I am learning all about the medieval romance genre right now, it is all so swoon worthy, I could not be happier. The stories are all very episodic though, and I do find myself wondering what sorts of things Tristan and Yvain do in between fighting dragons and slaying giants who collect their victims' beards and weave them into extravagant cloaks (really). Lest my blogs dissapoint with the same episodic structure, I will now have a stab at describing the mundane, in between moments of my life here at Oxford. What do I do when I am not going on soul-repairing runs and talking to homeless knights in disguise? I shall now end your anticipation.
My day starts in solitude around 7am. I recently hit upon the ingenious notion that by simply switching my pillow to the opposite end of the bed, I can wake up facing the window AND use the top of the wardrobe as a night stand. Since this realization, my mornings have improved dramatically. This is not necessarily because I wake up to glorious sunrises, its just better feung shui. In fact, it is dark here until a little past 8:00, but I never know exactly when the sun rises, because of the wretched clouds- I know it must be sometime during breakfast though, because when I walk to St. Peter's dinning hall across the street, it is pitch black, and the dark always makes me a little afraid of walking past the gaping mouth of the alley along the way. It is only a shallow little alley, completely empty and only a dozen feet long, as anyone can see by the light of day, but in the predawn darkness, the pitch within is so complete and yawns with a menace that I find supernatural, and always pass as quickly as possible.
Breakfast is wonderful. Not because of the food, really- the British do strange things to their breakfast meat. I once found myself staring at what looked like an art-deco cieling tile... intricate layers and at least three shades of pink and red making a target-like design ... but it proved to be spam or some other unidentifiable meat artfully arrange around the cross section of what I believe is a hard boiled egg. They also think beans are a breakfast item, and all sorts of undercooked eggs and other horrid things that will give you a heart attack. I do enjoy the toast, however, and the oranges, and hard boiled eggs. But the whole point of talking about breakfast is to talk about the tea. I never liked tea before. But when they serve it in big silver tea pots with sugar cubes and little milk pitchers its impossible not to succumb. If for nothing else, I will brave the dark, cold walk every morning without fail just to be the first one to sit down in front of the teapot.
Four cups of tea later and I can start my day with cheer. Most days, this means I am on my own, studying, writing papers (two every week!) or reading copious amounts. There are dozens of libraries here at Oxford. Probably at least a hundred. I've been to six so far. They are almost all beautiful and unique, but of special note is the Taylorian library. It's main room is small, but high, with a broad catwalk around the edge forming a second level. The books go all the way up the walls, twenty feet or more to the ornate baroque ceiling. There are wooden ladders here and there which you're not supposed to climb, and high windows included in the blueprints of men who had an interest in letting in as much sunlight as they could, to save candles. In the middle of the room is an enormous circular table that takes up most of the room. Everyone sits at it and spreads their papers towards the middle, forming spokes. It is impossible not to think of King Arthur's table. All sorts of fabulous knights and ladies sit at that table, and I get so distracted looking at them all. Today I took particular interest in an older gentleman who wrote on white computer paper in pencil (Bjorn! its you!) and chuckled incessantly as he worked his way through a huge stack of books. I wish I knew what he found so funny in each and every one.
There is no tea at lunch, and therefore little incentive to go, other than the disgusting human necessity that obliges me to eat such dreadful things as meat pies (on bad days) or watery vegetable soup with bread (on good days). On very good days when I am feeling entitled and wealthy, I go to the covered market and get a nice big sandwich with brie, cranberries and spinach, all warmed up and melt-y and about the size of my head, on good crusty bread that crunches. Such delights cost me three and a half of my finest royal pounds, but when it is raining and I have to walk all across town from one library to another, chasing down books, I am happy to part with them. I usually walk around the covered market while I eat it. Safe from the rain, I can admire the many booths and people. Among the noteworthy are the butcher, who is forever advertising HAGGIS in all caps, and usually has a deer carcass hanging upside-down on a monstrous hook outside the shop. Headless and hoofless, the poor late hart hangs and drips blood into a neat little pile of wood shavings below. There is also the florist down the way, who sells a huge punch of daffodils for 65 pence, or a pot of hyacinths for 2 pound. I don't understand why such beautiful flowers are not got so cheap all over the world. There are all sorts of pastry shops and shoe shops, antique booksellers, and stationary stores, enough to keep a girl staring as she eats her sandwich. But then its back to the library.
Some days the weather is so vile that I can't even bring myself to walk to the library (even though I am getting to learn the shortcuts, the closest library is still about a 10 minute walk, and if you take a wrong turn, you could get lost forever in the maze of the tiny, interlocking medieval streets... you could trip on the uneven cobblestones and be trampled beneath a crowd of Japanese tourists, or run over by a careless biker... all of these dangers must be measured when walking out your door). On these rare days, I content myself with staying in my room and sprawling on the floor, surrounded by my papers. The girls next door are very fond of making all sorts of racket at all hours- either laughing orgasmically or loudly skyping their men (and crashing everyone elses' internet, thank you very much). I combat this misfortune by blaring ambiant Wanger as loud as my macbook will go, which they are sure to hate, and perhaps even take as a hint. Just the other day, it was raining relentlessly, and I was drinking tea in my room, listening to Wagner's prelude to Tristan and Isolde on loop for hours as I read Gottfried's 13th century Tristan for the first time. It was all swoons and fainting- I have to say I found the romance a little over-stimulating, but probably well worth it. I hope the girls next door sensed my swooning and heard the Wagner and were either inspired or made miserable by my antics. No reaction between these two extremes would please me; they deserve one just as much as the other.
I have classes on Wednesdays and Fridays. My favorite tutor is Doctor Alexander Kerr, who learns me the medieval Romances (that is how you say it here). He reminds me of Don Quixote in a sweater vest, and has a wrinkled old face that looks like he has had a happy life so far, except it is always melancholy on account of his chosen subject of expertise. He is kind but intimidating, and has me rad my 8-10 page papers out loud to him during our tutorials. He then spends about 15 minutes giving me feedback (which he manages to do minus the humiliation, a rare trait for an Oxford tutor). For the rest of our hour together, he pulls out a battered copy of the romance we're working on, in the original old French; he's bookmarked the page in advance with a pressed flower. Since I am the only student, I think of this master carefully marking his page the night before with me in mind, and only me - it a little thrilling. He then tells me to sit back an try to pick out the story as he reads to me the original old French version of Chretien de Troyes (I foolishly told him I spoke a little bit of French). I know for an absolute fact that if Dr. Kerr were a young man I would be in love with him, beyond a doubt. He is a type of modern knight, but foolish, and romantic, and sincere, and therefore would be both too good for me, and ill-matched. The other tutor of note is Mark Philpott, our large, jolly senior tutor who teaches my chivalry and courtly love seminar. He lives in his office, and is always there; it is where we hold our seminars. I always like to look around at the walls, which are just shelves and shelves of books, mostly of medieval theology. If there is any extra space on the shelf at all, it will be occupied by a little figurine or doll of some Winnie the Pooh character, and he has a Pooh sticks poster on his wall, next to a large poster of the Pope's accessories. Amid the papers strewn all over his desk are packages of "Hob Nobs" which are a dry sort of cookie with chocolate on top. For dunking in tea, I think. When one of us says something smart, we know it by the way he says "give that woman a biscuit!" by which he means a Hob Nob (although the sentiment is well meant, he never actually follows through with delivery of his precious Hob Nobs). Surely these are the delicacies which account for the fact that Philpott's girth does not allow his knees to bend at a 90 degree angle when he sits. Instead his little legs hang a few inches above the ground and swishes them foolishly as he pulls out winning British phrases. I have written down a few for posterity, although they will seem disjointed out of their original context:
"Miss Senecal, be a poppet and hand me that book behind you."
