Sorry, no new updates today. Torrential downpours and whatever kind of crazy front activity is responsible for tornado warnings in the next county have rendered my joints unusuable. Back tomorrow!
(And tomorrow is the day with all the photos. heh heh)
July 29, 2009
July 28, 2009
Day 4
This was the day of the conference. (These posts are getting absurdly long, so I'll try to rein in a bit!)
After a hasty breakfast, we all made the long walk to the conference center in our business suits and high heels. (I carried mine in a bag and tried to slip into them unobtrusively at the conference.) It's a good thing that in my old age (heh), I've gotten past the point of wanting my surroundings to match my romantic expectations; though everything we did this week was technically "in Oxford", we did nothing in beautiful old buildings. Our daily classes were held in an upper room of a little row house. The conference was held at a brand-spanking-new, glass-fronted hall which had been built into the space between Black Friar's and some other equally ancient and beautiful building. I have no idea why builders think this is a valuable contribution to the town.
The conference was divided into four sections, each on a particular theme and consisting of two lectures which approached the theme from different angles. Loosely speaking, you could describe the themes as "Philosophy vs. Neuroscience on: Mind, Aesthetics, Spirituality, and Psychology." They were all fascinating, and I was happy to find I could follow a good portion of them. My back couldn't tolerate the uncomfortable plastic chairs, so the porter kindly brought in a more padded chair for me at a coffee break.
I made it through lunch and into the third section when I decided I'd had enough for a while and went to lie down in a friend's hotel room at the Randolf. (That was fun, by the way: this is a gorgeous, old, expensive hotel in the heart of Oxford. I tried to walk in with an air of someone who belonged there, but it was tough not to stare at everything around me. Want a picture? :)
Now THAT is a hotel! It sits at the corner of St. Giles and Beaumont Street -- the Centre for Philosophical Psychology is just down the street to the right.)
During the wine-and-chat session after the conference was over, we met a girl from the States who'd been studying at Oxford for several years; she joined our crew and recommended a great restaurant for dinner, where they were famous for their English sausages. I had venison, juniper, and gin sausages on a bed of mashed potatoes -- "bangers and mash." Yum. (Not so many vegetables at these places, incidentally. Regina tried to order a salad and they looked at her like she had two heads.)
Afterwards, we all trouped back to St. Hilda's with the leftover bottles of wine Professor Scruton had insisted we take away with us. The men of the group disappeared off to their own devices, while the women crowded together in one of the dorm rooms, drank wine out of plastic cups, and talked for hours. Two of the senior scholars -- Rachel and Neha -- were med students; when I complained of the pain and tightness in my shoulders, Rachel immediately set out to give me a massage, while Neha analyzed the structure of my neck and talked about "lateral dislocation of the C7 vertebra". This launched a diagnostic procedure that involved poking my hands and arms with pins in various places and a heated debate between the two of them over whether it was C7 or C5, as Rachel maintained. It was great fun. I asked them afterwards if they wanted to read my palms.
After a hasty breakfast, we all made the long walk to the conference center in our business suits and high heels. (I carried mine in a bag and tried to slip into them unobtrusively at the conference.) It's a good thing that in my old age (heh), I've gotten past the point of wanting my surroundings to match my romantic expectations; though everything we did this week was technically "in Oxford", we did nothing in beautiful old buildings. Our daily classes were held in an upper room of a little row house. The conference was held at a brand-spanking-new, glass-fronted hall which had been built into the space between Black Friar's and some other equally ancient and beautiful building. I have no idea why builders think this is a valuable contribution to the town.
The conference was divided into four sections, each on a particular theme and consisting of two lectures which approached the theme from different angles. Loosely speaking, you could describe the themes as "Philosophy vs. Neuroscience on: Mind, Aesthetics, Spirituality, and Psychology." They were all fascinating, and I was happy to find I could follow a good portion of them. My back couldn't tolerate the uncomfortable plastic chairs, so the porter kindly brought in a more padded chair for me at a coffee break.
