Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem

Monday, June 23rd, 2014, was our first day of work. We did the normal checking in, touring, meeting everyone, pretending to actually start work thing. In the evening, seemingly every American left on campus joined us for dinner at England’s oldest pub: the Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem. The pub’s bar and rooms were carved out of the sandstone that held up Nottingham castle directly above. The low ceiling and bare rock walls made you feel as if you had found your own little corner amongst a labyrinth of caves. Each room held its own little collection of relics: A miniature tall-ship reminiscent of the Black Pearl promised imminent death if touched; though we all probably took greater care in avoiding the fertility chair around the next corner. Unable to choose which beer we wanted with our dinner, Nadia and I both had samples of three half-pints each. The scraggly man behind the counter in the picture was nicknamed Kiwi and greeted each of our odd requests with “No worries, mate.” An American girl from northern Virginia whom I’ve already forgotten the name of, suddenly became the most helpful person of the trip so far – on the back of old McDonalds receipts she scribbled down explicit directions to sights, cover charges at bars, and the best place to take afternoon tea.

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