"Adam my boy, are you quite sure that's the preposition you want there?"
""Blasted bloody Bernarad of Clairvaux! Wretched, wretched man! I shall never hear the end of it!"
"Venison is jolly nice... and wild boar too, when you can manage it."
He also has a most encouraging way of wheedling answers out of you. When you begin to flounder, he'll say "yes yes, carry on, there's a poppet, and we'll have a biscuit for you if you avoid the 'l' word" by which he means "like."
So that covers my mornings, lunches, and classes. Night falls fast at Oxford, and dinner is usually just a perfunctory as lunch, and almost always involves some sort of horrifying meat concotion as well as a rather soggy but comparatively tempting vegetarian option. The desserts are hit or miss, the chocolate cake being exquisite, and the cheesecake best passed up. Yesterday they had big tubs of individual cups of Ben and Jerry's. I thought I had died and gone to heaven, and could not account for the extravagance. I lost no time telling everyone I could that I lived in the same town as the original scoop shop. No matter how much dessert I have, there is always room for more tea, and indeed, when I go back to my room I can only sustain myself by constantly going to the kitchen to refill my cup with hot water. Right now I am drinking from an undecorated, plain glass mug because it reminds me of Mum, who only ever drinks her tea out of this kind of mug. If I have time to be sad at all before going to bed (which I usually do not) it is only for a moment, and only because I get a little lonely in my single room. The clock tower outside my window chimes every fifteen minutes and I get a little subdued in my blankets thinking about the Carfax clock tower, which is the oldest standing item in town, and witness to centuries of street riots and bloodiness. Friends are coming, but it is hard work with this lot, to be honest. I expect only good things to report about the Harry Potter theatrical reading I'm hosting tomorrow night in the common room. I hung posters advertising it all over the hall, only to be informed by the archivist in residence here that I spelled "reprieve" wrong on the poster. Alas- humiliation. Hopefully this will not deter all of my fellow medieval students to attend.
So that covers much of the in between spaces of my days. I know I've rambled on for ages, and you get a biscuit if you've bothered to read this to the very end. I feel I haven't said anything at all... but I can at least say this- anyone reading this blog is probably only bothering because you are a very stout sort of friend, and in my darkest study abroad moments, you are the people who produce my patronuses. You dispel the orgasmic laughter next door as well as the yawning dark ally outside, and most importantly, the occasional abyss of loneliness that threatens to creep in, and for that I both thank and love you.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
The Swan Knight
I've been pretty good about running while I've been here, and that has more to do with the beautiful routes and adequate weather (hovering around 40 F in the mornings and humidity enough for lovely, mystical, adventure-inviting fog). The University Parks in the north are beautiful and quiet, and lead on to miles of cow pastures if I feel up for a long run. I also really like running along the Thames. If I wake up early enough I can run alongside the rowers. But so far my favorite route is the loop around Christ Church Meadows. Its only about a mile, but the meadow is beautiful, and the path dips down by the Thames on one side, and Christ Church is always in the background, making a breathtaking skyline. In the early morning, the fog rolls across the meadow (which, unfortunately, is fenced in by an old, black wrought-iron fence things with evil-looking spikes on the top). There are pheasants wattling across the path, and sometimes deer, and big white geese by the edge of the river. It really is something to hear spring songbirds in what I would consider the dead of winter.
For the first couple mornings, I would arrive just when the gates opened, and run in perfect solitude, two or three loops. But you can't expect to enjoy such beauty in solitude forever. Not even at 7:00 in the morning, when most people are sleeping. Near the end of my first loop on the third day, I drew level with a scrubby looking man sitting on a bench by the Thames, surrounded by a flock of the most beautiful swans I had ever seen. At first I thought they were white geese, like I'd seen before, but they were too big, and conducted themselves with too much stateliness to be geese. The man himself was not so stately, and quite obviously belonged to that class of "vagrants" we had been so strongly cautioned to avoid at our orientation. Like the disease-infested pigeons, we were told that the homeless were "not to be encouraged" either with donations or even conversation. I had not had any trouble adhering to this advice until now, since most of the homeless people in Oxford use unforgivable tactics to inspire generosity, such as displaying dejected children or abused dogs with ropes around their necks, pleading "a pence for the children, mum? a pence for my dog?" Some of the regular beggars keep their pity-inducing dogs or children on display on the same corner for long hours in the cold and the rain, sometimes even as close as two blocks from the local shelter. This sort of animal and child abuse makes it easy to merely to cross the street with downcast eyes without feeling too guilty.
But the swan man was a little different. He had two big bags of white bread on either side of the bench next to him. There was also a pack of cigarettes, and a brown bottle of surmisable contents. But there was no collection tin. I slowed to a walk as I came by, since the swans were obstructing the path. He looked up from feeding the swans. "Ello love, a'right then?" he asked. His face lit up, and although he stayed on the bench, something in his aura seemed to stretch towards me eagerly, like the graceful swans' necks towards the white bread.
"Hello sir" I said, edging around the swans.
"Alright then? Going to have a hard day, love?" he pressed, from his bench.
"Ummm, maybe, I have a paper due, I ..."
"Aw, well, that's too bad. Would you like a sit, then? Offer you a fag?"he held out a stump of a lightly smoking cigarette.
"Ah, no thanks. I don't smoke. I should, er, keep running though."
"Awwww well good luck to you mum! I hope it goes a'right for yer."
"Thank you" I said, taken aback."Err... you too!" I kept running, a little out of sorts, and looking over my shoulder.