I made it through lunch and into the third section when I decided I'd had enough for a while and went to lie down in a friend's hotel room at the Randolf. (That was fun, by the way: this is a gorgeous, old, expensive hotel in the heart of Oxford. I tried to walk in with an air of someone who belonged there, but it was tough not to stare at everything around me. Want a picture? :)
Now THAT is a hotel! It sits at the corner of St. Giles and Beaumont Street -- the Centre for Philosophical Psychology is just down the street to the right.)
During the wine-and-chat session after the conference was over, we met a girl from the States who'd been studying at Oxford for several years; she joined our crew and recommended a great restaurant for dinner, where they were famous for their English sausages. I had venison, juniper, and gin sausages on a bed of mashed potatoes -- "bangers and mash." Yum. (Not so many vegetables at these places, incidentally. Regina tried to order a salad and they looked at her like she had two heads.)
Afterwards, we all trouped back to St. Hilda's with the leftover bottles of wine Professor Scruton had insisted we take away with us. The men of the group disappeared off to their own devices, while the women crowded together in one of the dorm rooms, drank wine out of plastic cups, and talked for hours. Two of the senior scholars -- Rachel and Neha -- were med students; when I complained of the pain and tightness in my shoulders, Rachel immediately set out to give me a massage, while Neha analyzed the structure of my neck and talked about "lateral dislocation of the C7 vertebra". This launched a diagnostic procedure that involved poking my hands and arms with pins in various places and a heated debate between the two of them over whether it was C7 or C5, as Rachel maintained. It was great fun. I asked them afterwards if they wanted to read my palms.
July 27, 2009
Day 3
This post, for a switch, will be much shorter. Morning classes were much like the first day, though a little less packed information-wise. We began to discuss the different issues that would be coming up in the conference, scheduled for the following day.
I should mention that there were about 10 people in the class: five "junior scholars" from IPS (meaning we were only doing one academic credit-worth of work) and five "senior scholars" -- not from IPS -- who were taking the course in conjunction with a major research project or thesis. These were primarily students of Dr. Giordano (who, in addition to teaching at IPS, teaches at Georgetown and is involved in editing countless academic journals and running various international forums. You know -- in his spare time). The senior scholars stayed for individual tutoring sessions with the professors in the afternoon to work on their papers, in the true Oxford style, while the rest of us hob-nobbed around the town. The two groups kept mostly to themselves for the first part of the week, and we were pretty fairly divided between the philosophical (us) and the scientific (them). Happily, we began joining one another's tables for breakfast in the mornings and walking to classes together, and we were fairly well bonded by the end. Great people, all of them.
This was the worst day for my back, sadly. All the travelling and suitcase-maneuvering and sleeping on a poor mattress before sitting for hours in class was getting to me. Around lunchtime, my back seized up so badly it looked like I could be spending the rest of the week flat on my back in the dorm. Obviously, this could not happen. After lunch, I made my way down High Street and found an aromatherapy shop that offered massages. A sweet elderly lady with dyed blonde hair and a gentle, lilting voice assured me that she had been a registered nurse for 50 years and she'd find a way to work me in. Ten minutes later I was on my stomach getting a really first-class massage. With my face pressed down into the paper towel covering the headrest, I listened to her prattle on about the lovely things there were to do in Oxford -- sadly, I didn't know the whereabouts of any of the places she mentioned, but I tried to keep a mental list to look them up later: botanical gardens, organ concerts in chapels, outdoor Shakespeare plays, baroque concerts by candlelight, and on and on.
I left feeling still amazingly sore, but much more limber -- that is, I could actually swing my arms as I walked. I sat through evening classes then took a taxi back to St. Hilda's and called it a night. I vowed it would be the last night I would spend "in College" lying around the dorm!
