Ballade No. 1, Opus 23 (Chopin)

Have I mentioned previously how great it is to be a Music major? I don’t mean to snub other, more practical choices but I would like to point out that today, at four o’clock, I finished my academic load with a class about Chopin’s Etudes.  That’s right. While many of my fellow classmates trudged their way to a class on Aerospace Engineering, Calculus, or some other such scientific hobnob; I went and listened to Chopin’s Etudes for an hour. I sat in a class room and listened to a lecture about how Chopin took the nocturne and turned it into an aria. I listened to musical examples in a room with a pipe organ and stain glass windows. Bliss.

An even purer bliss, however, is the professors who teach these courses.  They are, without a doubt, the most glorious characters I have ever seen. Quirky men who wear glasses and what looks to be clothing their mothers picked out. They pace, they absentmindedly lose everything they need in the five minutes before a lecture, they think that Haydn’s use of the bassoon in his symphonies is freaking hilarious (which, coincidentally, it is). They are a work of art. Why, just today, one of my lovely professors said that listening to Chopin is like biting into a piece of Belgian chocolate and discovering what is on the inside. I love it! I love watching them ramble on and get all excited for the unusual modulation in a particular piece of music. I love when something happens and they, no joke, giggle to themselves with anticipation.

I wish I could explain the joy I get from studying music. I look around the room everyday thinking, “How did I get so lucky?” I have chosen a major where I get to talk about inverted chords and music history. I have a whole class where all I do is watch performances. Granted, I spend roughly ten hours a week in the practice room and also have to perform in that same class, but I still get to listen to music for an hour, ninety-nine percent of the time.  I feel so lucky. And then, when you add in the whole "studying in Ireland" thing, my mind just about blows up. How did this happen (besides the obvious answer, lots of hard work and dedication, blah, blah, blah)? I walk down the street with a skip in my step and a grin so wide people wonder what is wrong with me. But I cannot help it. I could not imagine a more exciting life to lead. I know that sounds so very naive; I could be doing so much more with my life - saving the rain forests, or puppies, or children in Africa. But I am so unbelievably happy leading this uneventful, non-Nobel Peace Prize life that I could not imagine a better place to be. Yesterday I looked up from my studies and was overwhelmed with joy. Every now and again, the reality of it all bombards my brain and I sit with a bewildered look on my face until my mind accepts the notion of studying abroad for a year and I go back to being happy in a little music bubble.

Well, I must go - i have to study up on Rossini and the Italian opera. (Oh snap, jealous yet?)

Kelsey

Pennies from Heaven

Part of the real joy of living in Belfast is the weather. Ask any local and they will tell you that, in Belfast, seasons don't occur over the whole year; they occur over the period of one day. Why, just this morning when I contemplated whether it was safe to go for a run, the weather changed from peaceful and cloudy, windy and scary, clear and sunny, dark and rainy, then back to peaceful and cloudy. It makes a trip to the grocery store feel like a sting operation. The problem arises in trying to be prepared for any numbers of climate effects. 

If you wear you largest, most warm coat you will run the risk of sweating to death, but as soon as you put on a light jacket, or a jumper, mother nature will see it her personal duty to make you freeze. Wearing warm boots will keep your toes warm, but at the first sight of rain they will get soaked to the bone, making the original joy of the warm boot now useless. On the other hand, opting for the cute shoes will mean having cold wet feet. And on the off chance that you decide to stick it to mother nature and just wear rain boots, it will be sure NOT to rain and then, well, then you just look silly. 

But the bigger, most important issue lies in the predicament of the umbrella. I know what you must be thinking. How could an umbrella hold so many problems? Well, here is this beautiful country an umbrella is both a gift and a curse. You see, Northern Ireland is a place that, through chance or destiny, lives up to the cliche it presents. It rains here. Everyday. In my house we have a whole calendar devoted to marking days where it doesn't rain. The number remains at six. I have been here for close to a month and a half. That, my friends, is a lot of rain. The obvious conclusion would be to get yourself an umbrella. At first sight, the umbrella provides solutions to a number of Belfast problems. You can use it to protect yourself from the ever present rain. It is also a very useful wind guard; by tipping it downward in front of you it provides a way to physically combat the harsh winds. Perhaps the most important application of the umbrella is the "car deterrent". As you may remember from a previous blog, cars in Belfast don't mind running over people. But, with an umbrella, you can prevent this by hitting the unsightly vehicle with your umbrella. This naturally works better if your umbrella is closed - when left open you just look like a crazy person throwing around an open umbrella. So far, an umbrella is looking rather important. But let me relay a little story to you all.

