The Nature of Travel and Homesickness

Yeah, yeah, all right, so I’ve officially hit summer mode. I’ll admit this blog entry has been difficult, if not painful, to write. I was inconsolably sad to leave Bath, the most idyllic city in England, but once I got back to the States I was struck by how unexpectedly normal it felt to be back. Surprisingly, I’ve quickly fallen back into my regular (procrastinating) habits. After a semester abroad, I thought that returning to Virginia would feel markedly different and peculiar. Yet it didn’t. As I walked through Norfolk Airport, it oddly felt as if no time had passed at all and my memory of leaving four months prior seemed shockingly clear in my mind as if it had occurred only days earlier. But instead, Bath has switched places, now it’s become the distant memory. The whole semester feels like a fabulous hallucination and occasionally I browse through my pictures to remind myself that it actually did happen. Returning home felt weird and wonderful all at once. The second I saw my parents, and later some of my friends, I realized how much I had really missed them. And during the final week in Bath I did mentally prepare myself for going home, so if that Icelandic ash cloud had fired up I would have gotten pretty angry. Inevitably linked, travel and homesickness stretch emotions ceaselessly back and forth. Part of me wanted to go home and part of me never wanted to leave.


Over the course of the semester though homesickness thankfully never hit me too hard. Some people missed their homes dreadfully, others snapped in and out of crying spells while other students coldheartedly showed no emotion. One girl pined for her home so badly that she returned there for Spring Break. I, however, fell into the third category. Alarmingly so. But it’s not that I don’t have any feeling at all- I’m not sociopathic or anything- it’s more that I thought frequently and fondly of the people I care for back home rather than outwardly missing them. Sure, I’d have my weaker moments, like after a bad day or an altercation with my roommate, but I guess maybe I’m just not one for gooey emotional messes. And, as beautiful as I think Virginia is, I never, not once, found myself longing for geographical place. In fact, if everybody I loved suddenly moved to Bath, I think I could stay there forever. I really miss little details like the refreshing absence of humidity and the posh accents. I resolutely maintain that anything sounds better spoken with a British accent. And a nice cup of tea. This sounds a bit confusing, even in my head, but even though Richmond’s my home I don’t mind abandoning it. Perhaps it’s just a symptom of my age and my trip to Bath fulfilled the fun, fantasy version of independence (basically college autonomy on steroids). By this time next year I’ll graduate and fly the metaphorical coop and then pretty soon I suppose I will dissolve into a gooey emotional mess over staggering rent payments and crummy entry-level jobs.


Study abroad has presented me with probably my only opportunity to live in a foreign country completely unfettered from financial restraints. With my housing taken care of and no immediate need to work, I got to live like I’ll never get to live again. Freely. Thanks to my semester abroad, wanderlust has me in its idealistic vice grips. There are SOOOOOOOOOOOOO many places I want to see, and I hope I can manage to get to even just a third of them before I’m old and crotchety. Although, since returning home, I do have to confess the prospect of not living out of a suitcase for a little while feels kind of relaxing. Travel is amazing because it presents you with culture shock lite since trips are often abbreviated- a few days or a few weeks at the most- and full of novelty. You see the strange, the bizarre and the unusual, or at least what you consider the strange, the bizarre and the unusual in a condensed time span. Travel gives you sparkle and frills of culture. It’s exciting. The beauty of study abroad is that it affords plenty of opportunity for frequent travel but tempers its more superficial aspects, by providing an extended living space. Study abroad teaches you that staying put in one foreign locale has an equal, if not exceeding, importance. While travel provides flashy and fun exposure, staying put is the valuable lesson overall. So it makes sense now why the ASE staff warned us during orientation week to travel, but not too often. Time spent in Bath offered us irreplaceable insight into British culture beyond that of a transient tourist.