I should mention that there were about 10 people in the class: five "junior scholars" from IPS (meaning we were only doing one academic credit-worth of work) and five "senior scholars" -- not from IPS -- who were taking the course in conjunction with a major research project or thesis. These were primarily students of Dr. Giordano (who, in addition to teaching at IPS, teaches at Georgetown and is involved in editing countless academic journals and running various international forums. You know -- in his spare time). The senior scholars stayed for individual tutoring sessions with the professors in the afternoon to work on their papers, in the true Oxford style, while the rest of us hob-nobbed around the town. The two groups kept mostly to themselves for the first part of the week, and we were pretty fairly divided between the philosophical (us) and the scientific (them). Happily, we began joining one another's tables for breakfast in the mornings and walking to classes together, and we were fairly well bonded by the end. Great people, all of them.
This was the worst day for my back, sadly. All the travelling and suitcase-maneuvering and sleeping on a poor mattress before sitting for hours in class was getting to me. Around lunchtime, my back seized up so badly it looked like I could be spending the rest of the week flat on my back in the dorm. Obviously, this could not happen. After lunch, I made my way down High Street and found an aromatherapy shop that offered massages. A sweet elderly lady with dyed blonde hair and a gentle, lilting voice assured me that she had been a registered nurse for 50 years and she'd find a way to work me in. Ten minutes later I was on my stomach getting a really first-class massage. With my face pressed down into the paper towel covering the headrest, I listened to her prattle on about the lovely things there were to do in Oxford -- sadly, I didn't know the whereabouts of any of the places she mentioned, but I tried to keep a mental list to look them up later: botanical gardens, organ concerts in chapels, outdoor Shakespeare plays, baroque concerts by candlelight, and on and on.
I left feeling still amazingly sore, but much more limber -- that is, I could actually swing my arms as I walked. I sat through evening classes then took a taxi back to St. Hilda's and called it a night. I vowed it would be the last night I would spend "in College" lying around the dorm!
Day 2
...I'm afraid my details get a little sketchy here -- the first few days are running together a bit in my mind, but I'll do my best!
This was our first real day in Oxford -- our first day as Visiting Scholars, mind you, not tourists. This is an important distinction, since the town was inexplicably packed with high school students from every country imaginable. We gathered that the colleges were hosting summer events to draw prospective students, but we grumbled at the unexpected Spring-Break feel they gave to the place. Fortunately, they seemed to stick primarily to the main shopping areas of the town; unfortunately, those were exactly the parts of town we walked through every day. Eventually, the other students and I managed to find a detour to our building on Beaumont Street -- one which took us along the ancient walls of the city, past 17th-century row houses and tiny alleyways, until the road suddenly widened and dumped us out in front of the Bodleian Library and the Sheldonian Theater on Broad Street. We liked this route. :)
Now, as a Visiting Scholar, you must appreciate that I had a reputation to maintain -- that of the not-tourist. As such, I didn't take any photos at all until we broke down on Thursday and indulged in as many touristy things as we could cram into one afternoon. But that comes later.
However, for your viewing pleasure, here are pictures from that morning commute, taken later in the week:
Better? Okay.
One of the neatest things about Oxford is just how much people rely on bicycles to get around -- they made up about 40% of the traffic, and shared the road equally with the cars. Several streets in the heart of the town are closed to most motor vehicles, so bicycles are especially in abundance there. Our morning route took us through one of those streets. My favorite sight was a small pack of 7 or 8 people on bikes, all dressed for work or a class, stopped at a red light waiting for a lorry to squeeze through in the opposite direction -- each bike and rider leaning to starboard at exactly the same angle, right foot planted on the ground as they waited. The light changed to green and they were off in a flapping of academic gowns before I managed to get out my camera, curse them.
That first day of classes was the most intense in terms of factual information being passed along. As I said, this was primarily a preparation for getting involved in a discussion which, as yet, has no answers, but we needed some basic groundwork to get us up to speed on exactly what the questions were. Dr. Scruton lectured for an hour and a half on the philosophical approach to the question of what the human person is and what this mysterious property is that makes him different from all other animals -- call it mind, call it soul, whatever. Dr. Giordano then gave us an hour-and-a-half lecture on the development of the neuropsychological approach to the same question.