It was Sunday, an unassuming day for most. The official "day of rest", which I was taking full advantage of this weekend. That was until around 5 o'clock, when I headed to Stephanie's house for dinner before our trek to church. As I trudged through the unforgiving elements I found myself thanking the nameless person who left an orange umbrella in our house. I had lost mine in the previous week and therefore saw the unclaimed (bright orange) accessory as a gift from the fates. While using the umbrella to fight the elements, a forceful gust of wind blew me off my feet and my umbrella inside out. I fought and struggled to right the umbrella in the hopes of getting out of the, ever increasing, rain. In a last ditch effort, I tried using the wind to my advantage by pushing the backwards umbrella against the wind. This plan, however well thought-out, backfired. The umbrella did bounce back - but in a way I had not anticipated. While the innermost part of the umbrella stayed inside-out, the edges swung back to their correct placement, making my umbrella look more like a modern art sculpture than an umbrella. I was now soaked, standing in the rain with an interesting version of an umbrella. Not to be discouraged, I walked on. I had not walked five paces before another gust of wind did more damage to my haphazard umbrella. It blew one side of the umbrella back onto itself, effectively breaking the metal and leaving that half to hang uselessly in the air. The best part about this story is that I still managed to use this umbrella for the rest of the night (to and from church in heavy rain and wind!), much to everyone's amusement. When I entered church and set my umbrella up next to Stephanie's mint condition umbrella to dry, it looked so sad that people passing made actual "awww" noises. One man relayed to me a tale he has come to call "The Umbrellas Gone By"; which speaks a time when mother nature devoured four umbrellas in the span of two short weeks. The priest gave me a look of pity and said some of the most influential words I have ever heard. He said, with the solemn tactfulness only an Irish priest can attain, "Love, get yourself a good hood."

And that is the true moral of this story. When coming to Belfast, Northern Ireland, make sure your coat has been scotch-guarded and made with a good, sturdy hood.

Kelsey

Live and Let live

Hello! I am back again and ready to fight off any remaining sickness that might wish to attack me. I have survived the flu through some mysterious German medicine. I do not know what my roommate gave me, I can only tell you that it works wonders. On Wednesday I was a carcass of a person, loopy on cold medicine, and today I am weak, but triumphant! Let that be lesson to any future viruses that attempt to hinder my enjoyment of Ireland - Don't mess with me, I live with Germans!

So, a review of the week.

Wednesday: A lovely day, for those not battling an unknown illness. I awoke to find my nose and throat area in a state of disarray. But I was not to be deterred. Today was an important day. I had music theory in the morning and I had an important task to achieve in the afternoon. That was where the real battle lay, in the afternoon. You see, Wednesday is the day before Thursday and Thursday was Manuel's birthday. Manuel is one of my lovely German housemates, I think I have mentioned his name in passing before. Well, Thursday was his birthday and, due to house tradition, on Wednesday night we celebrated into his birthday. Of course, the celebration is not the only part of the tradition. I will make any cake the birthday person desires (given certain limitations) and they must wear a birthday hat at all times while inside the house. Anyway, back to the cake. Manuel had his heart set on the cake that his mother makes him every year - a mole cake. Don't get too excited, it is not a cake in the shape of a mole. A Mole cake is apparently a very German thing, I am concluding this from the fact that every time one of our German housemates was informed of Manuel's cake choice they broke into a chorus of "ooo's" and "ahhh's". I have previously never made a mole cake and was forced to do some serious research on the topic. After sifting through many web pages giving instructions on how to mold a cake into the shape of a mole, I finally found an appropriate recipe. A mole cake made by doing the following. First you back a chocolate cake. After the cake has cooled, you remove the insides from it and place the aside for later use. You are creating a sort of cake shell - like the pastry of a pie without the filling. Then you fill the hole you have just created with a combination of whipped cream and chocolate pieces you have mixed together with a touch of gelatin to hold its form. Now, let me say that I did not skimp on this portion of the cake. I bought many carton of whipping cream and whipped all of it. No easy task for a sick woman who has never whipped cream in her life. It takes some real expertise. Now, after you have whipped the cream, added the melted gelatin, chocolate chips, AND let the mixture cool, you place it in the hole. Then you use the cake innards you scooped out earlier to cover the whipped cream filling. In the end it looks something like a pile of dirt a mole dug up - hence the name. It was a triumphant night. I created a beautiful cake while under the influence of some Irish cold medicine and people actually claimed it to be edible. Apparently I should bake when I am using cold medicine more often, because it was the best cake I have made - according to the rest of the house.

