Home.

Why do they send us off to travel? As I write this I’m flying over Canada on the way back to my lovely home. I ponder the question put to my by a friend back in Glasgow: “Which is more beautiful, Scotland or the US?” Clearly she could not understand the enormity of the question or the vast expanses of diverse landscapes in the US. My answer to this question is not important, but the thinking involved in the asking is. When I go home, I’ll see my beaches, my sand, my lovely island, the miles of pines planted in rows to make paper and houses, the mist on the pond early in the morning, and the loud chirping of frogs in the evening. But I won’t see these as particularly notable or amazing because they are just the way things are. And now I can perhaps say the same thing about Scotland. The rising moors, the cobblestone streets, the whine of the pipes, the glory of blue sky when we get it so rarely: All of them are now commonplace for me.

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So now I ask again; Why do they send us off to travel?

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Is it to lose all sense of wonder? To no longer be surprised by anything? I’ve seen and done things which once filled me with trepidation, not anymore. I now have a frame of reference for 18th century architecture, 16th century painting, 12th century cathedrals… And so on and so on.

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My hope, my sincere hope is that the words I wrote before I left will be prescient of my mindset when I’m back in my old places again:

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The experience of studying abroad opens the mind to view each norm and nuance of a culture that we previously thought we knew with completely fresh eyes. Going to another culture helps us to see our own, liberates the mind from one-track thinking, and stimulates what sociologist C. Wright Mills calls the “sociological imagination.”

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Here’s hoping…

Transient Thoughts…

I wrote this piece whilst waiting in London, Heathrow. I read it to a few friends and they insisted I post it.

So I’m sitting in Heathrow… I’ve made it back to where it all began. Things are a little different. I’m not sure if I’m allowed in the business class lounge for one thing. But I’m just an observer of humanity.

Just in front of me and little to my left is a guy that could only really be described as startlingly good-looking. A deep tan, short, thick, blond hair, and bright blue eyes. He is dressed stylishly in a striped long-sleeve shirt and skinny jeans with leather boots. About 2 metres tall, 77-80 kilos….

sleeping girl in front of me directly, she seems to be in the state one often reaches when traveling for longer than 24 hours. the seats in this area aren’t good for sleeping due to the armrests which don’t move. So she is leaning on her pink backpack for a pillow and her pink jacket is covering her legs, which are clothed in black leggings and jean-shorts. She has short brown hair with square glasses open at the bottom… about 5’5″, of asian descent.

This description doesn’t interest me any longer… what are people are doing? What motivates them? How are the dressed and what does that mean? I just realized I’m wearing plaid on checkered…. This might explain the weird looks. but I also haven’t slept, which might explain the paranoia… and the wardrobe choices.

When I come to the airport I always dress comfortably, but sharply. I have heard of different styles of travel garb, but this one I think is the most prevalent. Whilst traveling the people around you have only your clothes to judge you by. People spend the entire time sitting around trying not to stare at each other, for me at least, I want them to have a narrative which lends itself well to the imagination.

I suppose that is what this entire exercise is about, imagination. I want someone to come over to me, sit down, and start talking (to me preferably). But I want to have a three hour airport fling. A small crush, with a rush of excitement and a flash of possibility, perhaps with a french girl.

Perhaps more so I’m in earnest in my desire to not sit here alone for three hours. Why do we need human connection? I don’t get it. It seems so simple, we are alone. I know myself well enough to say truthfully that my own thoughts are more than adequate to keep me entertained for days. So why do I still want to talk?

So I see someone… she looks really interesting, and she is sitting there alone watching people as well as i am…. I don’t know the right thing to do. No, that isn’t quite it. Truthfully, I don’t know the best thing to do. I know what I want the outcome to be, but I don’t know how to achieve it. I want to talk to her…. I want to sit with her and have a feeling of instantaneous mutual understanding.

I forgot about the gift of revelations! I just have to ask God what to do, and he will tell me. Cause he is always good like that.

Alright, I went and got a sandwich and some water… by the time I got back the girl was asleep, which I took as a sign to leave her alone. But As I was eating, I was reading C. Wright Mills and his sociological imagination. He brought up an interesting point, (actually he was attempting to disapprove of the use of Simmel) but it got me thinking about Simmel.

Simmel says that the POV of the stranger is the most interesting and important perspective for various reasons which I may or may not explain here.