Listening to Dr. Giordano is like drinking from a fire hose: you open the valve, stand expectantly in front, then find yourself pinned against the opposite wall by the explosion. We took notes madly, realizing with dismay that we had completely forgotten the second half of an important sentence after the words, "Scientists then made the obvious and crucial realization that..." before he was off onto something else equally important and mystifyingly dense. He routinely used long, complex words to say ordinary things, like "interdigitate" and "obfuscating." A tentative question posed by a student for clarification resulted in a ten-minute response, more dense than the original explanation, and involving an anecdote which no one could understand or relate to the original topic. He is definitely brilliant, but certainly aware of the fact. He is also a born performer -- he speaks confidently and rapidly in a rich baritone, throws off jokes with ease, and ever-so-gently patronizes his audience. In another life, he probably would have made a fortune selling hair tonic and snake oil from a suitcase. You would have no idea what the concoctions were supposed to do, but by golly, you'd be convinced they'd do it!
We had most of the afternoon off, so we went off in search of a grocery store to buy lunch stuff for the week to save money. We then strolled through the main part of town, investigated a few interesting-looking shops, before returning for an afternoon discussion period. That evening, a few of the students and I headed to the White Horse pub, literally tucked inside Blackwell's bookshop, which had gradually grown around the old establishment. We knew it would be good at the sight of two elderly men, clothed in tweed caps, sitting contentedly on a wooden bench out front, drinking their pints. I opened the door, walked four steps down into the semi-darkness, and whacked my head on a low-hung beam with the helpful instructions "Mind Your Head" painted on it. Looking around, I was surprised at how small it was: a long bar ran most of the length of the pub on the left, and about six tables on the right made up the rest. The tables were primarily full of locals, a few of whom were chatting in a friendly way with a middle-aged American couple. Several men were lined up at the bar waiting to place their orders, and we had a deal of a time pushing our way through to the last empty table in the back corner. Once established, we enjoyed some fairly decent fish and chips and some flat, warm, nutty beer.
You know -- it's all about getting the full experience!
Update: here's a photo of Blackwell's and the White Horse Pub I took back in 2006. (The scaffolding is no longer there, of course.) There's another entrance to Blackwell's on the far left of the pub. Weird.
This was our first real day in Oxford -- our first day as Visiting Scholars, mind you, not tourists. This is an important distinction, since the town was inexplicably packed with high school students from every country imaginable. We gathered that the colleges were hosting summer events to draw prospective students, but we grumbled at the unexpected Spring-Break feel they gave to the place. Fortunately, they seemed to stick primarily to the main shopping areas of the town; unfortunately, those were exactly the parts of town we walked through every day. Eventually, the other students and I managed to find a detour to our building on Beaumont Street -- one which took us along the ancient walls of the city, past 17th-century row houses and tiny alleyways, until the road suddenly widened and dumped us out in front of the Bodleian Library and the Sheldonian Theater on Broad Street. We liked this route. :)
Now, as a Visiting Scholar, you must appreciate that I had a reputation to maintain -- that of the not-tourist. As such, I didn't take any photos at all until we broke down on Thursday and indulged in as many touristy things as we could cram into one afternoon. But that comes later.
However, for your viewing pleasure, here are pictures from that morning commute, taken later in the week:
Better? Okay.One of the neatest things about Oxford is just how much people rely on bicycles to get around -- they made up about 40% of the traffic, and shared the road equally with the cars. Several streets in the heart of the town are closed to most motor vehicles, so bicycles are especially in abundance there. Our morning route took us through one of those streets. My favorite sight was a small pack of 7 or 8 people on bikes, all dressed for work or a class, stopped at a red light waiting for a lorry to squeeze through in the opposite direction -- each bike and rider leaning to starboard at exactly the same angle, right foot planted on the ground as they waited. The light changed to green and they were off in a flapping of academic gowns before I managed to get out my camera, curse them.
