I wake up minutes before my alarm goes off. Perhaps I have bettered myself already. I don't get out of bed until it does go off. Perhaps not much has changed after all. I throw on some layers. Layers are important in this country, I don't really get degrees "C", but I know what cold feels like. I say good morning to my roommates, finish my minimalist morning routine, and head downstairs. When I reach the kitchen, I can always count on being greeted by a host of housemates. We eat our cereal and toast together, the morning people with their eggs. Then, it is time. I pull out my ipod, select the morning tunes and hop on my bike. I take a second to remember mornings before I had a bike, not a whole lot different, just a bit earlier.
It takes about 15 minutes to get to 'Wycliffe Hall' - our college within Oxford. I always give myself about 25 or 30, no one likes rushing on a bike. The first little bit is all down hill and speed bumps - a sort of obstacle course. Then, through a bit of Oxford outskirts and then into the park. It's a great bike trail through meadows that I always remember I want pictures of, but only for those fleeting seconds I am in them. Minutes later I shoot out of the bike trail and rejoin traffic. I pass old buildings where people are learning and enjoy the cold air on my face, though it tends to bring tears down my face. No matter, I'm almost there. Bike riding, and walking for that matter, are a bit tricky here. When faced with an oncoming person, I instinctively veer right. This works great in the states, but people here veer left, causing an awkward little dance. This dance can be a bit more threatening when on a bike. No accidents yet, but I am still trying to internalize this backward way. I have just recently trained myself to ride on the left side of the road.
I love my bike. It's my favorite possession right now, though it's not really mine. I have taken ownership of it and named it Tallulah. She is friends with Tina Turner, Hilary's bike. We travel together.
Soon enough, Tallulah brings me safely to Wycliffe Hall. I lock her up, for her protection, of course, and head inside, using my secret code or pass card. I feel special already, until, of course, I join the 60 other students in a large lecture hall for the viewing of Simon Schama's series on British history. We like to call him "shams" and sing along to operetic opening music. I usually don't fall asleep anymore, though there are still those days. Shams lasts and hour, then it's time for tea. We get a half hour every day for tea. It's simply divine. After tea, we re-congregate in the hall for, you guessed it, a lecture. It could be on anything, really, and by anyone, empericism, literary tourism perhaps, or maybe romantic poetry. Usually it's interesting, but sometimes I fall asleep. I don't try to, it just can't be helped.
After the lecture, we get lunch. The British, it seems, are quite fond of the mashed potato, so we get them at every meal. I'm not complaining. It's a good dish, usually accompanied by a sort of meat, or the vegetarian option. We make a decision based on looks alone because, as with most things in this country, we lack the experience.
Freedom, sort of, when lunch is finished. We all exchange plans of which library we will lock ourselves in for the coming hours. Rigorous studies ensue - everyone working on a 2250-2500 word response to one of any number of intentionally vague and elusive questions we could have picked from. Around dinner time, I hope back on my bike and make the journey back to the Vines. The downhill part I mentioned earlier has become uphill and much less fun. I struggle up Headington Hill until I reach it, my home.
At this point, there is always a great slew of people in the warm kitchen trying their hand at various culinary ventures. I usually keep it simple, unable to conjure the motivation to cook for one. Tortellini again. I'm happy. We converse and laugh and tell stories from our day. Eventually some begin to drop off, retreating to their rooms to re-hit the books or video conference their fiance. I usually look for reasons not to work. We play music or hit a pub or anything that is unrelated to British academia. Then, the next day, it happens again.
Of course, every day brings it's own little errands and occurrences, but that is the gist of my weekdays, excepting the field trip days when we get on our double-decker bus and head to St. Albans, Winchester or Bath to see humbling cathedrals or wonder at ancient ruins. Today, I went to a Catholic mass for fun. There is a great variety of church backgrounds represented here, which makes for interesting and educational experiences.
I have turned in my first essay - 2500 words exactly - about Queen Elizabeth I. It hasn't been returned to me, so I'm not sure how I did, but I think it was okay. Then again, this is Oxford, so my 'okay' may not cut it. I have two others to finish before I leave next Thursday. I don't like to think about it and most of us don't like to talk about it, though not much else comes up these days.