The swan man has been on the same bench, surrounded by swans every time I've been to the meadows since. It doesn't matter what time of day I go (in fact, I've stopped going in the early mornings, you'll be glad to know, Mom). And every time I go, I have the exact same interaction with the swan man. He exchanges a few words with everyone who passes. Some ignore him, and some tip their hats as they walk. It is hard to know whether someone like him is harmless or not, but I decided to find out, since he seemed so starved for conversation. I went around tea time yesterday, in the bright sunlight, when I knew the meadow lane would be full of people strolling. I found him in his usual spot, but instead of running on as usual, I stopped and asked if I could feed the swans with him. He handed me a stack of bread and immediately started to talk to me. Conversation to him seemed to be like water to a man in the desert. He asked me if I was a student. I told him I was visiting for a semester from the States. He told me he thought that was very nice, and wondered what I was studying. History. Oh really? He had studied history when he was at school. What kind of history? Medieval. I didn't say! That was just the kind of history he had done too. Well you can imagine I didn't find it very encouraging to be talking to a homeless person and discover that he and I shared a career-defining interest. In any case, it seemed likely that he was making it all up. He certainly didn't look as though he'd been through a medieval studies course at Oxford.
He asked me what I was reading. I told him romances. Keats? No, medieval romance - the epics. I don't know why I bothered, it was like speaking lange d'oil to a modern french person. He kept squinting as though he were trying to remember things about his medieval history classes, or, more likely, like he was trying to invent a history for himself on the spot. He even claimed that he had read romances too, when he was a boy at school. Ahh, how interesting, I told him. I began to throw larger pieces to the swans, so I could finish the bread more quickly and be on my way. He noticed, and his face fell, and I got the impression of a dog's perked ears falling in dejection. "Now, I wonder, mum" he began, in an obvious attempt to keep me talking, "if you've read the romance about the swan knight."
"Ahh, no I only just started to read them. I haven't gotten to the swan one yet." I said, dusting the crumbs off my hands.
"Ah, well, you'll 'ave to read it then. There's this knight, and his brother's a swan, see, and he pulls him around in a boat saving ladies and whatnot, only he doesn't have a name, ee's just the Swan Knight. Ee's the reason why I like the swans so much."
"Ah ha. Well, its been nice talking to you."
"Ah, yes, love, and you too, have a lovely day." And he meant it.
Well, I thought, at least I tried, but homeless people are, in fact, frequently crazy, as much as I want to give them the benefit of the doubt. Even thought I had no trouble coming to this conclusion, I still could not restrain myself at my tutorial this morning. Just as my tutor was leaving, I asked him if there was a romance having to do with swans.
"Swans?" he asked, arranging his sweater vest, "Ah, you mean the epic of the Swan Knight. Have you read it?"
"Er... no, I haven't."
"It's supposedly connected with Godfrey of Bouillon, of the first crusade. They made all these tales up to attach to their biographies... supernatural genealogies adds a mythological flair to one's reputation, and so on."
"Oh." I said, "But was there something about his brother being a swan, and a boat that was pulled by a swan...?" My tutor raised an eyebrow and asked,
"Well yes, of course. Are you quite sure you haven't read this one before, Miss Senecal?"
Well, obviously I hadn't.
For the first couple mornings, I would arrive just when the gates opened, and run in perfect solitude, two or three loops. But you can't expect to enjoy such beauty in solitude forever. Not even at 7:00 in the morning, when most people are sleeping. Near the end of my first loop on the third day, I drew level with a scrubby looking man sitting on a bench by the Thames, surrounded by a flock of the most beautiful swans I had ever seen. At first I thought they were white geese, like I'd seen before, but they were too big, and conducted themselves with too much stateliness to be geese. The man himself was not so stately, and quite obviously belonged to that class of "vagrants" we had been so strongly cautioned to avoid at our orientation. Like the disease-infested pigeons, we were told that the homeless were "not to be encouraged" either with donations or even conversation. I had not had any trouble adhering to this advice until now, since most of the homeless people in Oxford use unforgivable tactics to inspire generosity, such as displaying dejected children or abused dogs with ropes around their necks, pleading "a pence for the children, mum? a pence for my dog?" Some of the regular beggars keep their pity-inducing dogs or children on display on the same corner for long hours in the cold and the rain, sometimes even as close as two blocks from the local shelter. This sort of animal and child abuse makes it easy to merely to cross the street with downcast eyes without feeling too guilty.
But the swan man was a little different. He had two big bags of white bread on either side of the bench next to him. There was also a pack of cigarettes, and a brown bottle of surmisable contents. But there was no collection tin. I slowed to a walk as I came by, since the swans were obstructing the path. He looked up from feeding the swans. "Ello love, a'right then?" he asked. His face lit up, and although he stayed on the bench, something in his aura seemed to stretch towards me eagerly, like the graceful swans' necks towards the white bread.
"Hello sir" I said, edging around the swans.
"Alright then? Going to have a hard day, love?" he pressed, from his bench.
"Ummm, maybe, I have a paper due, I ..."
"Aw, well, that's too bad. Would you like a sit, then? Offer you a fag?"he held out a stump of a lightly smoking cigarette.
"Ah, no thanks. I don't smoke. I should, er, keep running though."
"Awwww well good luck to you mum! I hope it goes a'right for yer."
"Thank you" I said, taken aback."Err... you too!" I kept running, a little out of sorts, and looking over my shoulder.
The swan man has been on the same bench, surrounded by swans every time I've been to the meadows since. It doesn't matter what time of day I go (in fact, I've stopped going in the early mornings, you'll be glad to know, Mom). And every time I go, I have the exact same interaction with the swan man. He exchanges a few words with everyone who passes. Some ignore him, and some tip their hats as they walk. It is hard to know whether someone like him is harmless or not, but I decided to find out, since he seemed so starved for conversation. I went around tea time yesterday, in the bright sunlight, when I knew the meadow lane would be full of people strolling. I found him in his usual spot, but instead of running on as usual, I stopped and asked if I could feed the swans with him. He handed me a stack of bread and immediately started to talk to me. Conversation to him seemed to be like water to a man in the desert. He asked me if I was a student. I told him I was visiting for a semester from the States. He told me he thought that was very nice, and wondered what I was studying. History. Oh really? He had studied history when he was at school. What kind of history? Medieval. I didn't say! That was just the kind of history he had done too. Well you can imagine I didn't find it very encouraging to be talking to a homeless person and discover that he and I shared a career-defining interest. In any case, it seemed likely that he was making it all up. He certainly didn't look as though he'd been through a medieval studies course at Oxford.
He asked me what I was reading. I told him romances. Keats? No, medieval romance - the epics. I don't know why I bothered, it was like speaking lange d'oil to a modern french person. He kept squinting as though he were trying to remember things about his medieval history classes, or, more likely, like he was trying to invent a history for himself on the spot. He even claimed that he had read romances too, when he was a boy at school. Ahh, how interesting, I told him. I began to throw larger pieces to the swans, so I could finish the bread more quickly and be on my way. He noticed, and his face fell, and I got the impression of a dog's perked ears falling in dejection. "Now, I wonder, mum" he began, in an obvious attempt to keep me talking, "if you've read the romance about the swan knight."