That first day of classes was the most intense in terms of factual information being passed along. As I said, this was primarily a preparation for getting involved in a discussion which, as yet, has no answers, but we needed some basic groundwork to get us up to speed on exactly what the questions were. Dr. Scruton lectured for an hour and a half on the philosophical approach to the question of what the human person is and what this mysterious property is that makes him different from all other animals -- call it mind, call it soul, whatever. Dr. Giordano then gave us an hour-and-a-half lecture on the development of the neuropsychological approach to the same question.
Listening to Dr. Giordano is like drinking from a fire hose: you open the valve, stand expectantly in front, then find yourself pinned against the opposite wall by the explosion. We took notes madly, realizing with dismay that we had completely forgotten the second half of an important sentence after the words, "Scientists then made the obvious and crucial realization that..." before he was off onto something else equally important and mystifyingly dense. He routinely used long, complex words to say ordinary things, like "interdigitate" and "obfuscating." A tentative question posed by a student for clarification resulted in a ten-minute response, more dense than the original explanation, and involving an anecdote which no one could understand or relate to the original topic. He is definitely brilliant, but certainly aware of the fact. He is also a born performer -- he speaks confidently and rapidly in a rich baritone, throws off jokes with ease, and ever-so-gently patronizes his audience. In another life, he probably would have made a fortune selling hair tonic and snake oil from a suitcase. You would have no idea what the concoctions were supposed to do, but by golly, you'd be convinced they'd do it!
We had most of the afternoon off, so we went off in search of a grocery store to buy lunch stuff for the week to save money. We then strolled through the main part of town, investigated a few interesting-looking shops, before returning for an afternoon discussion period. That evening, a few of the students and I headed to the White Horse pub, literally tucked inside Blackwell's bookshop, which had gradually grown around the old establishment. We knew it would be good at the sight of two elderly men, clothed in tweed caps, sitting contentedly on a wooden bench out front, drinking their pints. I opened the door, walked four steps down into the semi-darkness, and whacked my head on a low-hung beam with the helpful instructions "Mind Your Head" painted on it. Looking around, I was surprised at how small it was: a long bar ran most of the length of the pub on the left, and about six tables on the right made up the rest. The tables were primarily full of locals, a few of whom were chatting in a friendly way with a middle-aged American couple. Several men were lined up at the bar waiting to place their orders, and we had a deal of a time pushing our way through to the last empty table in the back corner. Once established, we enjoyed some fairly decent fish and chips and some flat, warm, nutty beer.
You know -- it's all about getting the full experience!
****
Update: here's a photo of Blackwell's and the White Horse Pub I took back in 2006. (The scaffolding is no longer there, of course.) There's another entrance to Blackwell's on the far left of the pub. Weird.
Day 1
(Actually, more like Day 1 1/2. Crossing time zones makes the definition of "day" tricky!)
My housemate, SuLi, and I traveled together -- a huge blessing for me, since she helped me with my luggage the whole way. The flight was long, but we had plenty of legroom and our own personal DVD players mounted in the back of the seats ahead of us. The food was good, the British stewardesses friendly, and the screaming babies kept their contributions to a discreet minimum. We were on a redeye flight headed east, which meant we chased the sunrise the whole way. The plane hardly ever got dark, and we never managed to get tired. I watched three movies and half of a documentary about two men who bought a lion cub at Harrod's department store, and there we were in London.