Travel suggests wonderful meals, hours of shopping, plenty of sightseeing and other leisurely pursuits. But I learned more on the weekends in Bath running errands and finishing chores. Sure, figuring out how to operate a European washing machine and scouring the city for the nearest grocery store seems comparatively less glamorous than watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle at night- but the little things- even just an afternoon walk through my neighborhood imparts a more significant lesson. The monotony of life is how you learn a culture, and those chores and errands are more illuminating than three blissful days of sightseeing on a long weekend. You fall into the rhythm of life there instead of jutting out like a sore thumb. Making yourself at home somewhere teaches you about the place you call ‘home’, whether permanently or temporarily. I remember the first time I recognized someone on the street, and over the course of the semester it happened several times- sometimes with people that only I recognized from the pub or the grocery store and sometimes with people who recognized me back. Although the latter is more gratifying, nothing makes you feel more at home than running into a familiar face. All in all, this semester has been a long one and this semester has been a short one. There are things I’m glad I did, things I wish I did, things I like about England, things I dislike about England, but after this semester abroad I truly feel that I can call Bath ‘home’.

Top Ten Countdown: Bath

Ok, so originally I planned to keep this entry short and simple and write a top five list. Then I took inventory of all the things I love in Bath and I promptly realized that was impossible. So I’ve expanded a bit. I decided to write this list:

A. Because I’m a slightly compulsive list maker
B. As an exercise to see what I’ll miss most about Bath
C. And to provide useful information about Bath

See what I did there with that meta-list? Anyway, here goes:





10. Bath Abbey Cemetery- This is a lesser advertised site located in Widcombe on Prior Park Road. I discovered it by happy accident while concluding a segment of the Skyline walk, a six-mile hike that loops around the outskirts of the city and has great city views. Entry to the cemetery is basically unmonitored and I’ve never actually seen anyone there, which is part of its appeal. Unlike lots of barren modern cemeteries, Bath Abbey is overrun with wildflowers and tall grass, springing up from the bellies of grave plots. Many of the old tombstones toppled over are either too faded to read or almost entirely obscured by ivy. Situated on a sloping hill covered with trees, it feels more like a ramshackle garden than a cemetery and it’s an excellent place to take a few photographs and/or enjoy a little peace and quiet.
9. Minerva- I believe there are two stores in Bath, but I’m referring to the one adjacent to the Abbey. They sell creatively flavored chocolates, however the real draw is the hot chocolate. They offer milk or dark chocolate (I highly recommend the latter) with optional whipped cream. One cup costs 3 pounds, but it’s wonderfully thick and velvety and borders on disturbingly rich. Drink it slowly and sit by the window, because the location has a perfect view of the Abbey and the Baths, and on a busy day it’s excellent for spying on the eclectic swarm of tourists, street performers and locals.





8. Roman Baths- If you’re in Bath, going to the Roman Baths is kind of a gimme. Despite the somewhat steep admittance price—11.50?!-- the visit is worth it, and you can feel slightly more economical about forking over your money by buying a joint ticket to the Fashion Museum for 15 pounds. The tour is self-guided and you can meander around the baths at your own pace. Walking around the historical site provides an engaging insight into the city’s past. And the baths wind around longer than you think; there’s every type of ancient luxury imaginable. For those who want to indulge in the Roman style, Bath offers the modern Thermae Bath Spa, unfortunately my measly student budget couldn’t quite hack it. Predictably, it gets a bit cramped on weekends and I found my weekday visit much more gratifying. Additionally, you can exit through the Pump Room and take refreshment with a glass of complementary bath water (not filtered through the traditional lead pipes, thankfully). It’s worth at least a sip for novelty’s sake, and I drank my entire glass out of principle, but it essentially tastes like steaming hot well water. And it smells like it too.
7. Bath Farmers’ Market- Open each Saturday morning, the market is located in the Green Park Station next door to the big Sainsbury’s. It’s the Mecca of farmer’s markets. Offering everything from fresh produce, homemade cheeses, locally made preserves, a wide supply of meat, a large selection of teas, diverse baked goods (think: chocolate gingerbread and marmalade cookies), incense, used books, movies & CDs, vintage clothing and antiques, it bustles rowdily until early afternoon when all the vendors disappear and leave the huge structure so startlingly empty for the rest of the week that you’d hardly suspect such a circus assembled on weekends. Some vendors are reasonably priced while others seem a little questionable, but most stalls deliver in terms of quality. And it confirms that that America still doesn’t totally know how to do farmers’ markets right.