"Ahh, no I only just started to read them. I haven't gotten to the swan one yet." I said, dusting the crumbs off my hands.
"Ah, well, you'll 'ave to read it then. There's this knight, and his brother's a swan, see, and he pulls him around in a boat saving ladies and whatnot, only he doesn't have a name, ee's just the Swan Knight. Ee's the reason why I like the swans so much."
"Ah ha. Well, its been nice talking to you."
"Ah, yes, love, and you too, have a lovely day." And he meant it.
Well, I thought, at least I tried, but homeless people are, in fact, frequently crazy, as much as I want to give them the benefit of the doubt. Even thought I had no trouble coming to this conclusion, I still could not restrain myself at my tutorial this morning. Just as my tutor was leaving, I asked him if there was a romance having to do with swans.
"Swans?" he asked, arranging his sweater vest, "Ah, you mean the epic of the Swan Knight. Have you read it?"
"Er... no, I haven't."
"It's supposedly connected with Godfrey of Bouillon, of the first crusade. They made all these tales up to attach to their biographies... supernatural genealogies adds a mythological flair to one's reputation, and so on."
"Oh." I said, "But was there something about his brother being a swan, and a boat that was pulled by a swan...?" My tutor raised an eyebrow and asked,
"Well yes, of course. Are you quite sure you haven't read this one before, Miss Senecal?"
Well, obviously I hadn't.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Mission Impossible, Christ Church Style.
I finally learned how I can gain access to Christ Church College without surrendering five of my finest royal pounds, and that is to masquerade as a pious Catholic intent on going to mass. Last night I wandered up to the gates, which were open just enough to admit one person at a time, in single file. A few old pilgrims filed in ahead of me, nodding to the warden, who stood there with an umbrella. "Going to the six o'clock evensong service?" he confirmed as I passed. I told him yes, and he pointed straight across the courtyard at an open door, telling me that this was my destination. It seemed as though he did this to make absolutely sure I knew where I was going and no excuse to wander and "become lost", although of course he didn't say that outright. I walked slowly across the dark courtyard. There are no light inside, but the moon was shinning down through gaps in the rain clouds. There was a big fountain in the middle of the yard, and lights in the highest windows. I can't believe some people actually go to school here. I walked close to the wall rather than cut across the middle, and the warden watched me suspiciously as I went. I had no intention of trying anything funny while he was on the lookout. So I eventually came to the cathedral on the other side of the green. It was beautiful, even though I had come in by the back door, or so it seemed. The seats were like school desks and had a candle at each place, and about five different prayer and hymn books. Instead of facing the alter, like you would expect, they were arranged longitudally, so you had to look all the way to your left to see the gaudy alter way at the end of the nave. I sat at the very back for some very specific purposes, and this turned out to be a good thing, because soon the choir boys came in, and sat right next to me on my left, and also across from me. Half were tiny boys between six and nine, I'd say, and the rest all looked like college students. They sounded amazing, even though I knew they'd been doing services all day, I couldn't believe their stamina. This praise cannot be applied universally, however, since I saw one naughty little choir boy in towards the back with what was unmistakably a Harry Potter book in his lap. I couldn't believe it! He stood and sang diligently, but when the prayers were being said, he would look down his nose into his lap. I think it must be a reoccurring problem, because the choir master (who looked like he'd just been plucked out of a nice Lutheran setting in Minnesota, so kindly and wholesome was his way of conducting when he wasn't reprimanding this choir boy) kept looking at him and frowning pointedly. Another little boy was so tiny that when they knelt at various parts of the service his head did not rise above the banister, and he appeared headless as you looked down the row. One of the older boys sitting next to me said the Apostle's Creed with such enthusiasm that he spat all over his psalter (accidentally, I'm sure) and clasped his hands until his knuckles turned white. The despair with which he prayed and the joy with which he sang were so contrasting that I was more interested in guessing his story than listening to the mass, and soon they were singing the final hymn, and I had almost forgotten my true purpose in coming to the evening service....
I slipped out towards the very end, completely unnoticed by either of the ancient ushers who had been standing against the wall throughout. They seemed a little dazed as I walked past, like two sphinxes rendered comical by their negligence. As soon as I had cleared the cathedral steps and checked that the warden across the green had gone back in his little hut, I walked quickly south, as if I knew where I was going. Actually, I did have a destination in mind, but only a vague idea of how to get there- the Great Hall, that is, the Harry Potter Great Hall. I passed a few stone archways leading into a semi-open-air entries... some with stairwells, some comptely unlit, some were chained off. And then I saw, as I went flashing by, what was ummistakably the Grand Staircase. The steps were huge and the scrolls on the banisters were richly carved, and a yellow light hung over it all, making the white marble look really old. I looked up and could picture Professor McGonagall standing there sternly, but in reality I was perfectly alone. I obviously ignored the large sign that said "no visitors beyond this point" in five different languages, and climbed the famous stairs. The doors to the dining hall were pulled shut, but I knew exactly where they led. I could even hear the hum of student's voices inside, and clatter of plates as they ate dinner. Imagine eating dinner in there every single night. I walked up slowly and put my eye to the rather substantial crack in the doors, but could see nothing.
"Oy! What are you doing there?" UGH! He came out of nowhere! but he looked entirely mean spirited and more than capable of arresting me for trespassing. He was about three feet away from me, and after standing stammering on the spot for a moment I turned and ran as fast as I could, without even answering him! It was thrilling, even though he didn't follow me. I ran all the way to the front gates, past the warden house, jumping over the little chain blocking it off and through the single-file crack in the front doors. I didn't stop until I got back to the corner of Queen Street and St. Aldates- phew, the thrill was totally worth the fear, and I hope you won't judge me too harshly if I congratulate myself on my daring (though, ultimately doomed) mission.
Off now to read Chretien de Troyes, the original creator of the "Bromance" phenomena, as well as the Medieval Romantic Epic.
I slipped out towards the very end, completely unnoticed by either of the ancient ushers who had been standing against the wall throughout. They seemed a little dazed as I walked past, like two sphinxes rendered comical by their negligence. As soon as I had cleared the cathedral steps and checked that the warden across the green had gone back in his little hut, I walked quickly south, as if I knew where I was going. Actually, I did have a destination in mind, but only a vague idea of how to get there- the Great Hall, that is, the Harry Potter Great Hall. I passed a few stone archways leading into a semi-open-air entries... some with stairwells, some comptely unlit, some were chained off. And then I saw, as I went flashing by, what was ummistakably the Grand Staircase. The steps were huge and the scrolls on the banisters were richly carved, and a yellow light hung over it all, making the white marble look really old. I looked up and could picture Professor McGonagall standing there sternly, but in reality I was perfectly alone. I obviously ignored the large sign that said "no visitors beyond this point" in five different languages, and climbed the famous stairs. The doors to the dining hall were pulled shut, but I knew exactly where they led. I could even hear the hum of student's voices inside, and clatter of plates as they ate dinner. Imagine eating dinner in there every single night. I walked up slowly and put my eye to the rather substantial crack in the doors, but could see nothing.