We went through immigration and customs, found our luggage, and headed to the bus station where we were supposed to meet up with the Dean of IPS for the bus ride to Oxford. Now I began to realize I was tired. ...no, exhausted. The Dean was late, and I had fallen asleep on my luggage before I got tapped on the shoulder. From there on out, I was like a zombie -- I actually felt pale. I mutely followed the others around the station and onto a bus, where I promptly fell asleep again. I woke up to see the lovely stone buildings of High Street, the main thoroughfare in the town of Oxford. "Lovely," I thought, and stumbled off the bus. As I trudged along down the street towards the gothic chapel of Magdalen College* and over the bridge towards St. Hilda's on the edge of town, I remember thinking something like, "Huh. Oxford. ...yep." If it's enthusiasm and an appreciation of centuries-old architecture you want, I would kindly request 8 hours of sleep and a good meal first.
Once we were established in our (very modern and fairly ugly) rooms at St. Hilda's, the Dean decided that I, at least, looked like death not-terribly-warmed-over, so she very kindly gave both SuLi and I $20 (US) and told us to go find ourselves a really good meal, STAT. Which we did. We found a little cafe down the street, technically outside the borders of the university, where a bunch of locals were enjoying a late brunch. After gratefully sucking down about three cups of very good hot tea, we both ordered the Full English Breakfast. (This, by the way, is apparently the name for the meal, not just a description. I kid you not -- go look it up.) I gather that the British think this is the last word in breakfast fare. The half tomato is crucial. As is the black pudding**.
Afterwards, we each took a brief nap, showered, and then walked across town to the little building on Beaumont Street where the Centre for Philosophical Psychology, the sister program to the IPS, is located. We were promised a wine and cheese "Welcome to Oxford" soiree at 4:30, but instead found ourselves sheepishly slipping in to a pseudo-class which was already in progress. The professors greeted us, told us what to expect, talked a bit about their intents for the class, then turned us loose. We walked around the corner to Blackfriar's Hall for Sunday evening Mass, then went in search of dinner.
Sadly, Oxford shuts down almost entirely on Sunday evenings. Restaurant after restauarant was closed for the night. After much debating and frustrated remonstrating, we finally agreed to eat at the only place that catered to hungy wayfarers after the late, late hour of 6pm -- McDonald's. We then walked the long trek back to our dorms and went to bed.
Happily, things got better after this.
*I have no idea what event that crowd was there for, but the road they're all on is High Street, the route we took to and from classes every morning. Sadly, given that we were there in the height of the tourist season, it often felt just about this crowded.
** I recommend that you taste this before asking your companion what exactly black pudding is made of.
My housemate, SuLi, and I traveled together -- a huge blessing for me, since she helped me with my luggage the whole way. The flight was long, but we had plenty of legroom and our own personal DVD players mounted in the back of the seats ahead of us. The food was good, the British stewardesses friendly, and the screaming babies kept their contributions to a discreet minimum. We were on a redeye flight headed east, which meant we chased the sunrise the whole way. The plane hardly ever got dark, and we never managed to get tired. I watched three movies and half of a documentary about two men who bought a lion cub at Harrod's department store, and there we were in London.
We went through immigration and customs, found our luggage, and headed to the bus station where we were supposed to meet up with the Dean of IPS for the bus ride to Oxford. Now I began to realize I was tired. ...no, exhausted. The Dean was late, and I had fallen asleep on my luggage before I got tapped on the shoulder. From there on out, I was like a zombie -- I actually felt pale. I mutely followed the others around the station and onto a bus, where I promptly fell asleep again. I woke up to see the lovely stone buildings of High Street, the main thoroughfare in the town of Oxford. "Lovely," I thought, and stumbled off the bus. As I trudged along down the street towards the gothic chapel of Magdalen College* and over the bridge towards St. Hilda's on the edge of town, I remember thinking something like, "Huh. Oxford. ...yep." If it's enthusiasm and an appreciation of centuries-old architecture you want, I would kindly request 8 hours of sleep and a good meal first.