Thursday, I will go to London, visit some museums and then meet up with my cousin who is studying at the City University (I think, don't quote me). I will spend some quality time with her before catching a flight to Barcelona on Saturday. Now, for those who I've talked to recently, you may be confused. Yes, I was going to Ireland, but, as it turns out, my mother wants to go to Ireland with me. So, this afternoon, I cancelled my hostel reservations in Ireland, re-made them in Spain and booked a flight. Travelling alone has it's perks - flexibility being one of them.
After that break (Thurs-Tues), my life will change completely. There will be no more shams and no more lectures, just research, paper-writing and 3 one-on-one tutorials with Oxford profs every 2 weeks. I will study Victorian Literature and early church doctrine. I will still be writing and researching my life away, but for new people and not as much in the community as I am now. Times spent with peers will need to be more intentional and breakdowns may ensue. It is sort of like that one or two crazy weeks every semester when it feels like everything is due at once, except that is my academic life all semester. Cool.
I will, however, persevere. I will conquer this program and return to the states victorious. I have found kindred spirits in whom to confide and with whom to rejoice and mourn. That being said, pray for me, without that, those words of victory are empty.
I am well, in short, better every day, in fact. I love people and learning, and there is no shortage here. I miss you, though. When things go wrong, I do long to be in the company of those who know me better.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
episode one
Allow me to start from the beginning . . .
It was the morning that my plane was supposed to leave and I, despite all of my grand plans of exquisite preparation had still not packed my suitcase. I am lucky to own such a small wardrobe - if things were different I may not have made my plane. I quickly divided my clothes into two piles - things I wear, and things I do not wear. The former pile went into my over sized red suitcase ('big red', I like to call her) and that was that.
The first stop on my international journey was Iceland. Now, we all know that Iceland is not really icy, but rather quite beautiful. What we all do not know, until now, is how ridiculously expensive Iceland is. It's a dizzying experience, however, because their currency is worth much less than the American dollar, but they make up for it. Let me explain. I had a 10 hour layover in Iceland, so I decided to exchange my $15 for Icelandic money. I was elated to receive 900 or so units of Icelandic money and was ready to hit to gift shops. To my dismay, a packet of M&Ms was about 250 Icelandic monies. *disclaimer* - I don't know what their currency is called. Sorry Iceland. Needless to say, I saved my whatevers and used them to buy breakfast. After being in the airport for only a few hours, it was only 9am. The bus fares were outrageous and there was nothing to walk to. I felt like a prisoner, an Icelandic prisoner. In the end, I slept on a bench for much of the time, no doubt drawing attention from all of the taller, blonder, Icelandic-speaking people around me. When it was finally time to find my gate, I used the rest of my Icelandic money to buy gum. Well, I actually didn't have enough to buy gum, but the taller, blonder lady behind the counter took pity on me and let me have it anyway. I boarded the plane, and there ended my pathetic existence in Iceland. Better luck next time.
When I arrived at Heathrow airport in, or around, London, I was immediately overcome with anxiety. My flight landed a bit past 8pm. I needed to be at my hostel in Oxford (90 minutes away) by 11pm, or they would close and I would be homeless. This hadn't worried me before because I had, naively, failed to remember what a nightmare customs is, and it was a nightmare. First, I stood in the wrong line, then I was sent to another, much longer line. At this point, I wished I was British so I could have stayed in the first line. When I finally made it through the maze, I raced to where I hoped I would find a bus waiting to take me to Oxford. I made it to the ticket counter at about 9:25pm and was told that if I hurried, I could catch the 9:30 bus. I hurried, but to no avail. Apparently the 9:30 bus decided that it wanted to be the 9:20 bus instead.
It ended up well. I met a nice man from Boston, also waiting for the 9:30 bus that never came. I explained my situation and he kindly offered to let me use his 'mobile' (that's what they call cell phones here) to call the hostel and try to work something out. I did just that, and the peace of mind was invaluable. The bus finally did arrive. The bus driver was in a foul mood. I tried to ask him about at stop in Oxford - trying desperately to figure out how, once in Oxford, I would find my way to my hostel. He mumbled something and then acted as if I wasn't there. I politely, but firmly asked him again until I could make some sense of him mumbling. I was feeling quite irritated, until the nice boy behind me fell victim to a sort of temper tantrum thrown by the ill-tempered bus driver. The poor boy, it seemed, didn't speak English well and so had a hard time interpreting the mumblings to mean 'put your own bloody bag in the bus or don't come - it's too heavy'. People tell me that the Northeast is cold, but I was beginning to think that if we are in fact cold, it is a trait that we have inherited from our motherland.