"Oy! What are you doing there?" UGH! He came out of nowhere! but he looked entirely mean spirited and more than capable of arresting me for trespassing. He was about three feet away from me, and after standing stammering on the spot for a moment I turned and ran as fast as I could, without even answering him! It was thrilling, even though he didn't follow me. I ran all the way to the front gates, past the warden house, jumping over the little chain blocking it off and through the single-file crack in the front doors. I didn't stop until I got back to the corner of Queen Street and St. Aldates- phew, the thrill was totally worth the fear, and I hope you won't judge me too harshly if I congratulate myself on my daring (though, ultimately doomed) mission.
Off now to read Chretien de Troyes, the original creator of the "Bromance" phenomena, as well as the Medieval Romantic Epic.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Locked In
Following up on my last blog, in which I lamented the "closed door" nature of scholarship here at Oxford, I would now like to consider the drawbacks of the opposite extreme- being locked inside one of these fortified ivory towers. Last night found me in the history section of the St. Peter's Library (which is new, and not as pretty as the other colleges, but has just as many books). I had never been on St. Peter's campus so late at night, and when I emerged from the stacks at around 11:00 PM, I went to the gatehouse to make my exit. The gatehouse is one of the two portals in the St. Peter's complex. All of the buildings- the dinning hall, library, dorms, student center, and chapel, are centered around a little quad, forming a ring of stone buildings that you haven't a hope of getting into unless its by the gatehouse. Here you nod to the gatekeeper as though you are supposed to be there, and he lets you in. Just as the chapel bell was chimming 11:00, I was dismayed to find the gatehouse dark and the big wooden doors pulled shut. When a normal plywood door is pulled shut, there's always a good chance that it might be unlocked, or that you could at least break it down, but these Oxford doors are built to repel invading Scandinavians. When they are shut, the hope of them being unlocked is utterly futile, as were my attempts to push them open.
The only other entrance to the courtyard is a wrought iron gate around the chapel. The gate is about 15 feet high, and spans the wide alley between the chapel and dinning hall. There is a small, person-sized door to one side, with a modern monstrosity attached to allow you to swipe your exclusive St. Peter's ID card to open the gate. As I dug in my pocket for my card, I realized with dismay that a big black chain had been wrapped around the gate. I rattled it, but to no effect. I turned and leaned against the cold iron, and then quickly stopped leaning on it because it was wet with rain. I remember being in a tutu in a grocery store when I was little, staring at the cookie shelves- shelves and shelves of beautiful cookies! In brightly colored boxes, I could almost smell them through the packaging. All this joy dashed on the cold linolium floor as soon as I looked up and realized that Mum was nowhere to be seen, and I was lost. It is rather the same thing when there you are, a scholar in a scholar's paradise, looking at the rows and rows of beautiful old books. Then you think you'll make your way home to dream sweetly on 10th century ploughs and how the crusades effected the economic revolution in Western Europe but suddenly realize that your haven has become your prison. A bubbling panic replaced the joy, and I might as well have been wearing a tutu for how stupid and out of place I suddenly felt.
The gatehouse doors were pulled to. The iron gate was deliberately chained. And the stone walls were high. And it was raining (in fact, it is always raining, its just at crucial moments like these that you note the weather for dramatic effect). What else was a girl to do but walk back and forth like a ghost until someone came along? That was what I did, thinking gloomy thoughts as my hair began to stick to my face in the drizzle. A few days ago I was practically hanging on the gates, waiting to be let in. I was pursing my lips in frustration when I was denied access to some of the more elite college's libraries. And now my wish had been granted in too much earnest, and I was as good as lost in the grocery store. As I paced the courtyard, I thought how useless these fortresses are without the outside world. How meaningless it all is when it must be taken in solitude. The clock chimed quarter past (it really does get annoying, every fifteen minutes) and still no St. Peter's student had appeared to deliver me. I began thinking of how bad it would be to spend the night in the library (which is open 24/7). The idea was so gloomy that I strode up to the front doors again and pushed against them with all my might (which, admittedly, is not very much). I admit that I began to cry. It was so stupid, there MUST be a way out. I referred to the Harry Potter instruction mannual that I keep stored in my head for times such as these. I found that the best thing to do would be to summon happy thoughts for a patronus effect. I thought of all the things on the outside that I could not find on the inside, in the library: Guilaine, Joe, Pol, Kate, Sammy, Mom. Carmen, Julie, Bjorn, Taylor, Dan, Pat. I hope you're all reading this and having a good laugh at me, because that is what I imagined you all doing, and it did make me feel so much better. It made me realize that I can love the books as much as I want- that is what I am here to do, after all, but they will not love me back, and they will never be part of my patronus, at least not for their own sake. If I had been locked in with the Oles we might have had a grand adventure and stayed in the library all night, but it is quite different to be alone, and the adventure takes on a more solemn character, one that I didn't like at all.
Finally, at 11:35, a group of St. Peter's students came in through the front gate with their cards, and I managed to slip past them without looking too pathetic or lost. I must remember to ask (in as offhand a manner as possible) how to get OUT of Saint Peter's after hours. The patronous was used to great effect, but I get the feeling it is most useful when conjured sparingly, and only in times of great need.
The only other entrance to the courtyard is a wrought iron gate around the chapel. The gate is about 15 feet high, and spans the wide alley between the chapel and dinning hall. There is a small, person-sized door to one side, with a modern monstrosity attached to allow you to swipe your exclusive St. Peter's ID card to open the gate. As I dug in my pocket for my card, I realized with dismay that a big black chain had been wrapped around the gate. I rattled it, but to no effect. I turned and leaned against the cold iron, and then quickly stopped leaning on it because it was wet with rain. I remember being in a tutu in a grocery store when I was little, staring at the cookie shelves- shelves and shelves of beautiful cookies! In brightly colored boxes, I could almost smell them through the packaging. All this joy dashed on the cold linolium floor as soon as I looked up and realized that Mum was nowhere to be seen, and I was lost. It is rather the same thing when there you are, a scholar in a scholar's paradise, looking at the rows and rows of beautiful old books. Then you think you'll make your way home to dream sweetly on 10th century ploughs and how the crusades effected the economic revolution in Western Europe but suddenly realize that your haven has become your prison. A bubbling panic replaced the joy, and I might as well have been wearing a tutu for how stupid and out of place I suddenly felt.
