, no god, many gods. They can change. They have total freedom in a way that reality does not. Not to go too deep into psychology, but obviously this would be a comforting thought to people who feel like they have no control over reality.
What is interesting is the original objection to this immersion into alternate realities. It is true that they do not exist, but that does not necessarily mean that we access them, especially intellectually, in a way any differently from the way we understand reality proper. There is one reality, and (to ape Aristotle somewhat) knowledge of it is best, but that doesn't mean that the knowledge of alternate realities is different fundamentally from knowledge of reality proper.
The application should be obvious. The first people who jumped to my mind were the Marxists, who built a completely fantastic view of history. Their reality, at least in some regards, was an alternate reality. They were highly educated, Marx especially (though he's a special case because it's hard to say just how Marxist he was) but the fact that were applying rules from an alternate reality to reality proper just meant they were committing a type fallacy. Terrorists, I imagine, work in the same way.
I'm going to answer the question of how I can be sure that there is a reality proper and not just a series of anthropocentric alternate realities by glossing over it. It's really not essential to the question, anyway. The point is not that the terrorists are or are not educated, it is the type of education they get which is the issue.
News and Related Items
1. I now have a guitar. The past six weeks without one were not good for my sanity. I have found some things frustrating, since I can't play at the level I was at six weeks ago. On the other hand, having a new guitar to mess around with is interesting enough to keep me from denigrating into frustration over my newfound lack of skill. Plus, my callouses are gone, so playing hurts. It is essentially a mixed blessing, but its always worthwhile to have a musical instrument than not. I find with the guitar (something I regrettably did not find with the cello) that having to concentrate on something outside of normal work is incredibly relaxing. Also, in Oxford I have found the books on musicology that I would have done terrible things for when I was at Gonzaga. I have a vague desire now to turn from my traditional desires in philosophy to become a musicologist. But, when I leave, I'd have to give it up, so what's the point?
2. This Sunday I went to London. I spent ten hours in a city in which you could spend a lifetime and not see it all. I did my best, though. I started off at the Bank district, where there were lots of beautiful buildings. I followed my nose to St. Paul's cathedral, where I had the rare opportunity of taking in a service. It was the most gorgeous experience I have had in a long time. Also, I had forgotten how beautiful the building is. The cathedral took decades to build, something that is very uncommon now, but sometimes I think that haste breeds a lack of care. On the other hand, I am speaking from someone who enjoys the benefits of these old buildings; if I died a year before St. Paul's was completed, I might have wanted them to hurry a little. From there, I hit the Tate modern. Unfortunately, they were having an exhibition on Surrealism, which is not my cup of tea (take that, Lacan!*) so I only skimmed it. From there, I walked along the Thames and crossed to the Parliament buildings. Big Ben, I noted, was about three minutes off by my watch. Anyway, back down the underground to the British Museum. If I could find one place to live in London, this would be one of my choices. The place has a feel to it.... Perhaps it comes from having a knowledge of history. Let me give an example. I spent one week this term writing a paper on the Augustan Revolution, when Augustus Caesar became more than a consul or even a dictator; he became emperor of the whole Roman world. I read about the wars, the political intrigues, the rhetorical and political manipulations he had to go through. When I went to my tutor to talk about what I had learned, he showed me a coin minted for the ascension of Augustus to the imperium. I felt a profound sense of connection with all of what I had read and learned. That was a coin. The British Museum feels like walking into a Roman temple, or an Assyrian capital, or an African village, or a Greek temple. Seriously, they have a reconstruction of the original Parthenon there. It is nearly overwhelming.
From there, I went to Trafalgar square, to say hello to Nelson. I spent some time there: the nearby National Gallery was just closing, and I was getting very tired. I sat, engaged in some people-watching, and wrote some stuff. The sun was setting behind me, and people were out with their families, some heading home, others just heading out. One man was playing with a remote control helicopter, which his son was chasing wildly. I was completely satisfied with life.
For the denouement, I managed to get some very good Chinese fast food. Besides from a little scare at the bus station, namely, wondering whether I was in fact in the right place or not, I made it back without further adventure.
*As I suddenly realize I have an incredibly inbred and exotic sense of humor that no one will find funny but me.
3. Outside the British Museum was what looked like a political stand; there were people giving out pamphlets, trying to get people to sign up for something. I wasn't very interested, until I saw one of the signs was celebrating Cyrus day, in honor of the 6th century B.C.E. emperor of Persia. Apparently, the sight of one of his capitals is under some threat due to a dam being built by Iran. If you would like to check it out for yourself, the best sight is: www.savepasargad.com/european_languages.htm
The evidence is slightly underwhelming: Iran is saying that the resulting flooding will not cover the city, but will increase the erosion factor. AWTI, the organization trying to stop the dam being built, says that the danger is equivalent to that of the giant Buddha statues destroyed by the Taliban about a decade back.
What I found interesting was the bind that everyone involved found themselves in. On the first level, the evidence is equivocal as to whether or not the flooding will do irreconcilable damage before scientists could make record of the artefacts there. The question is, to what extent does modernizing the country have precedence over restoration of the past?
The second bind, on the next level, is three fold; between Iran's government, the Iranian people who wish the site to be preserved, and the West, notably UNESCO. The Iranian people are, by all accounts, often at odds with the leadership of their country. They will put what pressure they can on the government, but that pressure is mostly symbolic and ineffective, like the petition I signed. Between Iran and UNESCO is a stand off. UNESCO has no teeth; they would obviously like the city to be saved, but they cannot do anything to stop it. This is especially true given Iran's status as a fairly influential power in the region. Few people want Iran to be destabilized.
I cannot hope to predict what Ahmadinejad is thinking. On the other hand, it would not do for Iran to look bad in the international community. Thumbing one's nose at the U.S. does not make you look bad; destroying an ancient heritage site does. But what else can be done? The modernization of his country also must continue. Why? Because it will give Iran the same power as the West: industrial power, military power, and economic power. But the West is what Iran is defying. The artefacts are in danger because Iran is following contradictory principles.
I usually hate it when people try to persuade me to join their cause, even if the cause is right. Most of the time I don't think that the cause is worth very much at all, but in this case my opinion is slightly different. Again, most of the time I think discussing politics is a waste of time, not necessarily because people don't know what they are talking about, but because the arguments assume a (nonexistent) Ceteris Paribus clause, which means "all else being equal." Arguing for a change in policy assumes that everything else around will stay the same. But things don't say the same, so by Modus Tollens, arguing for a change in policy will lead to false results. Theoretically, I believe I'm correct, but there is more to life than theory. (Gasp!) I think the world will be better off if that dam is not built. I think Iran will be better off, as it will look good to the world community. I think the people of Iran will be better off, as they will see the government listening to them. I think the world will be better off, because a connection with history, a great part of history, will remain.
That is why I signed the petition.
