Kalamazoo (and Leeds) Update

These dancers are probably not medievalists.

Once again, I went to the big Medieval Congress at Kalamazoo in May, at which I went to the dance, but did not dance.  This year, though, I also went to the alternative, European Medieval Congress in Leeds, where I tried to go to the dance, but an hour and a half after its nominal start time, the music hadn't yet started.  Needless to say, I did not dance.

 Too bad, I guess, because I heard later that there were Daleks at the dance, which might have been worth seeing.  But I had to get up early the next morning to set out on my trip home, and (as it turned out) it was probably a good thing that I got a good night's sleep.  Because here's a brief run-down of my trip home from Leeds.

City bus from dorm to train station in time to get a coffee and a pain au chocolat before my 9:15 train.
Arrive at Kings Cross at 11:30.
London Underground to Paddington Station, where I purchased a ticket for the Heathrow Express.
Heathrow Express 12: 10 train.
Heathrow check-in and security cleared by a few minutes after 1:00.

At this point, I was delighted: I've spent literally hours before getting through Heathrow check-in and security, so I thought my time from King's Cross to the Heathrow lounge was really great.

Get on plane for 3:00 departure.
Plane takes off, and then about the time they were going to come around with drinks, the pilot announced that we needed to return to Heathrow: there was some sort of pneumatic leak.

When we landed, fire trucks came out and sprayed water on the brakes to cool them down.  At first they were trying to get the engineers to fix it so we could take off again, but that turned out to be impossible.  We sat on the plane until about 7:00 waiting while the airline staff arranged a hotel for us, and while they scrounged five buses to take all 250 passengers back to the terminal. 

Bus back to the airport, where we had to go through immigration again and pick up our luggage.

Air Canada did put us up in an airport hotel (another bus ride) and provided us with dinner and breakfast vouchers. I shared a dinner table with two other guys, one who was also going to Columbus and a college student from Toronto, who figured it was his chance to load up on free food.  He and I, I admit, each took three desserts, including little lemon parfaits in tiny shot-glass sized glasses--but the table spoons that were the only spoons available literally wouldn't fit into the glasses, and we couldn't eat them.  5:30 AM wake-up call, courtesy of the airline: I certainly didn't request it.

7:00 AM bus trip back to Heathrow; 9:30 departure time.  Same flight, actually, according to how airlines count these things, just delayed 18 hours and in a different physical plane.  But same seat, same neighbors, same flight crew.

Arrive in Toronto about noon, where I waited over an hour for my bag, which I needed to collect and take through customs before I could move on to the next flight.  Missed the flight, of course, because of the misplaced bag.

Flight to Washington National Airport, arrive about 6:00 PM.
Flight from Washington to Columbus, arrive about 8:30PM.  Unfortunately, during my phone call to Rosemary from Toronto I had mistakenly said "about 9:30," so that's when she picked me up.

Forty-one hours plus, I make that, from 9:15 AM GMT in Leeds to get on the train, to 9:30 PM Eastern time to leave the airport in Columbus.

Oh yeah: one of those days was Friday the 13th. Three buses, two trains, one subway train, four airplanes, four airports, three train stations, three countries.

It's good to be back home.

Another MLA Story

I think the very first blog I posted here was my story about "Shoe-Love" from the Modern Language Association (MLA) annual conference in Chicago a couple of years ago. This year, when I went to the MLA, I wasn't expecting to have any blog-worthy experiences, but that just goes to show what I know.

Anyway, the MLA is a typical (even stereotypical) literature conference, but one where I kind of like to go, because there's always a good crowd of Anglo-Saxonist regulars. I went, gave my paper, ran into a few folks from WVU, and ran into more folks who knew WVU folks, so it was also a reminder that the academic world is a small one. Had a long discussion about the importance and significance of books in Anglo-Saxon studies with an old friend: neither of us seemed too worried that we hadn't actually read the books we were debating about. Somehow, I'm not too happy about that, in retrospect.

Ran into an old graduate school friend, Stacy, who's always fun to see, and we set up a plan to go out to dinner after my paper (which was at a 7:15 session). Gave my paper (about a new interpretation of three runes, believe it or not), and got some positive responses to it. Anyway, after things wound down, Stacy and I and the chair of the panel ended up looking for a place to get a moderately priced late dinner, and we asked the concierge at the conference hotel to help us out.