6. Opium- Apparently I have mature tastes for my age. I saw several ads for this bar around town and was instantly attracted to its retro vibe. So one weekend two friends and I checked it out and discovered that Opium caters mostly to a posh middle-aged crowd (read: we were the youngest people there and even the doorman was baffled by our appearance). We might have left if Opium had not been the COOLEST bar in existence. Ok, granted I just turned 21, so I haven’t really frequented that many bars, but I can assure you that you would regret not visiting Opium if you’re in Bath. Located underground, the inconspicuous entrance contrasts the marvelously posh interior. A watering hole for lushes and dandies, Opium has three jewel-toned rooms filled with opulent velvet and leather chairs, reclining sofas with heaps of pillows, baroque ceiling murals, walls heavily adorned with art and scatterings of poppies. Each room has a theme, and I believe I lounged in Decadence. Or was it Hedonism? It’s not a very large venue so it does get slightly cramped, but stylishly so. A taxidermied boar’s head wearing a top hat guards the bar, a jewelry case filled to the brim with vintage baubles and dirty playing cards. They have an equally eclectic drink menu: one friend ordered absinthe and the other a watermelon martini while I chose the Rose Petal Lychee cocktail: flirtatiously pink and decorated appropriately with soft pink rose petals, blueberries and a black straw. Swanky truly is the only word to describe this place. So, even if you’re not 35+, Opium makes it easy to embrace your inner mid-life crisis. Hey, I’ll get there someday… Sadly




5. Sally Lunn’s Buns- A visit to Sally Lunn’s is compulsory if you’re in Bath. After I finally tried it, I couldn’t believe I waited so late in the semester to go. Not only is the food delicious, but the building dates back to 1482 and is the oldest in Bath. On both occasions I sat upstairs in the Jane Austen room, cozily decorated in yellow and scarlet and embellished with antiques. They have a full menu, but I’ve never bothered, all you really need is the world famous Lunn Bun. You can order one individually or with a cream tea and they are served to suit every taste: cinnamon sugar, jam, marmalade and so forth. My personal favorite is the Queen Victoria cream tea: half a Lunn Bun served with butter, clotted cream and lemon curd. Half a bun might sound like a gyp, but they really are huge—one half was as big as my friend’s head—and very filling. Positively food coma inducing, Sally Lunn’s is my idea of a satisfying end to a splendid afternoon, although it’s open all day for breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner.
4. Not Cartier’s- Tucked inside the Guildhall market, the wittily titled Not Cartier’s is a tiny little cage of a room that sparkles from top to bottom with relatively affordably priced costume and vintage jewelry. The owner, a nice albeit vaguely batty old lady, sells every glitzy, girly piece imaginable from princess-y tiaras to flamboyant fascinators and offers a range in quality from a 50p rack to nicer antique pieces carefully and temptingly locked away in display cabinets. There’s something for every taste. You can pretty much scour the place for hours and still not notice every glittering piece. Quite a bit of my extra food allowance has mysteriously disappeared here…





3. Royal Victoria Park- You can’t go to Bath and not take a leisurely stroll through Royal Victoria Park. Now that the flowers are in full bloom, the park is alive with everyone from overly affectionate couples to families enjoying barbeques out on the lawn to the ubiquitous tourists to several overlapping football matches. The park is a certifiable people-watching bonanza. Furthermore, it encompasses the Royal Crescent, which makes for majestic picnic scenery, but the park also hides away a miniature golf course, a small stage, a teahouse, an obelisk statue and a modestly beautiful botanical garden. Springtime might be England’s most enchanting season since the weather is so temperate, which means the flowers last much longer. On a sunny day in Bath, Royal Victoria Park is the place to be.
2. Premier Curry- Best Indian in Bath, bar none. Intoxicatingly spicy and flavorful, I haven’t had a bad meal yet. My favorite dish was the amazingly tender lamb saag or perhaps the dhaka mughal, which is essentially a banana curry with prawns. That might sound odd, but it was spectacular. If I didn’t have any self-control I might have been tempted to lick the plate clean. The servers are friendly and polite and give seconds and thirds of complementary after-dinner chocolates. Also, Premier Curry has some of the most affordable prices of all the restaurants I’ve tried and they offer a generous 15% discount on takeaway orders.