Soon enough we were en route to Oxford. The bus driver, as I found out later to be very atypical, decided not to announce stops. This put me a little on edge, scouring the surroundings with my eyes every time we stopped, so that I could make sure that it didn't say 'Gloucester Green' - that was my stop. It was the last stop, thankfully, and so difficult to miss. I disembarked and gathered my things. I had prided myself on not bringing much, but once I was carrying everything through a foreign city at 11pm, that pride seemed a little unwarranted.
Despite the immediate situation, I liked the looks of my new home - people everywhere having a good time. It was a clearly a college town and I love college towns. I was glad to see the streets so populated and as a result, less afraid for my life and things. I roamed the streets until I found my home - as much a home as any - I knew I had a bed there. The nice gentleman who had agreed to stay late for me buzzed me in and proceeded to 'check me in'. I wanted nothing more than to drop all my things and then go right back out and explore, but I knew that I would have plenty of time to explore, and only one first impression the next day with my housemates. I got ready for bed, chatted with my nice German roommates, wrote an 'I'm alive' e-mail and went to sleep.
The next morning was lovely. I got up, leisurely took a shower, got my things together and prepared to leave. The nice German girls offered me some breakfast, which I actually was quite hungry for by then, but I refused, not wanting to take anything from them and their lovely holiday. I headed back to the bus station, where I suspected that I could catch a taxi. I was right. One setback was the fact that I had only a five pound note on me, and the driver assured me that it would cost more than that, once I showed his the address. I despaired for an instant, but then he offered to bring me to a free ATM. I wanted to explain that it wasn't going to be free according to Bank of America, but I refrained. We chatted about real estate and vacations, until we reached it - The Vines. It was to be my new home, and I was ecstatic that I was living in a house with a name. It deserved it too - big, old, stone, in England. I paid the man and then, using the big brass knocker, announced my arrival.
I was greeted by Jackie, one of my 'junior deans' - the equivalent of an RD. We don't really have RA's, but a married couple who are there in case we set the place on fire or something. She led me to my room. I was one of the first to arrive, having stayed the night before. This had it's perks - first pick of bed and desk. I could live with that. I chose, unpacked a little, and then ventured downstairs to investigate the 'food' that I had heard about. It was there, snacks and tea. I didn't know it then, but tea was about to become one of my staple beverages.
I spent the next several hours meeting people - lots of people. About 40 people live in the vines, men and women, and we all arrived at different times. It sort of reminded me of the first episode of the Real World, except with much more people, a less cool house and no making out. We all had a spaghetti dinner together and then a sort of orientation with the junior deans - Clint and Jackie. After this was done, a bunch of us set out to a place we had all dreamed of going. No, not Narnia, but close - the Eagle and Child Pub. It is the pub that the Inklings met at in the days of C.S. Lewis and J.R. Tolkien. We found ourselves, over pints of various beverages, drifting in and out of theological discussions, debates and soapboxes. I felt like Jack (C.S. Lewis) would have been proud.
The next few days were similar. Excited by the prospect of so much newness, I was distracted from the magnitude of the semester that faced me. This did not last long. We were given the equivalent of $400 (but worth about half that here) to buy food for a month and a bike if we wanted. Only three days after receiving this money, it was stolen from my wallet, before I was able to buy food or a bike. I was devastated, hurt and frustrated. I'm still not sure what happened, but that event marked the end of the honeymoon phase for me. For the next couple of day, I was anxious, insecure and generally miserable. Something about feeling the loss of people who know me and trying to replace them with people who have no idea. I missed non-verbal communication, hugs and people who knew when I was kidding and at least pretended to think I was funny.
