Crossing Over; or, the Wrong Man for the Job

As promised, here's some footage of me making a fool of myself trying to carry over what little skill I have at cricket to baseball (NB, the footage is at 90° for the first 15 seconds or so - do not adjust your set, it'll come round in due course).



You'll also notice that I'm basically playing a slightly deranged hook/pull shot to every ball. Kate also reckons that my hands are too high (hey, I was just trying to imitate Ichiro's stance) and my weight is too far back...I think I'll have to go down there again sometime and get some proper coaching. Now I have a cricket-mad roommate, of course, that might be rather more tempting...

Shot of self and bro afterwards. Do we look like a pair of prize prats or what?

Life is Full of Surprises

Some things, however, are entirely predictable. Like birthdays - one rarely hears of someone having to take off back home for an unexpected birthday. It was mine this past 20th August. I turned 28, which in my view is a much better number than the rather scrappy 27. 28's divisible by more numbers, for one thing, and it has a sort of solidity to it that very much appeals to me. You may call that a rationalisation for the fact that I'm now unable to say I'm in my mid-twenties any more, but you'd be wrong. I think.

You'll note that that's my brother there in the right of shot; he was here for ten days or so to do research using the Columbia libraries and to travel around a bit on the east coast with a view to visiting a few museums. You'll also notice that the label on the bottle from which we're drinking says Presidente. This, apparently, is a Cuban beer, and a very appropriate one since, of course, I am the President, and President in Spanish is El Presidente. Which everyone calls me now. You see? Poetry in motion.

Anyway, celebrations were held at a few bars in Smith Street, down in Brooklyn. I recommend this as a venue for a party, since it is basically one long street with lots of funky bars and restaurants all along its length, leading at the end through downtown Brooklyn and back towards Manhattan. In attendance, all the way from London, England, was none other than Paz himself, taking a little break before starting work for Google, whose mighty empire we have to thank for this blog. Also present were the New York Miyagi crew, Fusco and Corin, as well as Kate and - naturally - myself. With hilarious consequences, as they say in sitcom world.

Props are due to Kate for getting me probably the best present in the world, a T-shirt bearing the words I'm a Legend in Japan. Hard to think of a better present, especially because by a funny coincidence I am a legend in Japan. She also got me a couple of red greasepaint pencils to use when marking papers this semester, and a 1st edition of a guide to English usage from 1942. She knows me, this one. She knows me all too well. What a fantastic girlfriend.

A few days later, Mike and I went to the batting cages at the Chelsea Piers setup to try our hand at smacking a few baseballs around. He did better than I did - he was always the better cricketer - partly since I was just playing a pull shot to almost every ball, rather than actually swinging the bat like you're supposed to. My illustrious brother took some video of me swinging away, which may - assuming he gets it to me in time - be posted on this blog so you can all take a look and have a good laugh.

Now, remember I said I didn't get the Monbusho scholarship? Seems I was wrong. Apparently, I did. I was actually placed on a reserve list, and someone this week dropped out, which means that one is now mine if I want one. Allied to the acceptance (informally) in the last couple of weeks of me as an advisee by a professor at Waseda, this means that - allowing for the possibility of some minor changes in details along the way - I will definitely be going back to Japan in the autumn of 2008 to do a year or so's research. The Man in Japan will be back - Tokyo style.

And other good stuff is happening, too. In a quite remarkable display of not-being-bureaucraticness, CU housing allowed Arunabh to do a switch and move into the room to be vacated tomorrow by my current roommate. Needless to say, given my travails with previous dormmates, I am delighted not to have to take my chances once again on the roommate lottery and have someone I know and like take up the vacant space. Much cricket will be shown in this apartment, I predict. I have a feeling this is going to be a great term...