1. Bath Abbey Tower Tour- Bath Abbey is probably the quintessential symbol of Bath, and visitors can enter for free. However, the Abbey offers a Tower tour on the hour that costs five pounds. Two guides direct the tours up a long ascent in a cramped spiral staircase and give a demonstration of the Abbey’s bell system before journeying for a brief visit to the roof of the Abbey. All of the admission price and steep hike is worth it. Standing on the top of the Abbey gives you a dizzying panoramic view of Bath even on the cloudiest day and makes for some excellent snapshots. The height offers a magnificent perspective of what I have decided is England’s prettiest city. And on the way down, your guides even give you a goofy trophy bookmark to congratulate you on your successful climb up and down 212 stairs.

Honorable Mentions: Hard as it was slimming down my list, I felt amiss not mentioning these places:

Bath Tub Bistro- An aptly titled restaurant with a simple, but wonderful menu. I had the crispy pork belly with red cabbage, bacon, black pudding and cider sauce. Surprisingly, black pudding is quite delicious. If you didn’t know, you’d never suspect it had blood in it and it has an appealingly mellow, earthy flavor and a firm but crumbly texture.
The Corridor- A hidden labyrinth of shopping that features a five pound pashmina shop, the ever popular Ben’s Cookies chain and a Yumi store, full of gorgeously overpriced clothing.
The Hobgoblin- Kookily decorated pub frequented by a goth crowd who seem to have forgotten that Halloween is only one day a year. But the plastic rats and orange streamers give the place a goofy charm, and they serve Bee Sting cider, which is some of the best cider I’ve had thus far. Although I probably enjoyed it because it tasted more like fizzy pear juice than alcohol.

I’m just going to say it now: I’m going to miss Bath terribly. Even though it’s only been four months, I’ve quickly felt at home here and could very easily stay much, much longer. I AM excited to see my family, but here’s to hoping that ash-cloud flares up and delays my flight just a week

Paris, Je t'aime!

Never mind the dissenters, Paris is the most consistently beautiful city I’ve ever visited. Back around the second weekend in April I managed to swing a weekend trip with three friends. Several people on the program made Paris pit stops, but not all of the reactions were glowing. I’ve heard complaints that Paris seems blandly indistinguishable from any other European city and the people are universally snobbish. These generalizations are downright untrue. Throughout the entire weekend I never once found myself questioning where I was, unlike other European cities (ahem, Hamburg), I was in Paris. All of the architecture is immaculate: a palette of creamy neutrals decorated in an ornate—but tasteful, this is Paris-- fashion. Paris looks like a giant wedding cake, elaborate and romantic. The concept of living in Paris seems like a whimsical daydream, because I’m honestly not sure if I could take it; I think I’d hit an aesthetic overload it’s so pretty. Despite its beauty, Paris does in fact have some relatively unfriendly people, and we had two particularly nasty Parisian encounters. But for every Parisian who lives up to the stereotype, there’s another who breaks it. Besides, mean people live everywhere, not just Paris. Plus, in a city like this, maybe they have a right to be a little snotty, because Parisians really know how to live.