After a few moments of mystic consultation with his computer, he told us he could just fit us in at a table for three at a seafood/Italian restaurant a few blocks away at 9:30 (25 minutes later). He printed out an online menu for us, he gave us some walking directions, and we left the hotel feeling lucky he had found us a place--since with thousands of academics milling around, many restaurants were filled up. But when we got to the restaurant, it was practically empty, and Stacy and Shari both expressed some uncertainty. But I said, "Hey, it's Monday evening, between Christmas and New Years--no big deal if it's not full. Let's try it."

So we went in, and the waiter asked if we were "three for dinner" and we said yeah, and he didn't seem to care if we had a reservation or not; we all thought the concierge had been kind of a jerk for implying that our table for three was like the last table available in the place. So anyway, we sat there, ordered some drinks, and the waiter ran through a whole list of specials, etc.

And while he was talking, I saw something moving around on the floor out of the corner of my eye. I looked closer, and sure enough it was a little grey mouse, scurrying around here and there. As soon as the waiter stepped away, I mentioned it to the other two (whose backs were turned to the mouse area) and we all decided it was time to leave: empty restaurant, mouse running around--two strikes was all we needed.

So we left and went to the Irish Pub, where there was a small crowd, the food was fine, and--at the end of the evening--the owner's cat wandered by our table: no mice in there, I think.

We debated going back to the hotel to give the concierge a piece of our minds, but ultimately decided against it.

Rufus' story

One nice thing about small academic conferences is that they can meet in more out-of-the-way places...and the American Folklore Society has met, in the past, in wonderful small cities like Lafayette, Louisiana and Eugene, Oregon--and this year, in Boise, Idaho.

It's been over two years since I was west of...well, Chicago, since moving away from Colorado in the summer of 2007. There are many things I've missed since, mainly low humidity and good Mexican food. Boise delivered both, and then some.

The day before the conference officially began, I went on a day-long tour that took us to a Boise synagogue built in 1895 whose grounds are now host to a community garden used mostly by Somali Bantu emigres. Later we met and saw the beautiful work of two talented women who make stirrups, saddles, and rawhide riding accessories. After a great lunch of chile rellenos at Lalo's in Caldwell, ID, we made our final stop at a horse-training facility run by a crusty old guy who grew up, of all places, in Huntington, West Virginia.

(I'm embarrassed to say that I didn't make a note of and can't recall the trainer's name, but you'll see him in the video at the end.)

En route to the horse-training center, Deana Attebery, the master saddlemaker/rawhide braider (pictured above), got on the tour bus's PA system to explain that she herself was a student at the barn we were going to visit, and that the trainer would be riding a horse that used to belong to her son.

During her earlier demonstration, Deana had mentioned that her son, whom she'd been teaching to make saddles, had died several years ago, though she didn't explain how. During lunch, we sat together, and though she mentioned "the horse incident" a couple of times, I didn't press her for details.

Over the PA, she told us the harrowing tale. Her son, who was in his 20s and a lifelong rider, had been thrown from his horse, Rufus, and--as Deana said--"they both ended up in the river." The horse survived; her son didn't.


However, the horse only survived in body; Rufus was distraught and crazy-angry after the accident, a totally different horse than he'd been beforehand. No one could ride him; he bucked constantly when he was in his stall, and he was aggressive with Deana and her family.

I can only imagine how agonizing this must have been for Deana: Rufus was the only witness to her son's death, the only one who could explain what had spooked him and caused him to throw his passenger. The incident clearly haunted Rufus as much as it haunted Deana, but they couldn't talk about it. And they couldn't work through it. Eventually, Deana gave him to the horse trainer we were headed to see.

As Deana explained, under the trainer's care, Rufus was completely transformed. He went from being a manic, uncontrollable basket case to being the trainer's primary horse, the one he uses to train other reining horses. This is western-style riding we're talking about, so if you know rodeo, you'll understand what the trainer meant when he said that Rufus would make a good pickup horse--one that wouldn't be afraid to sidle up to a bucking bronc and have its rider jump on his back. That takes an exceptionally calm and "supple" horse, to use the trainer's term.

Check out Rufus now. That's an amazing horse. He could probably give us humans some training, too: how to overcome trauma, let go of guilt, and get a new lease on life.

The Medievalist 'Cat' Came Back

Well, I'm back from the big medieval conference in Kalamazoo, this time just a whirlwind trip where I had to hustle back here to finish my grading and turn grades in.

Here's the highlights--not in order of occurrence:

Got to see a bunch of old friends, both from graduate school and otherwise; didn't get to talk to some of them as long as I would have liked.