Englishman Down South

The land of the boll weevil
Where the laws are medieval
Is callin' me to come and never more roam

- Tom Lehrer, I wanna go back to Dixie

That's right, y'all - time to head down below that Mason-Dixon line, where the word "well" has three syllables and where you can almost hear the banjo in the more rural areas. Yes, for the first time I headed to the South of the US, Georgia to be precise, to the city of Atlanta. Now, Atlanta's kind of a bubble when it comes to the South, as is the case with many large cities relative to their surrounding areas, but it was still an interesting and at times an eye-opening experience.

The occasion was the JETAA USA National Conference, to which I, as President of the New York chapter, was required to attend along with CJ, our treasurer. I flew out of La Guardia for the first time, getting into Atlanta around midday and eventually making my way to Buckhead in the north-east of the city where our hotel was located. As you'd expect of the South at this time of year, it was perishingly hot, well over 100° outdoors especially from noon til 3 or so. Thankfully, I wouldn't have to deal with this much as almost the entire time was spent in rooms with air-conditioning. One hates to think what the South was like before it was invented.

First day was basically about getting oriented, including an evening trip to a jazz bar round the corner from the hotel by the name of Sambuca. I'd been told by all and sundry how cheap Atlanta would seem compared to New York; unfortunately, this didn't really prove to be the case, though I still managed to find the wherewithal to sink far more alcohol than was really good for me over the four days. By about 9:00 the JETAA delegation were pretty much the only white people in there, which is not altogether unfamiliar for anyone who's ever been a JET. The $20 cover charge imposed, though, was enough to persuade us to leave for other parts.

The conference was much as you'd expect - two-thirds boring bureacratic and procedural stuff, one-third useful information. It did highlight how much better organised New York is than many of the other chapters; Florida, for example, hadn't known how to even apply for their funding last year, and Alaska were on the verge of being de-listed and hadn't sent any delegates. I get bored fairly easily by bureaucratic stuff, and wished we could have spent more time bouncing ideas for events, activities, or other programs off each other. A JETAA chapter is about what it does, not how it applies for its grant-in-aid, after all. For some reason, as you can see on the right, the photographers at the conference seemed to display a bizarre fascination with photographing me while I was eating.

And with CJ when he was eating too, as it happens. What's up with that?






My active involvement was limited to holding what Americans call a breakout session, which basically involves getting together in small groups to talk about issues of concern to chapters. I talked about "Membership Retention", dispensing nuggets of wisdom (no, really) to those who wanted to know how to get their numbers up. Not, of course, that we have to try that hard in New York - we're New York. We're cool. People come to us, we don't chase them.

Naturally, as I always do, I lit up the room with my sparkling wit and effervescent charm. Much hilarity ensued.






This was followed by a reception at the Consulate General in Atlanta, at which the gin and conversation flowed in equal measure. I think the foundations for near-disaster were laid at this point, really. I didn't eat as much as I really should have, and, well, as generations of Englishmen in India before me discovered, gin and tonic goes down really, really well when it's swelteringly hot outside.

You can probably guess what happened after we got back. I also seem to remember unloading a cartload of good-natured invective on Western country rep Shannon, who's in the middle of the photo right at the very top, and who was giggling away the whole time, being already three sheets to the wind by this point. I remember we went to a couple of bars after this, but my recollections lack detail for some reason. I do know that shots were done at one point, and I also recall walking past a shop called John's Firearms, which I'm fairly sure is the first gun shop I've ever seen in the States.

Yes, for paradise the southland is my nominee
Jes' give me a hamhock and a grit of hominy.
I wanna go back to Dixie, be a real ol' Dixie pixie
And eat corn pone til it's comin' outta my ears - Tom Lehrer