Fortunately, this feeling did not last. I soon found my niche and came to really wonder at my being here. The next obstacle that lay before me was the reason I came here - Oxford. Can I do it? That's a question that I'm still asking. We have our first 'case study' due on Monday and I'm afraid to discover that I don't belong here, that I can't hack it. It seems to be a popular fear here, and we all feel like the only ones justified in their doubts. I spent almost 4 hours in the Radcliffe Camera of the Bodlian Library today. It's a beautiful building that people come to visit - like a tourist attraction. You're not actually allowed in without an Oxford student card. So, I waded through a crowd longing to enter, flashed my student ID and suddenly felt like VIP. I actually accomplished a lot too, which added to the experience.
There is so much more to write, so much more to this experience, but it is late now and I've promised to make pancakes tomorrow :). If you have read this post, I thank you for your interest and hope that you wont be a stranger.
It was the morning that my plane was supposed to leave and I, despite all of my grand plans of exquisite preparation had still not packed my suitcase. I am lucky to own such a small wardrobe - if things were different I may not have made my plane. I quickly divided my clothes into two piles - things I wear, and things I do not wear. The former pile went into my over sized red suitcase ('big red', I like to call her) and that was that.
The first stop on my international journey was Iceland. Now, we all know that Iceland is not really icy, but rather quite beautiful. What we all do not know, until now, is how ridiculously expensive Iceland is. It's a dizzying experience, however, because their currency is worth much less than the American dollar, but they make up for it. Let me explain. I had a 10 hour layover in Iceland, so I decided to exchange my $15 for Icelandic money. I was elated to receive 900 or so units of Icelandic money and was ready to hit to gift shops. To my dismay, a packet of M&Ms was about 250 Icelandic monies. *disclaimer* - I don't know what their currency is called. Sorry Iceland. Needless to say, I saved my whatevers and used them to buy breakfast. After being in the airport for only a few hours, it was only 9am. The bus fares were outrageous and there was nothing to walk to. I felt like a prisoner, an Icelandic prisoner. In the end, I slept on a bench for much of the time, no doubt drawing attention from all of the taller, blonder, Icelandic-speaking people around me. When it was finally time to find my gate, I used the rest of my Icelandic money to buy gum. Well, I actually didn't have enough to buy gum, but the taller, blonder lady behind the counter took pity on me and let me have it anyway. I boarded the plane, and there ended my pathetic existence in Iceland. Better luck next time.
When I arrived at Heathrow airport in, or around, London, I was immediately overcome with anxiety. My flight landed a bit past 8pm. I needed to be at my hostel in Oxford (90 minutes away) by 11pm, or they would close and I would be homeless. This hadn't worried me before because I had, naively, failed to remember what a nightmare customs is, and it was a nightmare. First, I stood in the wrong line, then I was sent to another, much longer line. At this point, I wished I was British so I could have stayed in the first line. When I finally made it through the maze, I raced to where I hoped I would find a bus waiting to take me to Oxford. I made it to the ticket counter at about 9:25pm and was told that if I hurried, I could catch the 9:30 bus. I hurried, but to no avail. Apparently the 9:30 bus decided that it wanted to be the 9:20 bus instead.
It ended up well. I met a nice man from Boston, also waiting for the 9:30 bus that never came. I explained my situation and he kindly offered to let me use his 'mobile' (that's what they call cell phones here) to call the hostel and try to work something out. I did just that, and the peace of mind was invaluable. The bus finally did arrive. The bus driver was in a foul mood. I tried to ask him about at stop in Oxford - trying desperately to figure out how, once in Oxford, I would find my way to my hostel. He mumbled something and then acted as if I wasn't there. I politely, but firmly asked him again until I could make some sense of him mumbling. I was feeling quite irritated, until the nice boy behind me fell victim to a sort of temper tantrum thrown by the ill-tempered bus driver. The poor boy, it seemed, didn't speak English well and so had a hard time interpreting the mumblings to mean 'put your own bloody bag in the bus or don't come - it's too heavy'. People tell me that the Northeast is cold, but I was beginning to think that if we are in fact cold, it is a trait that we have inherited from our motherland.
Soon enough we were en route to Oxford. The bus driver, as I found out later to be very atypical, decided not to announce stops. This put me a little on edge, scouring the surroundings with my eyes every time we stopped, so that I could make sure that it didn't say 'Gloucester Green' - that was my stop. It was the last stop, thankfully, and so difficult to miss. I disembarked and gathered my things. I had prided myself on not bringing much, but once I was carrying everything through a foreign city at 11pm, that pride seemed a little unwarranted.