But I think in an airport, we are all strangers. The stranger has the ability to see things in a situation where those native to the place can’t, kinda like a sociologist, or a psychologist, or any number of “ists” but the strangers lack of permanence makes him special. His choice gives him power. Oddly enough in an airport the strangers are the ones that don’t see everything. An airport is designed to conceal the actual workings of our transportation systems. and those that stay here can see the things we can’t… another aspect of Simmel’s theoretical framework is the overloading effect of modernity and the metropolis. I am inclined to agree. Simmel says that when the senses are overloaded we start to block out input… which certainly would explain the blank stares I’m seeing around me right now. yeah… I’m certain the stuff around me is determined to overwhelm into buying their products by the sheer weight of the images on my retina.

Apex of a New Low.

When most people think of the Glaswegian Skyline they imagine the University towering above the city with 18th century townhouses sitting on a ridge overlooking a city with roots reaching as far back as the River Clyde. But if you were to happen onto Maryhill Rd. you would see something entirely different altogether. The sky is dominated by 7 chunks of concrete thirty stories tall. These towers are the brainchild of a civil engineer and an optimistic city council. They were designed to be the homes of the future. Flats for the people that were too good for the people… or that was the hype. The reality was subsidized housing for hundreds of people with only one lift and one set of stairs. The reality was a nightmare. To see them now is too be really confused. There are huge scars of black soot, the evidence of fires and splotches of brown, green, and yellow, evidence of I don’t want to know what. These towers are now being torn down and the people moved to housing designed by someone who understands humans. But they stand for something exceedingly wrong with the government; which is at the same time paternal and removed.

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Having read C. Wright Mills I have come upon an idea which appears to explain the scottish state of child-likeness, (by this I mean their acceptance and even desire for a paternal government). Mills rather inelegantly calls it “idiocy” meaning as Plato says that the completely private man is an idiot. Meaning: the completely private man can have no understanding of his stake in society as a whole and is therefore unable to exact change through his personal agency.

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The scots lack the sense of personal agency which I identify with adult behavior or being grown up. They act as though their actions have no bearing on the state of their lives, hence the emphasis on council housing… responsibility free housing, being cared for by the paternal state from the “cradle to the grave.” This is abhorrent to me.

Precisely what I have gathered through my leisurely observations on the bus is that when you have a child you are no longer your own person. Children change everything. It is almost as if there are no rebels with children, for when you have a child you will do whatever it takes to care for that child, including follow the system. It is the most important thing in the world; and personal agency is necessary to care for children in an empowering way. (meaning, that in my mind, children raised by children (people with no agency) develop patterns of behavior and consumption which are bad for society economically and politically.) Parents with agency raise children with agency and these children have behaviors which translate into positive benefits for society, (assuming of course that the personal beliefs of a majority of voting citizens of a nation should be the guiding force and measure of success of that society.)

Children of Man

When you go “study abroad” people expect you to learn something rather vague and insubstantial whilst you’re there. I’m at the end of the experience and still not sure what exactly I was supposed to learn, but here is something I have at least attempted to learn:

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These writings are an exploration of understanding, and having been in Scotland, (specifically Glasgow) this long, I have thought about what it means to be Scottish, (specifically Glaswegian) and these are my observations:

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I sit on the bus, second story, right above the stairs (double-decker buses!) and I get to watch the people climb the steps. A young woman climbs the stairs followed by a young man in a t-shirt who is in turn followed by a kid; just a baby really, but a child of about 3 or 4. He climbs slowly, young dad is letting him make his way slowly. Dad is dressed in stylish clothes and a nice shirt. Mom is in the same hip urban style. But both seem to have settled into the roles of parent rather well… the thing to notice is the way it seems to feel; as if the idea of a kid odd. The people on the bus don’t get up to move, they don’t make room so the family can sit together. The young parents are out of place. From then on I notice the young mothers traveling alone, carting their children in strollers given to them by the state… the Dads in the monochromatic sweat-suits which denote gang membership followed behind by their four-year-old sons and daughters. The middle aged men in their oddly fitted tees and baggy-over-pocketed jeans… and the old guys finally standing around the door of the pub smoking, just down the street from the teenagers doing the same thing in front of the chip shop.

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My sense is, in a country where the government feels the need to remind its denizens to check their petrol levels, that people are uncomfortable with adult behavior. Perhaps it is the idea or reality of growing older, being a grown-up, which is unsettling. If you could join me whilst I look over the city of Glasgow you can see a country which is completed; a country entirely void of frontier. I understand now why Brits can laugh at Americans, we are still in the throws of adolescence. This Idea perhaps precisely expresses what I mean: Americans are adolescent, we look forward to the change, to growing up, to discovering our place in the world. The bit of Britain I have witnessed seems to be in something like a second childhood, a sort of senility if you will. An artifice of rebellion because deep down you know you have everything you need, you don’t even need to work for it, and you don’t really remember what it was that got you there.

