27. Apology/ dinner dates.

Firstly, I feel I have to write an apology. In my post about Cronbach's alpha, I was rather mean about fellow students on my course. And about Americans. Now, I didn't think that any of my fellow students read this blog. I thought I had pretty much kept it to myself, and I don't think you can find it by searching my name online. However, it is quite possible that I talked about it in some grandiose drunken moment which I no longer recall.

Anyway, that post was a bit of a rant. I feel bad because I wrote a few things that I really didn't mean. I do not think that Americans are barbarians because of their bad pronunciation of foreign names. There are definitely cultural differences, I won't deny that. And I frequently feel an absence of humor (well, my sort of humor) in day to day interactions, but I'm not sure whether that is a related to this country, this particular part of this country, or the earnestness of this field. However, at the same time I do actually have a very high estimation of most of the people I have met here, based primarily on their default position of warmth and friendliness. Similarly, strangers in the street will smile at you and say hello. I actually think that, as grumpy and cynical Europeans, we could learn something from that. It makes everyone's day more pleasant.

There is another cultural difference which I find amusing, though I would also have to admit that, logically, my position and attitude is the more bizarre. I find it very odd that other students are happy (and permitted) to consume whole meals (e.g. a steaming dish of microwaved lasagna) during class. I would feel very awkward doing that. And that's hardly surprising - from the age of 13 to 18 I went to a school where eating in the street was verboten. You could be fined money for just popping a chocolate into your mouth while sauntering down the High Street. And if students are hungry in class, why shouldn't they eat while the professor instructs? It is perfectly reasonable, and yet I think I will always find it a little odd.

The more I think about it, the more I realise that I may have an unhealthy attitude to eating. I like to stuff myself with as much food as I can but I often feel rather bloated afterwards, not to mention quite disgusted by myself. So then I go to the bathroom and stick a finger down my throat and vomit it all back up.

Iocor.

But I do think that I may have an odd attitude to eating. For one, I hate dinner dates with anyone that I don't already know quite well. If I go on a date, I much prefer to go for a drink. The whole dinner thing is bedeviled with potential pitfalls. For one, I prefer either to talk or to eat. I am not very good at doing both at the same time, for the very logical reason that they both require you to use the same body part. Of course, in general people tend to alternate, but then there is the danger of spitting bits of food or energetically chewing in awkward silence prior to forcing a recalcitrant bolus over your epiglottis. And if the bolus has been insufficiently chewed - maybe a piece of steak which has separated into two smaller boli which are still connected by a thin string of gristle, like an Argentinian gaucho's hunting bolas - what then? The risks are great.

Argentinian aborigine with hunting bolas

I also worry about getting food on my face (spaghetti, with its whiplash finish, presenting the greatest risk), or having bits stuck between my teeth. And, frankly, eating is just not an aesthetically pleasing activity. On a first date, when both parties have devoted energy to looking attractive, why would you choose an activity which, in one moment of inattention, has the potential to undo all the hard work?

I also don't like sitting opposite people in restaurants, as one is frequently forced to do. It is too formal and feels a bit like an interview. Fortunately, many restaurants here have bars at which you can eat. I hope it is a trend which catches on in other places.

I also don't like the fiasco of ordering wine, given that they all taste pretty much the same to me. That's not something I am ashamed of, though it's not necessarily something I want to admit to right away. And I am no great fan of the kerfuffle around paying the bill. If I invite a girl on a date, then I expect to pay for us both (so long as I have the means - that's critical). After all, it's not much of an invitation otherwise. But it is always an attractive quality when a girl doesn't appear to expect you to pay for her, though I'm not sure how this can be conveyed without her having to go through the traditional pantomime of searching for purse/ pulling out credit card etc.