Once we were established in our (very modern and fairly ugly) rooms at St. Hilda's, the Dean decided that I, at least, looked like death not-terribly-warmed-over, so she very kindly gave both SuLi and I $20 (US) and told us to go find ourselves a really good meal, STAT. Which we did. We found a little cafe down the street, technically outside the borders of the university, where a bunch of locals were enjoying a late brunch. After gratefully sucking down about three cups of very good hot tea, we both ordered the Full English Breakfast. (This, by the way, is apparently the name for the meal, not just a description. I kid you not -- go look it up.) I gather that the British think this is the last word in breakfast fare. The half tomato is crucial. As is the black pudding**.
Afterwards, we each took a brief nap, showered, and then walked across town to the little building on Beaumont Street where the Centre for Philosophical Psychology, the sister program to the IPS, is located. We were promised a wine and cheese "Welcome to Oxford" soiree at 4:30, but instead found ourselves sheepishly slipping in to a pseudo-class which was already in progress. The professors greeted us, told us what to expect, talked a bit about their intents for the class, then turned us loose. We walked around the corner to Blackfriar's Hall for Sunday evening Mass, then went in search of dinner.
Sadly, Oxford shuts down almost entirely on Sunday evenings. Restaurant after restauarant was closed for the night. After much debating and frustrated remonstrating, we finally agreed to eat at the only place that catered to hungy wayfarers after the late, late hour of 6pm -- McDonald's. We then walked the long trek back to our dorms and went to bed.
Happily, things got better after this.
*I have no idea what event that crowd was there for, but the road they're all on is High Street, the route we took to and from classes every morning. Sadly, given that we were there in the height of the tourist season, it often felt just about this crowded.
** I recommend that you taste this before asking your companion what exactly black pudding is made of.
Intro
I'm back! In more ways than one. This blog has been shamefully neglected, I know. I shall now make up for it by posting all about my recent trip to England. Photos! Stories! Thrills and chills! ...well, not so much, maybe.
SO, to begin. I was offered the chance to earn one elective credit by participating in a week-long course centered around an international conference on the ways in which philosophy and neuroscience can inform one another about the nature of the human mind, as separate from the physical brain. Fascinating stuff! And it's in Oxford. And we don't have to do any actual work above showing up, listening, and arguing (all of which I can do very well). No tests, no research, no papers. ...and it's in Oxford. Got that last bit? Right.
My internal dialogue went something like: "Hmm, let me think abou--" *booked ticket*
Overall, the trip was great. My back did give me trouble at times, (especially during the conference, which consisted of eight back-to-back, hour-long lectures in a conference room with uncomfortable plastic chairs.) Some of the students felt that we should have been given more information about neuroscience in general in the days leading up to the conference; some felt that there were too many questions raised and not enough answers. Personally, I found it to be exactly what I expected. This wasn't a class so much as an opportunity to be exposed to a major debate, discussed by some of the most brilliant minds in several different fields, and to realize that we were almost ready to be part of that debate ourselves. I was thrilled.
All right: stay tuned for day-by-day replays and photos, coming soon!
SO, to begin. I was offered the chance to earn one elective credit by participating in a week-long course centered around an international conference on the ways in which philosophy and neuroscience can inform one another about the nature of the human mind, as separate from the physical brain. Fascinating stuff! And it's in Oxford. And we don't have to do any actual work above showing up, listening, and arguing (all of which I can do very well). No tests, no research, no papers. ...and it's in Oxford. Got that last bit? Right.
My internal dialogue went something like: "Hmm, let me think abou--" *booked ticket*
Overall, the trip was great. My back did give me trouble at times, (especially during the conference, which consisted of eight back-to-back, hour-long lectures in a conference room with uncomfortable plastic chairs.) Some of the students felt that we should have been given more information about neuroscience in general in the days leading up to the conference; some felt that there were too many questions raised and not enough answers. Personally, I found it to be exactly what I expected. This wasn't a class so much as an opportunity to be exposed to a major debate, discussed by some of the most brilliant minds in several different fields, and to realize that we were almost ready to be part of that debate ourselves. I was thrilled.
All right: stay tuned for day-by-day replays and photos, coming soon!
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