Mother’s Day Present

I know… according to my good friend Ben Harrell, facebook activism is entirely too passé for cool people to partake in, but this shit matters, alright?

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http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/10/world/africa/10aids.html?hp

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What is happening in short, is the governments of the United States and Uganda deciding that having AIDS makes you less human; they have capped the aid going to the clinics and hospitals. I do apologize for the sentimental way I feel about this, but there but for the grace of god goes me. There is nothing more important than that woman’s life. And again, this is truth, we should not tire of doing the right thing. The things that really matter on this planet depend on it.

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For those of you who will read the article, you will I’m sure notice the new emphasis on Mother and Child health through meeting basic needs. I am so thankful the worlds leaders and moving on this issue which is more about the global family that is humanity than any other I know of, but I would also say that there is more than enough money to do both. $280 million is chump change. Don’t go there with me, you won’t like it.

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For sooth, You can write your senators if you want, but mostly, I want you to KNOW. Why? Because when you know, you are responsible. So rather than writing a letter as sternly worded as this note; go to Africa and work with AIDS victims, reorganize your lifestyle so you can give half your income to the poor, study AIDS and make a cure your life goal. We aren’t in a world of armchair activism any longer.

Thanks to Marissa Archie for showing me this article.

London

London:

On my way back from the sunny Isle of Malta I had a change over in London. I flew into Luton airport at 11:00 pm and left on a bus the next day at 10:00 pm.

With 23 hours to kill, and very little money to speak of, this is the story of how I experienced London.

I left Luton Airport at about 7:00. I found a bus ticket for 8 £, which was a huge answer to prayer (6 £ less than normal fare). From the bus station I searched for some cheap breakfast and scouted out possibilities for cheap lunch and dinner. At a local grocery I found:

1: Really cheap bread

2: Clementines on Sale

3: 2 for 1 muffins

Buying the muffins, I tucked the bread and oranges on the backburner as an idea for lunch/dinner.

London was in rare form that day. The sun was out and warming its denizens with golden rays. The breeze was refreshing without being chilling, and the tourists were everywhere. I walked to St. James Park next to Buckingham Palace to eat and wait for the changing of the guard. I ate one muffin and gave the second one to a new friend I met, and sat on a bench under a blooming cherry tree and asked potential friends about their coffee. (It should be explained that for me lack of sleep always produces lowered inhibitions.)

When 10:30 rolled around I went up to the palace, now surrounded by thousands of people… It was crazy!! Being me, I worked my way through the crowd until I was right up against the gate and assumed 5th position, en pointe and waited. The musical cacophony of lilting accents and foreign languages was entrancing, but as I stood there I recognized something about one of the voices around me. I turned around and asked

“If you don’t mind me asking, where are ya’ll from?”

Only to hear to my great excitement, “We’re from Georgia, where you from?”

“Georgia!” I exclaimed too loudly, “You have no idea how nice it is to hear a familiar voice.”

We quickly exchanged southern credentials and information. I explained my presence and why I was so glad to meet them. These wonderful people were from West Georgia and were taking a vacation exploring their family tree in England. We watched the changing of the guard, (poking fun at the British of course), but didn’t see much because we were one of several thousand. Afterward they invited me out to lunch, so perfectly understanding the universal plight of college students everywhere. They adopted me for a few hours that day.

I know this sounds strange, but reader, it was a godsend to be with them: a much need respite of hospitality in a city thousands of miles from home. For sooth, I didn’t know I needed one until I had it. Those who know me know I don’t ever shy away from doing something new, strange, bizarre, scary or foreign. But for that one day, it was the perfect thing to have a family for a few hours.

We parted ways after that. I walked down Fleet Street and the Strand to go to St. Paul’s. I ended up taking Mass in a Catholic church before I made it to the Cathedral. I should mention that I couldn’t actually pay to enter St. Paul’s, so I just prayed in the side chapel (which more than sufficed). From there I went to Westminster, walking along the Thames until I saw the Buildings of Parliament. I walked around the Abbey (I couldn’t pay to get into there either). But I did find a small, empty chapel which was open. I had such a rockin’ time in Westminster… It was incredible.

