The In Betwen Times

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.