I will be the first to acknowledge that there are a lot of things I'm not good at. Whistling, for example, has never been a strong suit of mine, and I have been asked on multiple occasions by roommates and people in my general vicinity to stop trying. I have never solved a Rubrik's cube, and many times find Sudoku completely impossible. The list goes on, including things like physics and cartwheels - though, possibly, there's some relationship between the two. But in spite of all my shortcomings, there is one thing at which I am particularly accomplished, and that is trivia.
I feel I can say this with some authority, mainly because I spent many awkward childhood years honing these skills, years when your extensive knowledge of classic television programs or "fun facts" about the U.S. political system actually count as strikes against you, socially. In fact, it's not really until college that anyone gives any thought to the fact that the kid who's constantly got a piece of useless information to share could potentially win you every round of Scattergories.
So when a friend of mine suggested we attend a traditional British pub quiz, I was all for it. Quiz nights are huge in England; almost every social establishment devotes one night each week to quiz night. Not only would this give me the chance to make some local friends, it would allow me to do it in an atmosphere in which I was at home, where I could appear cool and competent, as opposed to trying to make friends while playing dodgeball, or Connect Four (also on the list of things I'm not good at). "Abuja," I envisioned myself answering with great poise, when the inevitable "capital of Nigeria" question came up. This was going to be great.
We arrived and paid a small entrance fee.
"Have you been to one of our quiz nights before?" asked the girl at the door.
"No," my friend responded. "It's just like Jeopardy, right?" An awkward pause ensued. The girl at the door smiled politely.
"What's Jeopardy?"
We went to find seats.
One of the most important elements of your quiz night experience is your team. My friend and I decided we would play this by ear, sitting alone at a table when we arrived to scope out the potential competition and decide whether there were people we'd rather have on our team than playing against us. Ultimately, the Jeopardy-deprived girl in charge placed three more people at our table - a quiet girl who had just graduated from university, a doctoral student in chemistry, and a 40-year-old man who alternately spoke French and Italian throughout the night and asked if my Columbia fleece was Versace. Go, team.
Another very important element of quiz night is the "quiz master," a very official-sounding name for the guy reading the questions off of index cards. One cannot disregard the importance of the quiz master, as it is his personal likes and dislikes, pop cultural tastes, and sporting affiliations that will determine most of the quiz topics.
As the quiz master called us to order, I could feel my adrenaline rising. I mentally reviewed questions from junior high science bees, particularly difficult questions I had run across in Trivial Pursuit, and the first lines of different Beatles songs. I was ready.
"First category." The quiz master spoke with all the pomp and importance of a royal herald. "Identify the James Bond film by location."
Eleven questions followed, each listing three locations, almost none of which seemed to point to any particular Bond film. Never mind, this was only the first round.
"Second category: Identify the James Bond film by theme song." I was beginning to see a pattern. I hoped for some questions about the Spice Girls, or recent celebrity divorces.
By the final round I was feeling useless and defeated, having provided the answer to only one question by correctly identifying George W. Bush as the 43rd president of the United States. My confidence in my own trivia ability was severely bruised, and while the man who would one day have a doctorate in chemistry sat next to me trying to identify the element whose name is based on a German word for dwarf, I decided to call it a night.
"Final category: Catholic trivia." Just like that, I was back in the game. My friend and I looked across the table at each other, rubbing our palms together eagerly. Between us we had about 35 years of Catholic school. I could name all the books of the New Testament in order, she had extensive knowledge of the lives of the Saints - this was our chance not only to redeem ourselves, but to shine.
"Question one: How many times each day are cardinals allowed to vote, taking into consideration the number of cardinals that are permitted to vote at any given time?" A slightly different approach than I had anticipated. I prepared for the next question.
"Question two: What symbol was recently removed from the Pope's shield, and what did it represent?"
As my friend and I headed home through the rain later that night, having contributed very little, if anything, to our team's second place title, we took comfort in the fact that, although we couldn't name every one of James Bond's conquests, or come up with the sum of the Roman numerals from the last six popes, we had explored new territory.
True, our egos had been deflated and our common-room Jeopardy champion titles called into question, but in light of this new cultural experience, those things seemed, well, trivial.
Kathryn Dill is a Heights staff columnist. She welcomes comments at dillk@bcheights.com.
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