Just another weekend

From [stx-students] Social events:

* STX Football : THE Final
* Jousting tournament at Blenheim Palace[!!!]
* St. John’s Volcano bop
* Work for the Sommerville-Jesus Ball
* St. Catz Hippie bop

I know there’s the Oxford Dictionary and the O.E.D. and all, but sometimes, I’m pretty sure Oxford is a) on another planet, thus unable to comment fully on life outside and b) speaking another language.

Ave atque vale

Most visitors to Pompeii will have met the old kids on the block, those packs of dogs that sniffle for scraps and who scrape up and down the crumbling walls. In a surprising move, the forces that be have marshaled the piteous fate of the dogs (and of the ruins) into a service for good: (C)ave canem!

Yes. It is a Latin pun. I love it so.

So basically they spruce up the dog, you sign a waiver, presumably give them denarii of some kind, and trundle on home with Jove or Europa or whichever mythological beast takes your fancy. (Why this is lacking a Cerberus is beyond me). Definitely better than another pair of David boxers or rancid olive oil, but, seriously, some of us live out of boxes, and those faces are heartbreaking, and so perhaps there could be a ‘pane et circus’ option for those of us who are sappy grad students, and who lack emotional restraint when it comes to fur.

Alternatively they could have Adopt This Priceless Treasure of Antiquity, which could pretty much cover anything in Pompeii and the surrounding five hundred miles of countryside, in which you get a trading card of your Fresco With Graffiti or Collectible Brickwork, but, you know, the dogs are pretty awesome.

Belated ciao

Oops so Iàm in Rome. In the haste of last minute papers and citations and the hell that was Gatwick airport, that was forgotten. Rome is rain-slicked but warm, and honestly, late night walks in the rain after parfait alle mandorle amare are nothing to scoff at. Now composed of 36% flaky pastry by volume. Took 150 photographs of a cistern/latrine/hole in the ground made by the Romans which is really all the incentive I needed to wander through tunnels for half an hour.

Also have drunken at least two shots of espresso. oh Italy you are glorious.

You can’t drink it black.

In fact Turkey may be the only country that believes more fervently in the power of tea than Bryn Mawr. Forget tea parties. You drink tea in the morning, there’s tea at shops; dudes with peculiar platters on strings ensure tea delivery throughout the city and if all else fails, there’s coffee. Why people in Turkey bother sleeping is really beyond me. To make tea involves not quite a ritual but a lot of faith. First, dump tea into a small pot. And by dump tea I don’t mean “a teaspoon” or “for every four ounces of water, add…” This kind of tea has its own laundry-sized scoop and lives in a container without a lid. Sploosh some water inside. Not a lot. This is the espresso of the tea world, concentrated and black like coffee. The aforementioned pot lives on top of a another kettle, filled with a more substantial amount of water; the whole thing is set to boil while you prepare the saucers and strangely sinuous wee tea cups, made all of glass. Also a sugar pot. There is always a sugar pot. In fact I was not entirely sure the “sugar free” concept existed in Turkey until I saw a pack of Trident. Let’s just say Splenda is not likely to reach any export agreements any time soon….

At any rate now everything is set: the only decision is now how much you wish to dilute your caffeine overdose of the hour. First add the raw tea, then water to the desire of goodness required. Add sugar. Do it or suffer social ostracism. Sip. Ahhh.

But there’s really no escape. It’s either that or Nescafe, and yes, drink up. They’ll be sad and you’ll be all mopey and tired and stuff.

…unless you decide to drink Turk kahve instead, in which case you may well wake up in a tent on the far side of the Taurus mountains with some nomadic herdsmen because honestly, kapow. Forget tea leaves, those in the know should head straight for this stuff. To order it mention a little bit of sugar, a medium scoop, or a lot- having it plain is just so gauche. Also, vile. Turkish coffee comes in lesser doses than espresso and is so rich, so dark, so black; the grounds are silt against your tongue and by the end you’re mired in murk and bitter grounds.

There is a Starbucks in the airport. Lattes are around eight bucks, depending on the exchange rate. But really?