Our trip to Paris fortuitously coincided with Adrienne’s twenty-first birthday. Back in the States a twenty-first is a raucous rite of passage that’s usually a bit more associated to keg stands and massive hangovers than refined culture and class. However, there’s an added anticlimactic difficulty of celebrating a twenty-first birthday in a country with a lower legal drinking age. Yet, regardless of disparities in drinking laws, ASE students have celebrated a number of twenty-first birthdays in the customary blow out American-style. According to one British student, eighteenth birthdays aren’t observed in the same fashion as American bacchanals. This is not to say, however, that the British don’t drink that much. To the contrary, British people appear to drink rather copiously. Pub crawls and pub golf are frequent practices, and it’s hardly unusual to see people drinking at pubs in the middle of the day. Now that the weather’s gotten milder, the pub down the street from my house regularly hosts a slew of young men who hang outside and drink away a good portion of the afternoon. England allows open containers in public, which further encourages the social aspect of drinking. Recently, I went out to dinner with several British students. We arrived at a pub for drinks before dinner, had a couple bottles of wine at dinner, and then followed that with an after-dinner trip to another pub and finished with some clubbing. Don’t be fooled by that stodgy stereotype, the British might start younger, but they doesn’t necessarily mean they drink any more maturely than Americans. They’re just less tense about it here.

But, anyway, back to Paris.

Adrienne specifically insisted that she wasn’t interested in getting completely hammered on her birthday. Instead, she wanted to enjoy Paris and soak up its sophisticated atmosphere. Not a typical hallmark of the American twenty-first. But a weekend in Paris with temperatures in the high 60s and plenty of sunshine hardly is the usual twenty-first birthday locale. In an attempt to cut costs we spent an uncomfortable night at London Luton airport rather than booking a hostel since our flight departed at six a.m. anyway. We arrived the day before Adrienne’s birthday and ignored our throbbing exhaustion in favor of exploring the Latin quarter, where we accidentally discovered a street market overflowing with sweets, fresh and dried fruit, homemade honey and jams, a dazzling rainbow of scented soaps, jewelry, clothing, you name it. Eventually we worked our way over to Notre Dame where we sat in awe of the jeweled stained-glass splendor and towering size for a good hour mostly because we were stunned, but also kind of sleepy. After that, we cut through the pristinely manicured Jardin du Luxembourg; envying stylish Parisians casually slouched in lawn chairs and savoring ice cream cones (I have to say that Banana and Rum-Raisin is an exceptional combination) before collapsing for a good twelve-hour night’s sleep.







We started the next day off right with pastries and coffee from a nearby patisserie. My lemon tart was sublimely delicious and so was the help. In fact, the counter boy was so extraordinarily attractive that we returned the next morning to flirt with, excuse me, I mean see, him again. Sadly, he was not there, but the pastries did not disappoint*. Then we trekked over to the Eiffel Tower, and being the cheapskate students that we are, opted to walk to the second platform rather pay double the price for the elevator. I’ll admit it, hiking up the Eiffel tower was quite dizzying, still climbing up the thousands of stairs imparts this incredible cocooning sensation of scaling the tower that an easy elevator ride lacks. Plus, all along the way we paused and took note of our growing distance. Unfortunately, the very top of the tower was temporarily closed for repairs, but the views from the second platform were astounding—you can actually see the whole city from each angle. Once safely back on solid ground we recharged with some Nutella, banana and whipped cream crepes and sat by the Seine as boats ambled through the water, couples kissed affectionately and tourists snapped endless photos. All of Paris looks and feels like a post card.







Keeping with that picture perfect image, we headed to the Champs-Élysées, where the theatrically styled shop windows mimic the glossy pages of Vogue. My wallet wept woefully as I gawked at inexplicably high priced clothing. Really the worst part about Paris is the painful expensiveness. Everything is wonderful, and it costs an according fortune. Luckily, we stumbled upon Ladurée, which I could kind of (just barely) afford. Laudrée is universally renowned for its immaculately styled desserts. Their pastries resemble the mad fairy tale fantasies of wannabe princesses, and their pristine perfection makes them almost too pretty to eat. Almost. Recently they catered all the desserts for Sofia Coppola’s visually sumptuous Marie Antoinette, whose centerpiece was a jaw-dropping montage of shopping and sweets set to Bow Wow Wow’s "I Want Candy". If you haven’t seen that segment, you should, it’s an aesthetic revelation, mostly thanks to Ladurée. But Ladurée is perhaps best known for their macarons. They look simple, but they feature a variety of flashy flavors. Adrienne, for instance, selected rose petal while I opted for blackcurrant-violet. The macarons are worth every euro and they balance a delightful airy crunch with intensely flavored filling.