Got to pontificate on some of my favorite topics during a roundtable, thereby probably making them everyone else's least favorite topics.

Browsed through the manuscript fragments available; made some suggestions to a friend buying her first manuscript fragment.

Went to (I believe) a total of three panels other than my own; slept in an inhospitable dorm room with some fairly unappealing facilities (but the price was right!); went to the dance (but did not dance); talked to my editor (but did not pitch a book); rolled out of bed at 6:30 and drove seven-and-a-half hours back to Mo-town.

Went to the wine hour (Gallo, paronomasiacally dispensed from gallon jugs); there was also a free tasting of (supposedly) medieval-esque meads and beers. Had a very sour sour beer and a non-hops, heather beer, which was flowery, but not all bad. Did not have the mead; two people independently described it as tasting like cough syrup.

Went to the Anglo-Saxonist dinner and sat at the smallest table, where we (supposedly) got served first. No mead here, either, but beer. Ate hobbit-fare at Bilbo's with most of the guys from my panel.

I did see a monk in full habit.

A good time was had by all, presumably. Oh, and I'm sure some academically valuable lessons were learned all around, too.

I am not a dancer

Just got back from the big medieval congress in Kalamazoo (if you've been there, you know all about it; if you haven't, it's a kind of academic free-for-all on virtually all things medieval, complete with full professors sleeping in cinder-block dorm rooms, as if revisiting a vanished past of their very own). Although there are more monks and nuns at the Kalamazoo congress than at most academic conferences, it is otherwise pretty unremarkable in most ways. Unlike most academic conferences, however, the Kalamazoo conference is notorious for its dance.

I went to the dance this year, and over the years, it's become clear (to me and to others, I am sure), that there are three basic kinds of medievalists: those who don't go to the dance; those who go to the dance and do not dance; and those who both go and dance (any medievalists who do not go to Kalamazoo at all, I guess, simply don't count). Middle child to the core, I belong in the middle category, I guess: I go, but I do not dance.

In my own defense, I'll just say the dance is a good chance to have a beer or two and chat with old friends (because, of course, there's nowhere else in Kalamazoo to do those things!). And while I won't name any names, the other basic reason to go to the dance at Kalamazoo is also a draw: to see which of the three categories everyone else fits into.

To see famous medievalist X, for example, shaking his or her booty (or whatever else might be shaking) to "It's Raining Men" or (even more strangely) "Bohemian Rhapsody" is, in the end, really not to be missed. But then again, it can be just as revealing to see who is willing to drink the 50-cent keg beers from the traditional plastic cups--though maybe if you're sleeping in a cinder-block dorm room, that's what you really should be drinking, after all.

An MLA Story (by Tom)

It seems to be the case that I was not cut out for life in a big city: it is a favorite story of Rosemary’s to describe the time when I was in downtown San Francisco, standing on the sidewalk and counting the money in my wallet. To me, there seemed to be nothing unusual about doing so, but—as she pointed out—I was a walking advertisement for a pickpocketing incident. When it didn’t happen, of course, I took it as a kind of vindication.

At the MLA convention in Chicago this winter, however, I had another big city incident. After giving my paper, Rosemary and I hurried through snowy downtown Chicago towards Rick Bayless’s restaurant Topolobampo (where we had a very nice lunch). Dressed in my MLA outfit (khakis, jacket, long woolen coat, leather shoes), once more I had no idea how much I must have looked like a prime target for the ministrations of Chicago street entrepreneurs.

Sure enough, as we were hustling along, I was stopped by a guy who quickly launched into a complicated routine about my shoes and the snow and slush, and before I could even say “no,” he had smeared some kind of oily goop on my shoes and was giving me his highly polished (and, I have to admit, entertaining) rap about taking care of shoes in the wet Chicago streets. “This will keep you from getting that line of salt around your shoes when they dry out,” he told me, as he smeared the stuff around with a polishing cloth. “Keep your feet dry, too. And let me apologize for being so aggressive in stopping you all, you know, but it’s a hard way to make a living out here.”

“How much do I owe you?" I asked with some resignation when he had finished “polishing” the shoes.

“Five dollars for the polish; the tip is up to you.”

So I gave him a five, and a George Washington dollar coin. Once burned, now, I was worried that I’d get hit with the same scam in the next block—I looked like an easy mark, obviously—so I asked him what I should tell the next guy who tried to polish my shoes.

“Tell him it was Shoe-Love,” he said.