Thursday: This day gets a little fuzzy. This was the day of the German wonder-drug. I went to the lunchtime concert in the music building and was at once filled with nostalgia - or was it the cold medicine? The concert was all about Debussy. Only Debussy piano pieces graced my ears for a blessed hour and five minutes. Debussy always makes me think of home and my mother, and I will tell you why. My mom can play the crap out of Debussy's First Arabesque. I love the sound of it, the sight of her at the piano. It is, by far, one of my favorite childhood memories. My mom at the piano. I remember listening to that piece while sitting on the couch, or dancing around the house to it. And now, every time I hear anything by Debussy, I think of her at the piano. Debussy's arabesques are actually some of his least known works. It seems impossible to me, having grown up with them, but they are considered to be some of his worst work. They were done very early in his composing life and resemble that of his tutors. But to me, they are his best works. Now, it may have been the drugs, but listening to that concert I was transported back home. Come to think of it, I would definitely blame the drugs. regardless, I walked home with my head in the clouds thinking of my wonderful mother (I love you MORE) and was then given an even larger surprise. A package from my Grandfather. He had promised to send me some books once I got settled in Belfast and I had been awaiting their arrival ever since my own into Belfast. So the sight of that package, in combination with my previous state of mind, brought me to a new level of giddy. After that it gets very fuzzy. I can only tell you that Bill Bryson gets even funnier when you have been taking cold medicine.

That brings us to today, where not much has happened. I am going to go home and make myself a cup of tea, nothing warms you up better in this weather, and reread parts of "I'm a Stranger Here Myself". I am pretty sure Bill Bryson did not put on a leotard and read me parts of his book. I should really be less trusting of foreign medicines.

Kelsey

We apologize for the Interuption....

We interupt this web broadcast to inform you that Kelsey Tinsman has recently caught the bug and is therefore out of service for a few days. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may cause you and hope that she will be up and running in a few days time.

These Boots Were Made for Walking

A tip for those of you who have not visited the beautiful world of Northern Ireland, specifically Belfast: Look both ways before you cross the street. This may sound like common sense, but let me tell you, it is battlefield here. Belfast is not a pedestrian friendly city. 

Let me expound on that rather ominous statement. There are crosswalks and sidewalk and appropriately marked areas and or signs pertaining to road crossing in Belfast.  However, there is also a lack of the above things in some areas and this is where the real danger arises. You see, here in Belfast there seems to be a great controversy over whether pedestrians have the right of way or not. Why, I witnessed an argument over this very subject last night between a pedestrian and a motor vehicle. The drunken girl yelled at the cab that almost hit her, citing the “law” that cars must yield to pedestrians in Belfast, and the cab driver yelled back, “You drunken idiot, no they don’t.” Have I mentioned before how kind and considerate Belfast is? 

But I see a very important flaw with this argument. Regardless of what the pedestrian thinks, the car will always win. So, as a rule of thumb, when walking around in Belfast do not cross the street in front of a car unless you get the polite “you may cross” wave.  In fact, I would even wait to make sure they are not just swatting at a fly in their car and have no real intention of stopping the vehicle. It just boggles my mind that someone would make no attempt to not hit a pedestrian. For instance, I am crossing the street. I was halfway across the street before you and your tiny European car ever showed up. I would think that because I am already in the process of crossing the street, you would slow down and do your best NOT to hit me. This is a foolish assumption. Drivers here make no such attempt, in some cases they will even honk at you – a kind warning which alerts you that they are about to run you over. And then, when it looks as though there is to be a person/car collision and you leap back with a shriek while the car meanders to stop (sometimes), the driver of the car will even give you a disgusted look. As if I brought this upon myself, thinking that people don’t want to run over other people with their cars. Apparently, in Belfast, running down pedestrians is an old tradition. 

Don’t misunderstand me. There are some wonderful moments where you want to cross the road and a kind gentleman will give the head nod and a little wave. As you cross, you feel a sense of deep love and accomplishment. You see, those moments don’t happen every day. These are rare occurrences that you come to cherish and look back on fondly. You know that you are having a good day when a citizen of Belfast chooses to let you cross the road instead of ramming you with their automobile. Because let’s be honest, that is a big sacrifice for them. The moral of the story is to air on the side of caution when crossing streets in Belfast.