Despite the immediate situation, I liked the looks of my new home - people everywhere having a good time. It was a clearly a college town and I love college towns. I was glad to see the streets so populated and as a result, less afraid for my life and things. I roamed the streets until I found my home - as much a home as any - I knew I had a bed there. The nice gentleman who had agreed to stay late for me buzzed me in and proceeded to 'check me in'. I wanted nothing more than to drop all my things and then go right back out and explore, but I knew that I would have plenty of time to explore, and only one first impression the next day with my housemates. I got ready for bed, chatted with my nice German roommates, wrote an 'I'm alive' e-mail and went to sleep.
The next morning was lovely. I got up, leisurely took a shower, got my things together and prepared to leave. The nice German girls offered me some breakfast, which I actually was quite hungry for by then, but I refused, not wanting to take anything from them and their lovely holiday. I headed back to the bus station, where I suspected that I could catch a taxi. I was right. One setback was the fact that I had only a five pound note on me, and the driver assured me that it would cost more than that, once I showed his the address. I despaired for an instant, but then he offered to bring me to a free ATM. I wanted to explain that it wasn't going to be free according to Bank of America, but I refrained. We chatted about real estate and vacations, until we reached it - The Vines. It was to be my new home, and I was ecstatic that I was living in a house with a name. It deserved it too - big, old, stone, in England. I paid the man and then, using the big brass knocker, announced my arrival.
I was greeted by Jackie, one of my 'junior deans' - the equivalent of an RD. We don't really have RA's, but a married couple who are there in case we set the place on fire or something. She led me to my room. I was one of the first to arrive, having stayed the night before. This had it's perks - first pick of bed and desk. I could live with that. I chose, unpacked a little, and then ventured downstairs to investigate the 'food' that I had heard about. It was there, snacks and tea. I didn't know it then, but tea was about to become one of my staple beverages.
I spent the next several hours meeting people - lots of people. About 40 people live in the vines, men and women, and we all arrived at different times. It sort of reminded me of the first episode of the Real World, except with much more people, a less cool house and no making out. We all had a spaghetti dinner together and then a sort of orientation with the junior deans - Clint and Jackie. After this was done, a bunch of us set out to a place we had all dreamed of going. No, not Narnia, but close - the Eagle and Child Pub. It is the pub that the Inklings met at in the days of C.S. Lewis and J.R. Tolkien. We found ourselves, over pints of various beverages, drifting in and out of theological discussions, debates and soapboxes. I felt like Jack (C.S. Lewis) would have been proud.
The next few days were similar. Excited by the prospect of so much newness, I was distracted from the magnitude of the semester that faced me. This did not last long. We were given the equivalent of $400 (but worth about half that here) to buy food for a month and a bike if we wanted. Only three days after receiving this money, it was stolen from my wallet, before I was able to buy food or a bike. I was devastated, hurt and frustrated. I'm still not sure what happened, but that event marked the end of the honeymoon phase for me. For the next couple of day, I was anxious, insecure and generally miserable. Something about feeling the loss of people who know me and trying to replace them with people who have no idea. I missed non-verbal communication, hugs and people who knew when I was kidding and at least pretended to think I was funny.
Fortunately, this feeling did not last. I soon found my niche and came to really wonder at my being here. The next obstacle that lay before me was the reason I came here - Oxford. Can I do it? That's a question that I'm still asking. We have our first 'case study' due on Monday and I'm afraid to discover that I don't belong here, that I can't hack it. It seems to be a popular fear here, and we all feel like the only ones justified in their doubts. I spent almost 4 hours in the Radcliffe Camera of the Bodlian Library today. It's a beautiful building that people come to visit - like a tourist attraction. You're not actually allowed in without an Oxford student card. So, I waded through a crowd longing to enter, flashed my student ID and suddenly felt like VIP. I actually accomplished a lot too, which added to the experience.
There is so much more to write, so much more to this experience, but it is late now and I've promised to make pancakes tomorrow :). If you have read this post, I thank you for your interest and hope that you wont be a stranger.
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