Beware Falling Masonry

Today was day three of wandering around the city. We had one lecture this morning from an old bent professor whose dusty slides matched his dusty voice. He spoke about the Tower of London with such rapture that I would not have thought possible, however, and his creatives uses for the word "dapper" gave him a winning personality in my mind. His lecture was just enough academia to put me in the proper mood for a tour of the "rather splendid" college campuses before dinner.

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.