After a birthday macaron feast, we eventually reached the Arc de Triomphe. Colossal in scale, the Arc towers on its roundabout island as traffic perilously whips around at breakneck speeds. Consequently, to access the Arc you have to walk through an underground passageway. Also, curiously enough, sightseers can walk on top of the Arc. Daunted by the chaotically long line, we took a few photos and decided to head back and take a nap before dinner instead. In honor of Adrienne’s birthday we ate outside of a French café. I ordered the most elaborate salad I’ve ever seen—skewers of marinated chicken propped up in baked tortilla shell filled with lusciously tender greens, green beans, tomatoes, carrots and lightly doused with a vinaigrette & an unidentifiable fuchsia garnish-- while the birthday girl enjoyed salmon and a single glass of white wine. At that moment we hadn’t yet noticed the severe farmer’s tans developing from two days of merciless sun exposure. Living in England makes you forget about those things… With our final day reserved for the Louvre, we went on a nighttime stroll past the Eiffel Tower for an elegant conclusion to a sophisticated birthday, and smiled in surprise as the tower glittered wildly on the hour, dazzling the whole city and searing an ideal image into our memories. You stay classy, Paris.





*Whoever invented the Religieuse is a freaking genius. Essentially, it’s a double-stacked cream puff normally filled with either coffee or chocolate flavored cream.

Brain Crush

V. Woolf’s my home girl. No, seriously, I am completely and intellectually infatuated with Virginia Woolf thanks to the course I’ve taken on her this semester. I love her so much that I’m writing this blog entry out of sync. I’d previously planned an entry about my weekend trip to Paris. Paris can wait, but V. Woolf can’t. However, my affection didn’t start out quite as rosy. Actually, I had planned on taking a creative writing class and felt slightly perturbed that I was, as far as I could tell, arbitrarily placed in some course about Virginia Woolf. Before this semester I’d never read anything by Woolf and hadn’t really intended to ever look into any of her works. Don’t get me wrong; I didn’t have anything against her. Rather I felt overwhelmingly and apathetically unaware since at that point I had only a vague and shaky sense of her literary career and infamous suicide. Once the semester got underway I can safely say that all of my initial ill-informed biases quickly changed.



It probably didn’t hurt that my V. Woolf class is my smallest, clocking in at eight people, and that’s including my tutor and myself. At first the size intimidated the other students and me because with a class that small there’s essentially no leeway for slacking. You do your reading all the time. Or ELSE. Avoiding eye contact and bullshitting don’t really work in tiny classes. (Not that I intentionally avoid reading, but in the event of paper week pile-up or a weekend trip to Paris reading inevitably becomes second priority when you’ve got four essays to churn out or a plane to catch.) But we swiftly surpassed our preliminary trepidation and learned to embrace the intimacy a small class affords. Plus, my tutor, Claire, who is most definitely one of the nicest and most understanding teachers I’ve ever encountered, considerately structured the class to minimize paper week stress and to introduce us the style of Woolf’s writing in the most efficient and rewarding way possible through a perfect synthesis of biographical lecture, group work and class discussion. But anyway, back to Woolf. Her writing isn’t really something you can automatically jump straight into and reasonably expect to understand or appreciate. Woolf has a radical and idiosyncratic rhythm that can seem alternatively mind-bogglingly enlightening or infuriatingly abstract. She’s a writer worth sticking out the difficulties for because the eventual reward feels immensely gratifying. So, while I enjoyed Jacob’s Room, I don’t think I quite hit my stride until about halfway through A Room of One’s Own.