Anyway, feeling a little delicate the following morning, we had a talk from a rep from the Atlanta returned Peace Corps volunteer group (just like JET only you don't get paid). Much of the rest can be safely skipped over til the evening session, which featured some good ol' southern cooking at a semi-legendary place in Atlanta by the name of Mary Mac's. Everyone in Atlanta knows this place, apparently, and no doubt, the food was great. Chicken and dumplin's, fried okra, fried green tomatoes, corn bread, roast turkey, candied yams, meat loaf, gravy, all the fixin's. It was wonderfully tasty (though incredibly heavy, especially on the carbs), not dissimilar to a Thanksgiving dinner, especially in the food coma it induced, which wasn't helped by the lack of sleep the previous night. Let the record also state that the lady delegates looked resplendent in their yukatas; a few of the guys were even wearing theirs, though I had left mine in England. There then followed a salsa lesson at a club back in the bar district; a distinctly ill-advised choice, considering the quantities of carbs sloshing around in our stomachs. I trod on quite a few toes - literally, not metaphorically, but I think I managed to make at least a start. As those of you who have seen me try to dance know, I am not a natural.

That was more or less it for the conference itself, really - all that remained was to have the Eastern conference the following day, at a very swanky Japanese restaurant out in the middle of a load of pawn shops, gentleman's clubs and porn shops. Not too surprised at this, really - I've always felt that parts of the South had a somewhat schizophrenic attitude to sex. On the one hand, naturally, there's the Bible belt influence and all it stands for...on the other, there's the old Southern Colonel asking his guest "Well, sir, shall we have a mint julep, or shall we retire to the hoahhouse?" If you know what I mean.

Anyway, it only remained for me to come back to New York, and in doing so I fulfilled a minor long-held aspiration of mine, namely to fly in something other than economy class for once in my life. American Airlines offered me an upgrade for the princely sum of $90, and not only did I take it, I charged it to JETAA, too. Happy Days. OK, it's not First Class on BA, but at least I got some legroom for once.

In Remembrance of Things Past; or, The Third Degree

I'm back safely in the US again now and back once again on the grindstone as I prepare for the coming term, which will see me start teaching and the evaporation of Columbia's reputation as an elite institution which will undoubtedly result.

While back in the UK, of course, I attended my MA ceremony, becoming a full-fledged member of the University of Oxford with full rights to vote in all matters of consequence and (I think) dining rights at Wadham, should I take leave of my senses for long enough to want to eat their food voluntarily. I've already explained elsewhere about the slightly bogus nature of this qualification, but the main point, really, was to allow my Mum to attend a graduation ceremony for the elder of her two sons, since she was not able to come to Columbia this May for my actual MA (the one I actually, you know, earned) and I took my BA in absentia while in Japan. Naturally, she took the opportunity to dress up to the nines. I can't remember when was the last time I was the centre of such undivided family attention.

I hadn't been back at Wadham in close to five years, so far as I can recall, and this September it will be ten years since I first went up to begin my studies. Which probably goes a long way towards explaining why, on wandering around the old college again, all the memories I have of the place seem like they happened a lifetime ago. So much has happened, so much changed since I was last there, that it's almost hard to believe that everything I can recall did even really happen to me. I took a stroll through the bar for old times' sake; funnily enough, almost all of the sporting trophies and photos hanging on the wall dated from my time, though obviously none of them featured me personally, given my (at times) spectacular ineptitude at most sports. All people I know - including you, Pocket, naturally. I did take a couple of shots of the bar, but I have temporarily mislaid the cable to connect my laptop to my camera...

The ceremony itself is vastly different to that at Columbia, so much so that I don't think you can even really compare the two. The robes are different, too - none of the tacky polyester crap that so devalues the Columbia MA. As you can see with Mum helping me on the left, I began wearing the BA gown and good - the white faux fur trim (oddly appropriate, for a fake degree) with a long gown, mortarboard, and everything. Under the gown one must wear a dark suit, white bow tie and dark shoes - no exceptions. Nobody was wearing shorts and t-shirt under their robes as some of the Columbia crew had been - a rather sniffy note in the bumf they send out beforehand stresses this, saying that it would be "embarrassing if candidates should be denied admission on account of their dress".

It's tradition, I think, for the college to provide lunch for everyone who's graduating, and so we dined in Hall. If you've never been to Wadham hall, think Harry Potter - it's not far off, though with considerably less magic and certainly fewer ghosts. For most people, anyway. And in true Wadham style, the food was dire. Really, really bad; certainly not worth the ￡13 or so per head they had the effrontery to charge, though I suspect that much of the budget went on the copious quantities of wine served with the meal. Anyway, let me tell you about the ceremony itself in the Sheldonian Theatre.