The gatehouse doors were pulled to. The iron gate was deliberately chained. And the stone walls were high. And it was raining (in fact, it is always raining, its just at crucial moments like these that you note the weather for dramatic effect). What else was a girl to do but walk back and forth like a ghost until someone came along? That was what I did, thinking gloomy thoughts as my hair began to stick to my face in the drizzle. A few days ago I was practically hanging on the gates, waiting to be let in. I was pursing my lips in frustration when I was denied access to some of the more elite college's libraries. And now my wish had been granted in too much earnest, and I was as good as lost in the grocery store. As I paced the courtyard, I thought how useless these fortresses are without the outside world. How meaningless it all is when it must be taken in solitude. The clock chimed quarter past (it really does get annoying, every fifteen minutes) and still no St. Peter's student had appeared to deliver me. I began thinking of how bad it would be to spend the night in the library (which is open 24/7). The idea was so gloomy that I strode up to the front doors again and pushed against them with all my might (which, admittedly, is not very much). I admit that I began to cry. It was so stupid, there MUST be a way out. I referred to the Harry Potter instruction mannual that I keep stored in my head for times such as these. I found that the best thing to do would be to summon happy thoughts for a patronus effect. I thought of all the things on the outside that I could not find on the inside, in the library: Guilaine, Joe, Pol, Kate, Sammy, Mom. Carmen, Julie, Bjorn, Taylor, Dan, Pat. I hope you're all reading this and having a good laugh at me, because that is what I imagined you all doing, and it did make me feel so much better. It made me realize that I can love the books as much as I want- that is what I am here to do, after all, but they will not love me back, and they will never be part of my patronus, at least not for their own sake. If I had been locked in with the Oles we might have had a grand adventure and stayed in the library all night, but it is quite different to be alone, and the adventure takes on a more solemn character, one that I didn't like at all.
Finally, at 11:35, a group of St. Peter's students came in through the front gate with their cards, and I managed to slip past them without looking too pathetic or lost. I must remember to ask (in as offhand a manner as possible) how to get OUT of Saint Peter's after hours. The patronous was used to great effect, but I get the feeling it is most useful when conjured sparingly, and only in times of great need.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Pico Resurfaces From Great Con Readings!
It has just been made explicitly clear (by rather implicit means) how much free time is about to be taken off my hands this coming week. I appear to have only 3 hours of class per week, plus a colloquium lecture or discussion (on alternate weeks), plus a 6-8 page essay (based on extensive readings) for each tutorial. Add the time it takes to navigate the Bodelian libraries and we're looking at 40 hour days, nine days a week needed to fit it all in. I AM SO EXCITED. The impending work means I will have, perhaps, a more abbreviated space in which I can blog, so I will now work on being succinct. Highlights of the past 24 hours:
First Coloquim Lecture: Coloquim lectures are delivered bi-weekly on broad themes relating to the Renaissance/Reformation/Englightenment. Today we got an introduction to the Renaissance from Dr. Crowe. Next Monday we are set to discuss the lecture and assigned reading in groups (hey great conners, guess what is the assigned reading? Pico's Oration on the Dignity of Man). In crude but accurate terms, this lecture blew my mind and made me want to study Renaissance exclusively and forever. Basically introduced the idea that artists, philosophers etc of the 15th and 16th centuries disposed of the medieval idea that art and thought should serve or support God, and instead the artist becomes creator and has a power structure crisis, since he has just proved God irrelevant. In a close-up of the almost-touching fingers of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, is it clear which finger belongs to God, and which to Adam? Yeah, apparently that was deliberate. Ok, there was a lot of waffle that I didn't understand, but very intriguing. It was like getting hit in the face and being so dazed, in a strangely pleasant, academic sort of way. The goal now is to get over the tingliness of the lecture, recover, and disect the content to figure out what so intrigued me at first. Dr. Crowe is amazingly brilliant whether I end up agreeing with him or not, I think. He did some research on Pico's life which resulted in them digging up his body to confirm Dr. Crowe's suspicion that he had been poisoned with arsenic. He had been.
Bodelian Library: Has every book published in England and UK since 1610. Over 12 million. A research library (set of libraries) only, you cannot borrow these books, indeed, I took a solemn verbal oath that I would not set fire to, damage or attempt to remove the books before I was allowed my card. There is a story that one of the Kings of England (Edward II?) was forcefully prevented from taking a book by a librarian. This anecdote to remind us of our lowly status as undergraduates: if the King himself could not take a book out, we certainly shouldn't attempt it. We were promised to be punished to the full extent of the law should we break our oaths, also assured our expulsion from the program. I was surprised the threat of anathema was left out, but on second thought, it was likely implied. Certainly more to come on the Bodelian, which is all sorts of haunted and magic etc.
News from Saint Peter's Dining Hall: Breakfast rocks. First time I managed to get to breakfast was this morning. They have lovely oranges and cereal and juice in pitchers all along the tables, and big teapots and coffeepots also. I suddenly really like English Breakfast tea, especially since I came into breakfast directly following a run in the cold rain and anything hot tasted like ambrosia. Also, Saint Peter's students are starting to trickle in for their start of term, all looking like J Crew models with their copies of Wuthering Heights propped up against juice pitchers. So far, so excellent.
Hopefully more later. I do really like blogging. It helps me remember. But if you don't hear from me, assume I'm in a pleasant academic coma somewhere in the remote recesses of the Bodleian, having overdosed on oranges from Spain and Pico's Dignity of Man.
First Coloquim Lecture: Coloquim lectures are delivered bi-weekly on broad themes relating to the Renaissance/Reformation/Englightenment. Today we got an introduction to the Renaissance from Dr. Crowe. Next Monday we are set to discuss the lecture and assigned reading in groups (hey great conners, guess what is the assigned reading? Pico's Oration on the Dignity of Man). In crude but accurate terms, this lecture blew my mind and made me want to study Renaissance exclusively and forever. Basically introduced the idea that artists, philosophers etc of the 15th and 16th centuries disposed of the medieval idea that art and thought should serve or support God, and instead the artist becomes creator and has a power structure crisis, since he has just proved God irrelevant. In a close-up of the almost-touching fingers of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel, is it clear which finger belongs to God, and which to Adam? Yeah, apparently that was deliberate. Ok, there was a lot of waffle that I didn't understand, but very intriguing. It was like getting hit in the face and being so dazed, in a strangely pleasant, academic sort of way. The goal now is to get over the tingliness of the lecture, recover, and disect the content to figure out what so intrigued me at first. Dr. Crowe is amazingly brilliant whether I end up agreeing with him or not, I think. He did some research on Pico's life which resulted in them digging up his body to confirm Dr. Crowe's suspicion that he had been poisoned with arsenic. He had been.