I started writing this entry droning on about all the facts I learned about Virginia Woolf and her writing style and I had a good three paragraphs before I stopped and realized two things: first, I remembered I’m writing a travel/culture blog and not an analytical paper; second, and most importantly, endless —read: pointless— facts violate the very core of Woolf’s essential purpose and style. One of the key things we learned about Woolf was her disdain for ceaselessly layering on details under the guise of realism. She sharply criticized such traditional conceptions of realism because she insisted that the external, material facts and physicalities of a person can’t adequately convey the depth and richness of inner reality. Consequently, Woolf intended through her writing to break down the self-imposed walls of Edwardian literature to strip away and expose the previously abandoned psychological self. She stood for and embraced innovation and modernity as a means to re-work character and form. Or, as she prophetically urged in her own words, for the “smashing and crashing” to begin*. And she succeeds in her novels, to varying degrees, all of which are lyrically and immaculately written experiments ranging from the abstract to the even more abstract-- from a musically composed ‘playpoem’ (The Waves) to an irreverent romp of a mock biography (Orlando). Woolf admitted that she couldn’t offer any clear and easy solution to the problem of accurately expressing reality and the essence of a person, but her attempts are groundbreaking exercises that undoubtedly expand and elevate writing and thinking.



One thing that surprised me most was her exceptionally timed and subtly honed wit. Sure, the underlying message in some, but not all, of her works appears dishearteningly bleak, yet instances of her lively, marvelous mind are indisputably present. It seems the unfortunate fact of her suicide has her painted, at least in my previously ignorant mind, as a dreary figure of literary significance. She’s no Debbie Downer. Actually, Woolf is frequently and cunningly funny. Yeah, she had patchy mental health, but that wasn’t necessarily all or even the lynchpin of her personality. Hence my retrospective hesitation in summing her up in three paragraphs. Additionally, Woolf has many more complex and intriguing ideas I haven’t even addressed, specifically on the topics of feminism and androgyny, I might add. Ultimately, though, reading her own words provides a more fruitful expression of Woolf than any unjust summary I could try to offer. These may not be solid, satisfying facts to wrap your hands about or sink your teeth into, but they’re why I love Virginia Woolf.



As a part of ASE, my class had a study trip where we journeyed around Sussex to see Charleston Farmhouse (her sister Vanessa’s home), Berwick church (a church painted by Vanessa and Duncan Grant), Monk’s House (Virginia’s home and grave site) and the River Ouse (on a slightly morbid note…). Not every class has an accompanying study trip, but lucky me had one for each of my classes—that’s what four lit courses gets you. Each of the previous study trips had proved to be educational and enjoyable outings, but none of them measure up to the Woolf study trip. I adored every single minute and infinitesimal aspect of the trip, although Charleston Farmhouse remains my absolute favorite. By my favorite, I’m not just talking in terms of the study trip; it’s assuredly my favorite thing I’ve seen on the entire program and quite possibly one of the most phenomenal places I’ve ever been. Charleston may appear like a regular old country house, but the detail and the history behind it astounds me. Many museums feel icily removed with stark, detached displays and impersonal exhibits, but Charleston thankfully evades a clinical atmosphere. Instead, it is alive in the fullest sense of the word. A real sense of life, a life that breathes art, inhaling and exhaling a constant stream of beauty long after the owners departed and the preservationists arrived. A round dinner table selected for egalitarian purposes to ensure no one person dominated the room; lively patterned walls, hand painted by Vanessa and full of affectionately slapdash patterning errors and accidental paint drips; a lavishly decorated door whose missing panel took forty years to replace after a war reenactment by Vanessa’s sons. Charleston feels so refreshingly animated that you half-expect to turn around and see V.Woolf sitting in an armchair talking, reading or perhaps writing. Gloriously tactile and begging to be touched, personally designed textiles, paintings and ceramics sumptuously adorn every last surface of the house, remnants of the artistic and intellectual lives that resided there permanently, and others that transiently moved in and out. A loveable bohemian cacophony full of headspinningly interconnected relationships and associations, Charleston embodies an inviting blend of creative domesticity. Visiting Charleston, and the other locations, provided an eerie context to imagine and forge the fragments of Woolf’s doubtlessly complex and nuanced life.

Side Note: Here's a link to the only surviving recording of Virginia Woolf's voice. She has, according to Claire, the "plummiest" accent. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8czs8v6PuI

*From Woolf's essay, "Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown"
** Sadly I have no pictures of the interior of Charleston since photography is prohibited. I picked up a few postcards with interior shots, but I won't have access to a scanner until I get back to the States...