I left the chapel after I had cooled off and I just started walking around (probably where I wasn’t supposed to be).

I saw Rodin’s Burghers or Calais.

I spoke with a man protesting the United States.

I spoke with a man who tries to get people to ride the train for a living.

And I bought four loves of bread and 16 clementines for my dinner: which I ate on the bus back.

On our midway stop to Glasgow at 4:00 am I freakishly happened to meet Mr. J.T. Wood going to London on the night bus. He was more disturbed by it than I was.

I finally made it back to Glasgow and I haven’t left since.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Now time for Reflection:

Let me begin by saying that I really enjoyed Malta. I loved it. The food is really good (kind of Italian with a twist), the sun shines often; there is a relaxed atmosphere, which I think, stems from colonization after colonization. The people are used to tourists, which makes them moderately helpful, but careful about their culture. Every great empire in the history of world has ruled the Maltese. Phoenicians, Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Brits, and now they are independent.  They seem to know that everything will pass away, so don’t worry too much about it.

Which leads me to my next thought: I don’t understand Malta. I have, of course, been comparing them to the Scots, cause that is what I have seen. Visiting the Scottish museums and the Maltese museums has led me to the conclusion that the Scots, who have never been conquered, have no idea of their cultural identity, and the Maltese, spending 99% of their recorded history (the history of Malta goes back 7000 years) belonging to someone else, have relinquished their need to be empowered by a sense of false nationalism. Don’t misunderstand me; they have a long and brilliant history, but it is also a humbling one. Even now, 100% of the Maltese economy is based in the service industry. They seem to have shed the need for a unifying national identity, taking in its place an understanding that these things don’t last anyway.

I don’t know what else to say about this. Malta is a beautiful country: The beaches, the grottos, the temples and churches, and the ancient Roman cities all hold treasures and stories; I think the difference in Malta is they know these things are commercialized, and they don’t mind so much. Oddly enough, putting an honest price on these things didn’t cheapen them. I appreciated the way the Maltese communicate their culture; it was with dignity and ease, as if they knew what we were there for and knew we would leave after we had got what we came for. They knew we, like the conquering empires, would simply pass away.

Malta: 9/10 days of sun.

As I walk through life I attempt to do what I believe every human does with their lives; find a story within. So upon my return from Malta I wanted to find a unifying theme which explicated, expounded, or elucidated the experience (which I think people have been trying to do when they go to Malta for a long time).

Let’s begin with a short narrative (with screwed up dates) of my time there:

I arrived late and went to meet my friend Jasmine at the Hotel where we stayed for two nights. The interim days were spent mostly in exploring the area where we found ourselves. Almost as if we were living there; we searched out the places for free internet, the cheapest pizza stands, the best place to buy groceries, and the best bars.

My next three nights were spent in the home of my new CouchSurfing friend Daniel.

One day was filled with tourist-y things: visiting the 7000 year old temples and burial grounds, seeing the beautiful landscape and crystal clear water of the Mediterranean which surrounds blessed Malta’s rocky coast.

Day 2 with Daniel we went rock-climbing with friends. Good Friday in Malta is a huge deal so everyone had the day off. I met a group of the coolest people I have ever had the privilege to speak too. Men and women from Germany, France, Bulgaria, Spain, Argentina, and Turkey, all spoke English and most spoke Spanish.  The European Union has a similar program to Americorps, in which young people can go volunteer in different capacities and have their housing, food, and transportation taken care of: most of them were taking part in this program. Every single one was as warm as the sun on that beautiful day. Truthfully, if you ever get the chance to work in Malta, take it. This country is incredible.

Later that day there was a blackout for about 3 hours, which seemed apt on Good Friday.

Saturday we went to the Three Cities, an old place with some really cool places just for walking around in. I think I have some pictures… (You can see them when I get back to my camera cord: June 1st)

NOTE: One of these days we visited the ancient Roman city of Medina (where some really cool glass is made) and the third largest dome in Europe in Mosta, of which you can read about online. This wonderful day also included a self-guided walking tour of the Maltese countryside, during which we managed to see nothing of importance, and you guessed it; happened largely by mistake.

Sunday was spent on the island of Gozo. For sooth I was not pleased spending Easter Sunday romping around like a crazy tourist, but somehow I made it through. The Azure window was beautiful, but paled in comparison to the beauty of the living things of the tidal-pools in its shadow.