In other news, I did visit the Crown – one the oldest and classiest pubs in Belfast. A little expensive for the college budget, but the ambience involved makes it almost worth shoving aside tourists for a seat. Now, I have never bought a drink there but I can tell you that when I do I will feel a huge sense of sophistication. The pub is beautiful. There is an old-world charm that, no doubt, keeps the tourists coming and takes your mind to a kinder place, perhaps a novel, where the barkeep is a kind man with a good ear for listening and is a man who you consider a good friend, though never actually knowing much about him. It does help that the bartenders wear the old-fashioned outfit and the bar is filled with enough handcrafted woodwork to make any normal person wish they had a handlebar mustache to stroke. Instead of the oh-so-typical tables associated with pubs, the crown has booths. Booths that have swinging doors and high backs so you and your party are almost closed off from the rest of the bar. Yes, classy. The booths themselves are works of art – although there are so few of them and so many tourists that you basically have to call in advance to reserve one. Which definitely takes the fun out of meandering into a bar without a real plan for the night, but I am sure is worth it. One day, I will sit in one of those booths and order myself a glass of wine and feel very important. Just, not this month. 

And that’s the news from Belfast; where the women are thin and the men wear sweatpants.

Kelsey

Big Rock Candy Mountain

After my last post, I felt as though I had forgotten something. And indeed, I had. For some frightening reason I had forgotten to tell you of my first real operatic escapade. I forgot Saturday.

You will recall that Friday was the last day of "Stephanie as a twenty-one year old". By common logic then, Saturday was her birthday. And for her birthday she wanted to go on a hike. So off we went to the lovely town of Newcastle and its Moore Mountains. Let me revise that statement. We rushed madly to the bus station in the hopes of catching the ten o'clock bus to Newcastle, then realized that our mad power walking, however healthy, was not going to get us their on time, slowed to a leisurely walk, then found out that our dear friend Johnathan was already on the ten o'clock bus and was graciously holding it for us, and promptly ran to the bus station like the mad college students that we are.

We rode the TWO STORY bus to Newcastle, under the impression that we knew exactly when to get off the bus - under the supervision of Jonathan. He boasted a previous excursion up the Moore Mountains and was thus appointed as our guide for the duration of the trip. We sat on the second floor of the bus excitedly talking about what the day would bring while sharing digestive cookies and enjoying the Northern Ireland countryside, under the impression that we  were in the good hands of an experienced guide. Little did we know what a mistake that would be. We unknowingly arrived in Newcastle and sat in the bus for an extra five minutes before the bus driver came up the the second floor and told us that this was his last stop and we had better get off unless we wanted to go back to Belfast.

As we left the bus, led by a frazzled but confident Jonathan, we headed in the general direction of the mountains. However, we were quickly distracted by a playground and a picturesque lake.

After exhausting the playground equipment and enjoying the almost beach-like atmosphere (I even got to chase some Irish seagulls), we headed back on the trail to the mountains and ran into some lovely monuments that represent some important historical event.....I am sure they are very important. But it was so much more fun to take pictures of ourselves in them.

We had finally made it to the official trail. And so, up we went. At first all you could see was trees and more trees. But then, through the trees, it looked as though there could be something more. And there was. The hike turned into more of an upward climb, but the views got more and more spectacular. For every fall, spill, crash, tumble, and splat I made, for all the mud that adhered itself to various parts of my body and clothes, the views made it all worth it. And there were sheep! Irish mountain sheep! Who, by the way, made hiking up the HUGE mountain seem much easier than it actually was. I sat there thinking, "Kelsey, a sheep can get up there. You can definitely get up there." I should not have gone there. it was sheep territory. I am not going to say that I was attacked by a sheep, that is not what happened. But I will say that a certain sheep, with very large horns, looked mighty suspicious of my path and seemed very keen on making sure I did not get any closer than I already had. So, after I altered my path and heaved my mud covered body up to the top of the mountain, I was rewarded with a view that quite literally, inspired me sing.

So, that was my wonderful operatic escapade. Operatic because I sang my heart out to the Moore Mountains and an escapade because the next day, I was so sore I did not want to leave my bed.

Kelsey

October Road

I apologize for the lack of posts in the past week but I was waiting for something of true value. I am sorry if this absence upset you - Kristine, please forgive me (She was quite upset and gave me a lashing over facebook). So, without further ado, here is what you have been waiting for.

Friday Night: The Scavenger Hunt of Your Life

To commemorate my dear friend Stephanie's last day as a twenty-one year old, we completed a series of tasks that we hoped would symbolize the crazy happenings of twenty-one. 