My two preferred ways of avoiding the bill paying/ bill splitting debate are, firstly, to get the bill while the other person is away from the table. That's really the easiest way and probably ends up reflecting most positively on you. Alternatively, I like to stress in my initial communication that I would like to invite my companion to dinner. If she still remonstrates when it comes to paying, you can always say that she can buy you a drink somewhere else; in fact, it can provide an organic segue to the rest of the evening.

26. I've started so I'll finish...

...by writing about my dream last night. I do this with some trepidation, since even for the most die-hard Jungian, other people's dreams can be extremely dull.

I have never been able to remember my dreams, so for the last six months I have kept a notebook next to my bed to record them. I've only written in it a handful of times, and most of the nocturnal entries are illegible. There is no record of nocturnal emissions.

So, last night's dream:

I was bicycling along a road on the Isle of Wight, which I have visited twice or maybe three times in my life. It was a balmy afternoon in late summer. The low hills were bathed in warm apricot light and the air was full of those tiny bouncing bugs that come out shortly before sunset. I was on my way back to my bed and breakfast. I had come to the island for the summer to write.

I reached the top of a gentle incline and was about to freewheel down the other side when I noticed a small farm lane to my right which parted from the main road. It was a road made of slabs of pebbled concrete. However, the lane cannot have seen much use since the tufts of grass grew thickly in the middle of the cracks where the slabs met. I followed the lane with my eyes and saw that it lead to a small village higher up the hill. From where I was standing, it looked as if this was the highest village on the whole island. It suddenly seemed important to visit that village, so I turned off the main road and began to cycle up the lane.

On my way towards the village, I met the son of the couple who owned and ran my bed and breakfast. He was a boy of about ten who had a yellow BMX bicycle very similar to the one which I myself had had at that age. I felt a close connection with this boy. When I think about it now, he may have been my childhood self.

We rode our bicycles along the lane which passed through the village and then continued to climb up the hill. When the lane reached its highest point, we stopped and admired the view of the island spread out beneath us. There was a steep embankment to our right, so we leant our bikes against the verge and scrambled up the embankment.

The views from the top of the embankment were even more impressive. However, we were still not on the highest point of the island - there was another crest in front of us which the embankment had hidden from our view. Although the sun was about to set, we had come too far to turn back now. The long grass rippled in the wind as we climbed up this last slope.

When we reached the top of the slope we were amazed to see the ruin of an enormous arch caught by the last rays of the sun. This arch had been entirely hidden from below by the angle of elevation. We walked through the arch. The shadowy far side was decorated with beautifully preserved Inca or Mayan motifs. In the shadow of the arch lay the ruins of what must once have been the keep of a castle. The walls and staircases were still standing, but there was no roof and the grass grew thick in the central courtyard.

'This is scary,' said the boy.

I notice that there is a knee high fence surrounding the ruins. The fence appears to be new and well-maintained. We step over the fence and enter the colonnade of the ruins. The colonnades remind me of the entrance hall of the palace of the King of Mustang, in Lo Manthang. However, instead of Tibetan mastiffs, these ruinous corridors are guarded by enormous black birds. The light is fading fast but this is a unique opportunity to explore and I try to give the boy courage. However, I am a little unnerved myself by the way that the enormous birds swoop down from the sky and fly through the colonnades before landing in the nests which hang at irregular intervals along the walls. All we can hear is the sound of huge wings beating the air.

We explore the ruins. My face is covered by cobwebs which are thick and sticky and hard to get off. It sounds frightening but I don't remember being afraid. When we have explored to our satisfaction, we return to the arch with the Inca or Mayan artwork. However, darkness has fallen very quickly. There was no gloming - it is now pitch black. I take the boy's hand and we walk in the general direction of the hill and our bicycles, though I know we will never find them in this darkness. I realise that we are going to have to wait here until daybreak and I feel a little foolish, that is all.

In retrospect, the feel of this dream reminds me a little of Alain-Fournier's descriptions of the Lost Domain in Le Grand Meaulnes.

If anyone would care to offer an interpretation, please don't hold back.