A shame that my first hot breakfast here was in a hostel, but the English accoutrements (baked beans, tomatoes, and ham rather than bacon) were charming. I was even brave enough to try black pudding, which is pig's blood mixed with cereal. The disturbing part was that it was really tasty, and a lot like sausage. We walked the old Norman battlements in the heart of the city, taking band pictures and trying to steer clear of more Asian tourists ("I feel like I'm on the Great Wall of China," said Becca.) There was an old black mill behind the Minster just like the ones in Sheffield.
Our tour of the Minster was mostly just quizzing us on what we knew about architecture, us staring blankly up at graphic saint deaths (what a waste of gorgeous stained glass, I thought). Boiling John in oil didn't quite work, contrary to popular belief. My favorite part was a medieval clock, which had two iron soldiers who banged their swords against chimes every hour. Just charming. At this point, all the cathedrals are blending together and I still say Notre Dame was my favorite.
After a couple of hours, we went outside to inspect the Constantine statue (Roman emperor had crowned himself at the York Minster) only to find a crowd of people gathered around a stage bus. A man was standing on the stage holding a young ewe. He bragged about how his sheep shearers could do a whole herd in a day ("That's 45 seconds a sheep!") Sure enough, he rolled the lamb on her back and turned on his electric shears. Liz was appalled; the ewe wriggled around and tried to get away as her master announced that this was her first shearing ever. It was a cold morning too. Bit like a baby come from the womb--I'd be a bit uncomfortable myself. But he finished the job and everyone cheered and Ben decided he wanted to go to Starbucks NOW.
Prison Cells
We wandered around York for some forty minutes before we finally decided on a pub. Liz met her one true love on that quest; she found a random cute guy rushing off (probably the busiest guy in the street) to give us directions to a good pub, but as it turned out, he'd grown up on the East Coast and was curious about a group of Americans wandering around York. We practically had to drag Liz away. Ben teased her about destiny and she had a hard time remembering the actual directions he gave her. But down the road from Viking Centre, The Three Tuns was a sweet little pub boasting some good music choice and really tasty food (so I heard). I had enough funds for a hot chocolate and chilled while the others downed sausage, mac n cheese, and stew.
Dr. Tate stressed that we all should check out the two museums in the city. We went through Castle, which had period rooms and a whole Victorian street that felt like a back alley in Disneyland Main. There were photographers, boarding schools, a prison, a post office, and even a 1880s candy shop with sugar mice and spun taffy. I don't like museums as a general rule--I get bored pretty quickly without modern art. But the Prison downstairs was freaky enough to keep my attention; each cell was dark and lit by a projector of some actor being a former inmate. York Prison was infamous because of its inhumane situation (a little Chateau d'If) and because most in there were on death row for ridiculously petty crimes. I bet they never imagined a museum would sit on top of those once-fortified walls.
It was some time to walk over to York Museum, so we wandered through the tightly cobbled streets and looked in some of the shops, Nikki looking for a new wallet, Liz for who-knows-what, and the boys for a ghost walk that night. Fate offered us a lovely place called Chocolate Heaven; I was in brief possession of my only cell phone in Europe, a little brown old-school Nokia. But signal was forever disrupted when I ate the antenna. And subsequently the screen and buttons. The Shambles was shutting down its market when we walked by, and Ben hurried us to the Museum in case it closed at four as well.
Embarassing Roman Look-Alikes
It was such a beautiful day; York Museum had a gorgeous emerald lawn underneath orange trees and leading out to a sparkling river of ducks and rowers, we barely noticed the ruins of an abbey to our right. The museum itself wasn't nearly as cool as Castle (Roman ceramics all start looking the same wherever you go) and we all started falling asleep as soon as we sat down to watch the history video. But we all got yellow cardboard Roman helmets. Like Burger King, except waaay cooler. We wore them for a solid hour and forgot they were there--except when Liz told Ben he looked ridiculous.
Tony was sitting outside on a bench, no doubt enjoying the fantastic sunset, when we mugged him and asked how his day had gone. He said, "You know, I sat on this bench and thought, 'There's no way anyone could embarass me if I sat here.'" We looked at each other and cracked up laughing. Bless his soul for taking a group picture of us while other normal British adults were staring.
Awkward York Ghost Stories
That night, the entire Study Abroad collected four pounds apiece to go on the ghost walk. Some girls were really scared and promised they would scream and panic and wet themselves all the way to the Shambles. There was a beautiful moon out and I hoped it would be a good experience for all involved, but not getting scared in large groups of people is apparently a talent of mine (laughing results) so I was optimistic.
We stood at the end of the lane and waited some twenty minutes, discussing costumes and the hostel food and watching a flour truck try to pull into Tesco. A man dressed entirely in black and swinging a monstrous lantern approached. Gesturing with stiff black gloved hands, we followed him down the dark ally in hushed voices, past the closed hat shops and confectionaries. We stopped. "If you are faint of heart," said our guide in every affectation, "beware going further, for you cannot go back."
We paid and after some increasingly comical voices and dirtier jokes (the latter was less to our taste) we eventually ended up at the front of a house where a small girl had supposedly fallen from the top of the steps to her death. Brandishing his top hat (which revealed tufts of white hair) the guide asked for two volunteers this time, picking from the crowd a middle-aged man and our sweet Becca. He approached both with a stethoscope, but was much more interested in taking off Becca's bag and coat so as to more closely investigate her chest. She tried to smile and blush and keep things light, but none of us were laughing. Jess was behind me: "Ben, DO something!", and Ben looked like he didn't need telling twice. But a few moments later, the guide declared Becca alive with a "well, I'm getting excited" and sending her off. We closed around her, all of us furious. It certainly put a damper on the rest of the walk.
From other ghost walks, I had hoped for something more serious, at least, using real ghost stories from the town without all the character. It was apparently too much to hope. I couldn't wait for our tromps around the Shambles and the Minster to end; there was a child trapped upstairs for the Black Plague, a man who saw an army of Romans in the cellar, and eventually a boarding school of boys made into meat pies. My quota for British humor was overflowing rather uncomfortably. Were it any other crowd, perhaps he could have had more laughs--as it was, there were some thirty virgins from BYU who were disinterested in passes from an old man.
Getting back to the hostel, Sarryn and I were locked out and had to get the master key from downstairs. I, for one, was glad to leave York in the morning. A fantastic day, but perhaps a bit more culture than I cared for.
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