Bodelian Library: Has every book published in England and UK since 1610. Over 12 million. A research library (set of libraries) only, you cannot borrow these books, indeed, I took a solemn verbal oath that I would not set fire to, damage or attempt to remove the books before I was allowed my card. There is a story that one of the Kings of England (Edward II?) was forcefully prevented from taking a book by a librarian. This anecdote to remind us of our lowly status as undergraduates: if the King himself could not take a book out, we certainly shouldn't attempt it. We were promised to be punished to the full extent of the law should we break our oaths, also assured our expulsion from the program. I was surprised the threat of anathema was left out, but on second thought, it was likely implied. Certainly more to come on the Bodelian, which is all sorts of haunted and magic etc.
News from Saint Peter's Dining Hall: Breakfast rocks. First time I managed to get to breakfast was this morning. They have lovely oranges and cereal and juice in pitchers all along the tables, and big teapots and coffeepots also. I suddenly really like English Breakfast tea, especially since I came into breakfast directly following a run in the cold rain and anything hot tasted like ambrosia. Also, Saint Peter's students are starting to trickle in for their start of term, all looking like J Crew models with their copies of Wuthering Heights propped up against juice pitchers. So far, so excellent.
Hopefully more later. I do really like blogging. It helps me remember. But if you don't hear from me, assume I'm in a pleasant academic coma somewhere in the remote recesses of the Bodleian, having overdosed on oranges from Spain and Pico's Dignity of Man.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Beware Falling Masonry
I spent a rare cloudless afternoon walking in a new section of town, where the many colleges of Oxford University are scattered. It was all Gothic arches and spires, old cobblestones and high towers and over-sized- wrought iron fences. By 5:00, however, all of the beautiful lawns in the courtyards are closed to visitors, so I lucked out. I managed to glimpse these through the gates before it got dark, however- they are green and bright, and glow even the dead of winter. I thought of my own dorm room with ugly baby blue duvet and painted brick interiors. I longed to get past the security guards and run amok on those lawns. I felt a warm (or hot?) feeling in my stomach when I thought longingly of the interior of Christ Church College (the magnificent one, where they filmed Harry Potter scenes). The feeling was difficult to pin down, I know I wanted to see the famed majesty of these exclusive halls, but the exclusivity of it made me a little uneasy, or sick, maybe.
Now that I think of it, I found myself hanging on a lot of gates at Oxford this afternoon... big black ones, closed wooden doors, or velvet tubes roping off Cathedrals for paying pilgrims only. It even costs at least 2 pounds to climb most of the towers. I suppose I'll always be able to tell employers I studied at Oxford, and I'm not trying to demean the academic experiences I've had so far, or will have in the next months... but I suddenly remember now, that this is a city of exclusivity, stone courtyards, and fences. The beautiful hedges that surround the campuses (in lieu of a stone wall) are grown tall for a reason- to keep people out. Maybe we Romantic students who find ourselves hanging on the cold gates, drooling over the green lawns and ivory towers within ought to step back and consider what it is we're pinning for, and whether what I'm really after can't be found down the street next to the MacDonalds. At this unseemly address is a little store called "The Last Bookshop". This title holds an actual threat now, in the days of Kindles and Nooks, I suppose. All books are 2 pounds each (the price it costs to climb the towers or gain admittance to many of the Cathedrals). I noticed the Last Bookshop carried many of the books I can expect to read this semester: Abelard and Heloise, Parzival, the Lays of Marie de France, Chretien de Troyes, Dante, Boccacio , Tristan et Isolde, etc. The real academia.
I am glad to be surrounded by these beautiful Gothic stone schools. Like their brothers, the cathedrals, they act as an homage to the learning and understanding they house, and they are indeed inspiring. But I am glad, too, to rouse myself out of the ridiculous attitude of hanging on a cold locked gate all afternoon. I wanted to fit the word "absurd" into that last sentence as well, but couldn't manage it in the allotted time. I now realize the folly of my sentiment when I read a sign outside of Exeter College that read "beware falling masonry". I had initially thought that a rogue Oxford gargoyle would be a rather noble way to die. But how idiotic! If I must die at all, I had better be entrenched in the Last Bookshop, with many of my foes felled at my feet, myself pierced by many arrows (in the front, of course). To live and die with the humanity of which I study in these ivory towers- that is the goal- and not to die pinned under a white stone, physically or metaphorically.
That all might be a bit heavy for a blog, I don't know. I'll also have you know that I went to a pub last night (a very mundane occupation compared to battle with the kindle industry and highbrow Oxford executives controlling admittance to the green courtyards). The Eagle and Child pub is just down the street- it seems to have been made for short, Anglo Saxons- all the doorways are low and the stools would make some of my taller gentlemen friends look like bizarre frogs with long legs and underdeveloped torsos. This was the pub CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien used to frequent. I as a little started to see Lewis smiling down at me from over the mantelpiece as I furtively sipped my half pint of chocolate stout (it didn't taste like chocolate, but it didn't taste like stout either. Instead I enjoyed the warming effect of each). I think its nice that a man who lived and worked in those ivory towers for so many years should be smiling down on me from the wall of his favorite pub. It's like he's egging me on, or something.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Elementary Surroundings- Basic Description.
Two planes, one bus, a taxi, and lots of walking around... and I am here! I spent one delirious jet lagged night at a lovely Inn called the Head of the River (thanks to my nameless, but angelic, hotel-booking benefactress). I nearly collapsed on the doormat with my one suitcase, heavy viola, and computer bag. Out came this matron type, white-haired lady, the madame of the pub. She made a big fuss over me, and had her lacky take my bag from me. He was just as distinctive as Madame, surly looking, and taciturn. It would have been fitting if he had been a hunchback, but alas, he lacked any visible handicaps except a big burn on his arm. When I had recovered enough to have some dinner, I found that he was also the bartender, and served me a pint of this big heavy stout when I asked for a water. He winked at me and said (in an almost unrecognizable cockney accent) "didn't come all th' way 'ere' ta drink watah, dijya?" I wasn't sure what the proper response to that could have been, so I drank most of it (nasty, hoppy, dark stuff, made me cough). This pleased him very much, and we became friends over the course of the evening in an Esmeralda/Quasimodo kind of way.
The next morning found me trudging up the main street, luggage in tow. I disdained all passing taxis as the one that had taken me from the bus station ripped me off and was a bit too much of a flirt. It wasn't raining, really, but more like standing under one of those vegetable misters in the produce section. By the end of the trek, I had to stop and rest every block or so, my stuff was so heavy, but in the end, I arrived at Saint Michael's Hall in Shoe Lane. Tiny pedestrian dead end, pigeons flocking everywhere. Its a red building, with a cell phone storefront taking up all the bottom floor. I enjoyed half a second of thinking that the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance studies would be one of those magic locations that only medieval historians could see, and you had to tap a certain brick in the wall for the entrance to appear... but then I saw a big wooden door at the end that kind of blended into the shadow at first. I buzzed myself in, and the nice lady, Fiona came to "sort me out". She is a great, and a kind lady, and showed me up this labyrinth of stairs (David Bowie was not around any of the corners).