The next day afterward are largely immaterial for the sake of a narrative, except perhaps for a particularly enjoyable meal I had alone on a balcony, consisting largely of sunshine, fresh strawberries, bread, three different cheeses, and some local brew.

I spent the next couple days mostly in some much needed solitude and rest. At points I felt a bit stir-crazy, so I went out for a walk just to feel the movement of my own legs, which of course got me thinking about H. D. Thoreau again.

This has been my narrative. Please see the next time for the reflection.

Fun: this is it.

I’m sitting in an airport on the outskirts of London at one o’clock in the morning. I look rough and smell rougher. The remains of my dinner of chocolate milk and chocolate chip cookies is sitting beside me, along with my open suitcase; proudly displaying to the world the two weeks it has been since I have done laundry. An innovative traveler sleeps to my left and traversers of the night are making a connection in front of me. And I sit, back up against a wall, in the lotus position, knowing full well that a full 18 hours awaits before I will get a shower and a clean bed.

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My question at this time: So what?

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As I was using the bathroom and changing my pants (funny story) I was laughing at myself and said under my breath: “This is not what I do for fun.” But after I said that I asked myself, “Why not?” Why the heck not just have a good time? Regardless of how I feel about it, I’m going to be in these situations for years to come, why not enjoy them?

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So this is what I do for fun: From now on, I, Cory Benjamin Brooks, travel, eat too much chocolate, smell funny, and find awesome ways to spend lone hours in airports and bus stations in the worlds most interesting cities; just for fun.

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And one more thing; can someone please tell me why the flight to Budapest leaves at 1:30 am?

Riding… but not passively.

Buses… What does the world know about buses?

First let me start by saying that if anyone can make me feel patriotic it is my own dear Henry David Thoreau. In his lovely epistle Walking he waxes eloquently about the benefits of ambulating through the woods, claiming and perhaps proving that noble souls are only created in the wilderness, and which place has more wilderness than our own loverly country? He rests his case extremely effectively, and I agree with him. Noble souls are born in exploration of the unknown. The mettle of men are tested in the wilderness of the soul. As if only at the marrow of men, when the centre is all that remains, can men choose whom they wish to be.

I think Thoreau makes one crucial mistake: he belittles urbanity. I’m living in Glasgow, Scotland; a city far older than the country Thoreau speaks so beautifully, and to speak truthfully, there ain’t much rural wilderness hereabouts. (Or anywhere in Britain really) Yesterday I went to Sir Walter Scott’s country home (called Abottsford). We drove for two hours into the most deserted part of Scotland and it looked freshly mowed. The virgin forests and wide expanses of Virginia simply don’t exist here.

So what if Scotland is a pastoral paradise? If you can’t go anywhere without running over a sheep? If fences and fields stretch from coast to coast? (All 200 miles)

I refuse to believe the Scottish are doomed to small lives and small thoughts because their forefathers tamed the land for them.

In my attempt to discover how the Scottish develop their eternal souls I turn to their alternative mode of transportation: Riding the bus.

Let it be known that as I write this I am riding the NightFlyer, a night bus down to London (The cheapest way to get there). Whilst walking, via Thoreau, is an exploration of self in the grand expanses of the American wilderness, riding the bus is an exploration of everyone else, on those days (or now) when the bus is full and you sit next to someone you’ve never seen before and don’t really want to find out how they smell, you can really see how people live.

How do people respond when a women with a stroller gets on the bus? Or a man with twin toddlers?  Or a hunched over old woman, a unsteady older man refusing to surrender to a cane? Perhaps the young couple with dreadlocks, the middle aged lady with the big dog, or the African woman speaking into the phone a language I would swear is Creole but acts confused when I ask? (yes, I ask every time. I’m desperate for someone to speak Creole to…)

I say riding the bus is a practice in empathy. Living this close to someone else, connected with them daily, gets you thinking. And that is what the wilderness was for Thoreau, a place for thinking, for sounding the depths of your ideas of who you are and challenging the fiber of your character to see what you are made of.

I do think this leads to the primary difference between Europeans and United Staters: (I’m removing American from my vocabulary) Europeans realize they must live with each other. US-ers act as if when they get rich enough they don’t have to live with anyone else, removing themselves completely from society. Europeans seem to understand that we are all here, for better or for worse; we are all here for good. Acting out of that understanding they create lifestyles which follow Kant’s categorical imperative, that those circumstances under which everyone can live are those under which I must live. For this reason and primarily this reason, United Staters look toward Europe as a symbol of social progress.