Graduands are presented in groups to the Vice-Chancellor according to our college by the Dean of Degrees for each institution. The ceremony, as befits that of an 800-year-old institution, is conducted mostly in Latin, and, as the Vice-Chancellor noted in his opening remarks (which I think most of the audience struggled to hear, since the acoustics in the Sheldonian are lousy, and there was no PA system to relay his voice), considerably more sombre than that of many other institutions. Dead right, though the problem was that all the pomp and circumstance, regimentation and deadly seriousness ended up coming perilously close to having the opposite effect; I think more than a few of the audience had some trouble suppressing giggles. Especially as the recipient of the degree is supposed to bow and give his or her oath in response to certain of the Vice-Chancellor's words, as well as walk the right way at the right time. This, obviously, has the potential to go somewhat awry, as the University sees no real need to tell anyone what they need to do more than an hour or two in advance. As you can see, the Sheldonian doesn't come close in size or scale to the Columbia campus as a venue, but it's very attractive in its own way.

So here's me being presented to the Vice-Chancellor, who's in the process of doffing his cap in recognition of my (ahem) achievements. I'm the one without the beard, incidentally, and yes, the Dean of Degrees is holding my hand. That's how we roll in England, my friend. I'm the only one there because, sadly enough, I was the only one there being awarded the MA that weekend. John and Debbie Huddlestone, good friends of mine seven years ago but with whom I have since lost touch, were taking their degrees in absentia, I learned from the program; but since they therefore weren't actually there, I didn't know anyone at Wadham apart from the porters, they who seem to exist in perpetuity in the Lodge.

Next, in groups of four, candidates are re-presented to kneel before the Vice-Chancellor and give their oath (by saying the Latin words do fidem) that they will comport themselves properly, not bring disgrace on the University, and act with propriety in matters concerning the election of University officials. The deal is sealed, as it were, by the VC touching each participant on the head with a New Testament as he or she kneels and invoking the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost (in Latin, as always). As this suggests, the ceremony is avowedly religious in nature; arrangements can, in these enlightened times, now be made for those of all faiths and none, or those to whom the invocation of the Man Upstairs, his kid and his insubstantial friend the Holy Ghost is somehow distasteful.

That concludes the first part of the ceremony, at least. You then go and change from the BA robe to the MA one - the idea, you see, is that you go from the vestments of the degree you have to the ones of the degree you are being awarded. Which means that, say, undergrads taking their BA wear the basic outfit - a short gown - until they are awarded their degree.

Once changed, we then are led in again, returning to the applause of the audience and assembled members of the University. Appearing once again before the VC, we then walk off to the left, and thus are inducted into the degree of Master of Arts (or Magister Artibus, as I think it's Latinised. MBA, a relatively recent innovation, is still Latinised as something like Magister Administratio Negotii or similar. One wonders quite how ridiculous the whole thing has to get before it's changed).



And then it's all over; you're outside the Sheldonian, looking for your family and standing on your own, looking vaguely ridiculous and holding a mortar board and souvenir brochure. Standing there reflecting on how much things have changed since your college days, how young all the undergraduates looked, and how you really can never go back.




We drove straight back to Cambridge afterwards, pausing on the way for fish and chips, which we ate in the car because it was raining. Between that and the graduation ceremony, it's hard to think of a day more quintessentially - nay, eccentrically - British.

Back now, though, and I won't be doing any more Pond-Hopping at least til Christmas, I would hope. I do have to get in a plane again very soon though, as I'm off to Atlanta next weekend for the JETAA national conference. Kate and I took the opportunity to get out of the city on Saturday to go to Long Beach (on Long Island, not in California), along with something like 10,000 other people. A beautiful hazy day on the Long Island coast to remind me I'm back again, I suppose.