1) Give someone a piece of fruit. As we walked toward the city center of Belfast we passed an elderly gentleman who looked as though he was in deep need of some vitamin C. I was happy to oblige and gave him an orange. I can only assume from his happy acceptance that my assumption was correct and he did indeed need some vitamin C. 

2) Plant a seed in an interesting place. I am proud to say that somewhere on Queen's campus there is a peach seed waiting to sprout into a tree. I hope that in the years to come, a lovely peach tree will appear in on campus and thoroughly confuse the heck out of everyone as to how it got there.

3) Convince someone you don't know to share their food with you. This task looked very daunting but was actually one of the easiest to complete. Stephanie merely walked up to a guy eating outside of a pub and paused to say "Wow, that looks really good. Can I try some?" He was very happy to share with her, while looking suspiciously at the rest of us, as if to warn us that this sharing of food was a one time thing. I should also tell you that all of the tasks had to be completed with photographic evidence, so as Stephanie was trying his food cameras were flashing away to document the victory.

4) Sing a Disney song. Now, I had taken the time to prepare for this task and before we left the house we had determined what song we would sing. I think that every member of Washboard Band will be proud to hear that the washboard edition of the Lion King was sung loudly, and badly, outside the capital building in Belfast. I took control and divided the group into parts and then taught each part as the sections came in. It was truly glorious. I was so proud of their enthusiasm. I think the people waiting at the bus stop were, at the very least, thoroughly entertained by our efforts.

5) Wear you clothes inside out for at least a half an hour. Stephanie and I had gone to a thrift store previously in the week in search for an outfit that would make this occasion one to remember. We found a perfect dress - think early nineties prom dress attacked by a floral print - that she wore instead of wearing her clothes inside out. Now we were really confusing the citizens of Belfast. 

6) Plank. For those of you unfamiliar with planking, I will explain. Planking is when you lie on the ground and pretend to be a piece of wood, or a plank. By this point of the scavenger hunt we had made it to some sort of monument outside the Victoria Square Mall. Let me tell you, we planked all over that monument.

7) Build a castle. The idea was that you would build a castle out of random things at hand and, at the time, that consisted of a plastic bag, two coke bottles, and people. Hilarity unsued. People have begun to gather.

8) Stage a battle in the castle you have just built. Now there is a crowd. With Stephanie as the maiden of the castle, myself and my housemate Mohit as her gaurds, and Stephanie (Wesleyan Stephanie) as the enemy, we battled over the castle and the maiden. Mohit and I battled till our deaths and did our best to protect our lady, but alas Stephanie won and claimed ...Lady Stephanie. Ok, that statement is more complicated than it seems.

9) Pretend that Stephanie is famous and you are her biggest fans. We spread out and divided ourselves into smaller groups. I was to be the first fan, the one that discovered the famous Stephanie. I did my best to loudly proclaim my love of her work and smothered her with love while begging to get her autograph and a picture with her. I had several people convinced of her popularity and a few stopped to scrutinize her face, in hopes of placing this "famous" person.

10) Walk up the down escalator. Is was hard to find one that was empty, but we did succeed in running up the down escalator. 

11) Have an ugly face contest. We never fully completed this task. The pictures were taken, but no one ever judged the contest....I guess they were just too ugly to view. 

12) Talk very loudly to each other on the phone, while standing right next to each other. Stephanie and I took up this task and had an argument with each other over the phone, while standing back to back. We did this so well that not only did every person to pass us do a double take, but the mall police came up and asked us what we  were doing. We quickly left the mall, but not before we completed the next task....

13) Ask someone for directions in a foreign, made up, language. Nothing says crazy like a bunch of students speaking to each other in grunts and nondescript noises. We started in gibberish and then ended the question with "City Center". A woman was flustered, but happy to provide us with directions in slow, perfectly enunciated English.

14) Crawl on all fours and pretend to be a dog urinating on a pole. Not far from the mall Stephanie got on the ground and became my faithful pooch, "Fifi". She and I walked down the street a little ways before stopping as Stephanie "peed" on a pole and I reprimanded her for her bad behavior. There was an old man walking the opposite direction who clearly thought we were so crazy and dangerous that he needed to cross over to the other side of the street.

15) The final task. A no-hands ice cream eating contest. It came down to Stephanie and Alex. You would think that this sort of competition would be filled with good fun, but let me tell you - it was war. It was a close call, especially because it is very difficult to eat ice cream with no hands, but Stephanie won by devouring he vanilla ice cream with the fury of a lioness.

And that, my friends, was an epic Friday night.

Kelsey