First and foremost, my room is a complete eye-sore, unless you have the good fortune of being color blind. Revolting baby blue duvet, velvet green curtains, brick walls painted a Toys-R-Us yellow, and a ketchup red rug. It was all clean though, and warm, and functional, and the color scheme less abrasiveness once I'd unpacked and added a little pot of paper whites to the windowsill.
These are all elementary sketches of my surroundings, mostly to assure Mom that all is well and clean and stuff. My bed is the only thing a little weird- my roommate called it a prison bed- she's kind of right. It is really short (not so much a problem for me) and narrow and hard as a plank. Luckily, I have my sleeping bag, so I can snuggle in, look out the window, and see the sky, and pretend I am sleeping outside.
There is lots more to report of course- my wanderings around town, and the Christ Church meadows, my run on the cobblestone streets, the boring content, but brilliant delivery of the safety orientations we've had, the FOOD (I'll come back emaciated, its so vile). I'll reserve judgement on my fellow American students for now. That's the kindest route. For now, I'm off to dinner to see what else they can do with potatoes... presumably they will run out of ideas very soon.
The next morning found me trudging up the main street, luggage in tow. I disdained all passing taxis as the one that had taken me from the bus station ripped me off and was a bit too much of a flirt. It wasn't raining, really, but more like standing under one of those vegetable misters in the produce section. By the end of the trek, I had to stop and rest every block or so, my stuff was so heavy, but in the end, I arrived at Saint Michael's Hall in Shoe Lane. Tiny pedestrian dead end, pigeons flocking everywhere. Its a red building, with a cell phone storefront taking up all the bottom floor. I enjoyed half a second of thinking that the Centre for Medieval and Renaissance studies would be one of those magic locations that only medieval historians could see, and you had to tap a certain brick in the wall for the entrance to appear... but then I saw a big wooden door at the end that kind of blended into the shadow at first. I buzzed myself in, and the nice lady, Fiona came to "sort me out". She is a great, and a kind lady, and showed me up this labyrinth of stairs (David Bowie was not around any of the corners).
First and foremost, my room is a complete eye-sore, unless you have the good fortune of being color blind. Revolting baby blue duvet, velvet green curtains, brick walls painted a Toys-R-Us yellow, and a ketchup red rug. It was all clean though, and warm, and functional, and the color scheme less abrasiveness once I'd unpacked and added a little pot of paper whites to the windowsill.
These are all elementary sketches of my surroundings, mostly to assure Mom that all is well and clean and stuff. My bed is the only thing a little weird- my roommate called it a prison bed- she's kind of right. It is really short (not so much a problem for me) and narrow and hard as a plank. Luckily, I have my sleeping bag, so I can snuggle in, look out the window, and see the sky, and pretend I am sleeping outside.
There is lots more to report of course- my wanderings around town, and the Christ Church meadows, my run on the cobblestone streets, the boring content, but brilliant delivery of the safety orientations we've had, the FOOD (I'll come back emaciated, its so vile). I'll reserve judgement on my fellow American students for now. That's the kindest route. For now, I'm off to dinner to see what else they can do with potatoes... presumably they will run out of ideas very soon.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
On My Way
Sitting in the airport, totally terrified. Chicago to London, bus to Oxford, taxi to Head of the River pub. There is a very nice lady working in the administration department at Oxford who really has my back. She emailed me making sure I had a place to stay tomorrow night, because the dorms don't open until Thursday. Her name is Fiona. With a name like Fiona, how could she not be nice? She also signs her emails with nice things like "looking forward to meeting you" or, especially, "kind regards". At least I have one friend there who wishes me kind regards. Or maybe that's a British thing.
I am trying not to see evil portents and auguries everywhere. For example, crows. There are crows everywhere. It is really hard not to see these birds as bad omens after my Roman seminar last semester, Tacitus has a lot of bird innuendo running throughout his narrative. Looking about for something to distract me from Roman bird symbols: fabulous lady with hack haircut, strands of black plastic bling around her neck, and steely gray cheetah blouse sitting opposite me. Also alligator handbag. Also crimson red talons. She is indeed a distraction. Carmen, take note. We need to compare fashion tragedies in our abroad adventures... I offer her up as my first specimen.
There's my boarding call for Chicago! I'm off!
I am trying not to see evil portents and auguries everywhere. For example, crows. There are crows everywhere. It is really hard not to see these birds as bad omens after my Roman seminar last semester, Tacitus has a lot of bird innuendo running throughout his narrative. Looking about for something to distract me from Roman bird symbols: fabulous lady with hack haircut, strands of black plastic bling around her neck, and steely gray cheetah blouse sitting opposite me. Also alligator handbag. Also crimson red talons. She is indeed a distraction. Carmen, take note. We need to compare fashion tragedies in our abroad adventures... I offer her up as my first specimen.
There's my boarding call for Chicago! I'm off!
Saturday, January 1, 2011
All Adventures Start from Home...
...and that's where I am now- well kind of. I'm at my Vermont home. Being a college student is a lot like being a gypsy. I've never slept in so many different places in such a short time- my brother's floor, airport terminals, my sister's couch, the Saint Olaf library, the Boundary Waters of Northern Minnesota, a nice bed in the creaky attic of Mom's new apartment. . . and soon I can add a bed at Oxford to that list. I can't say its like being homeless because there are always people that I love at each location, and there's a kind of home in that. But this next adventure has the peculiarity of being the loneliest, at least at the beginning. No Gui, Pol, Katie, Joe Mom or Sam; no Carmen, Julie, Bjorn, Taylor, Pat, Dan, Erin, or many others. Many of you will be going on your own adventures as I embark on mine, and I know that is how it ought to be. Even though I am a little afraid of going one solo, I know that the adventures we have on our own make the ones we take together stand out more. In a sense, I'll never be able to go back home again whether that Mom's cozy attic or my room with Julie in Mellby. There's always some sort of metaphorical scouring of the Shire. . . but I know I'll always be able to come back to good friends- and that is an encouraging thought.
So, this blog is to keep you all up to speed in the meantime. I hope to write letters and emails to supplement this blog, but this is the best way I can think of keeping everyone in the loop! This first post is a bit of a tester, and therefore abbreviated, but keep an eye out! Adventure proper starts in three days, this Tuesday. I always liked Tuesdays. Their modest position in the week makes me feel that they're hiding something. . .
So, this blog is to keep you all up to speed in the meantime. I hope to write letters and emails to supplement this blog, but this is the best way I can think of keeping everyone in the loop! This first post is a bit of a tester, and therefore abbreviated, but keep an eye out! Adventure proper starts in three days, this Tuesday. I always liked Tuesdays. Their modest position in the week makes me feel that they're hiding something. . .
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