I had set my alarm for 9:00 a.m. My final paper had no conclusion and had not been edited or even reread, but I was going to have plenty of time for that in the morning. Had I been awake at 9:00 a.m., I would have had plenty of time. Unfortunately, I was not awake at 9:00 a.m. I’m not sure what happened, but I do know that when Johannah woke me up at 11:00 a.m., I was perturbed. How was I going to edit and conclude a paper in less than half an hour? Well, I would have to if I was going to turn it in on time – it was due by noon. I had a moment of panic and then began to work quickly. I read through the fifteen-page discussion of Justin Martyr and Origen’s engagement with Greek philosophy, wrote a four-sentence conclusion and then clicked print. When I ran to the computer lab to take the essay off the printer, I was faced with a hand-written sign that read “Don’t print anything, this printer is out of ink.” “Fantastic!” I said out loud with unmistakable irony. In seconds the consequences of not submitting this paper on time ran through my mind. “They won’t accept it late…it counts for almost my entire seminar grade…my GPA will plummet…I wont graduate with honors in May…I’ll never get a job…I’ll have to live in a box….” My train of thought continued to spiral out of control until, luckily, I ran into my good friends Nick and Ben on the way back up the stairs. They were leaving to turn their papers in. I explained my situation and they offered to help. I emailed Nick the paper and they promised to print it when they arrived, forge my signature, and turn it in. Everything would be fine; crisis averted.
This is how my day began, but as soon as I sent the email, my academic career at Oxford University was finished. I hardly knew what to do with myself. Later that night, over half of the students in the program met at the Turf Tavern. We nearly filled the large beer garden behind the building and the sound of our excited voices was no doubt heard by every patron inside.[1] I don’t think I have ever been that excited about anything in my life. In fact, I know I haven’t. I had doubted myself since the moment I decided to apply for the program, but that was all over. I had met every deadline and had pleased my tutors. I had succeeded. We felt like prisoners sentenced to life in prison and then unexpectedly found innocent and released. Life was new, and freedom was a gift. My body felt as if it was going to float off the rough wooden bench beneath me. We made toast after toast, drinking to the 45,000 words we had written that semester and to the times we thought it would never end.
It was ending, and now that our minds were free, they could not help dwelling on the moments to come: the final moments. I knew that soon my heart would ache for Oxford, and so was determined to make the most of what little time I had left. We went sightseeing around the city for the first time since the essay-writing had begun. It felt like that first week – the excitement, the discovery, but this time I knew the people around me and loved them. I loved them so much that I was conscious of each moment as it slipped away, and it was painful.
We did not sleep during our last night at The Vines. There was no time to sleep. The first to depart left at 2:00 a.m. and another left every hour or so after that. Every time I hugged another person goodbye, I felt as if a piece of my body was being amputated. Some people left greater holes than others. Johannah was scheduled to leave at 4:00 a.m. She spent her last two hours wedged between Ben and me on a small couch watching The Goonies, facing inevitable separation, but refusing to talk about it. When the cab arrived to take her to the airport, I hesitated. I wasn’t ready to lose this piece; it was too close to my heart. We embraced at the door and whispered “I love you” for the last time in person. Tears streamed unchecked down my face despite my attempt at coolness. I was surprised at my own emotion. Few times in my life had I actually shed tears at a goodbye, and when I had, it was usually something I worked at so that I might not look uncaring. I just didn’t get emotional like that, but this time was different. The cab pulled away and I stood in the doorway for as long as it stayed in view.
I almost felt silly, experiencing such heartbreak for a person I had known only a few months, but she was family, they were all family. We had, for the past few days, talked about our bond. We knew it didn’t make sense, but we also knew it was real. “No one will understand,” we said, over and over again. We felt like soldiers who had fought a war together, comrades. We would return home changed people, changed in ways that we would not be able to explain, in ways that it would take years to discover and that only those of us who experienced it would understand. Our friends and family back home, we knew, would ask about Oxford, but would never really care to hear all we had to say, and we would never really be able to say all that we felt.
I was one of the last people to leave The Vines, watching person after person pull their rolling suitcases up the dark, wet driveway to the bus stop, or driving away in a shiny black taxi. By the morning I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. I had cried out everything in me and could do nothing but sit and watch as the last of my dear friends packed a few final things. I watched my entire house walk out of that door, taking their mementoes, their books and their pictures, but leaving an impression on me that will last forever. When I left my room for the last time it was empty, looking just like it did the day I moved in. How absolutely clueless I had been that day, no idea what would happen within those walls, what joy, what pain, what transformation. I am still not sure today all the ways in which I was changed; I may never know, but I do know the people and the places that changed me, and for that I will always be grateful.
[1] Contrary to my initial assumption, a beer garden is not, in fact, a garden in which beer is grown. It is actually a patio-type area outside of a pub, usually with picnic tables and sometimes with umbrellas or tents.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Oxonian Anecdotes: Eating Raw Oatmeal
The semester was drawing to a close and my last essay discussing the formation of church doctrine in the sixth century was practically written. It wasn’t actually written at all, but a very thorough outline sat before me on the desk beside my laptop. “This will write itself,” I thought, anxious to feel the relief and freedom from at least one tutorial. It was 9:00 a.m. I went downstairs to eat some breakfast before conquering St. Augustine. As usual, the happenings in the kitchen continued, for quite a long time, to be more appealing than writing my paper. By the time I returned to my desk it was 10:30 a.m. “No problem,” I reassured myself. “I have all day and last week I wrote that paper for Victorian literature in less than three hours. This will be easy.” I found ways to justify not writing that first paragraph. I checked my email, wrote some emails, found someone from home to chat with on my webcam, all the while, the minutes slipping away. When I could no longer find anything at least arguably productive to do, and after a few games of Tetris, it was almost noon.
“I think I would feel better if I took a shower,” I reasoned. “It will wake me up and then I could definitely write this paper in no time.” I carried my things to the shower, leaving the blank computer screen behind me. It may have been an unusually long shower, I wasn’t really paying attention, but I did certainly take my time picking out clothes, drying my hair, putting on makeup, though I knew I would most likely not leave the house that day. It was 1:30 p.m. before I looked in the mirror, finding nothing else that could be done. I looked at the clock and decided that it was time for lunch. Much like breakfast, and every other meal in The Vines, it can take as long as one allows. I allowed it to take two hours, convincing myself that it was most important for me to spend time with these people who, before long, I might never see again. This was true, but so would be my chagrin if I arrived at my tutorial without an essay.
The clock in the lower right hand corner of my computer screen said 3:27 p.m.. How had I let it get that late without doing anything? Frustrated with myself, I read the outline again. It was a good outline. My fingers were poised over the worn keys of the computer; I absolutely needed to begin. Not one finger moved. “What is wrong with me?! I have done this a thousand times. I have all the information I need, more even. I just need to write the paper!” I couldn’t do it. I sat at that desk for half an hour just staring at the screen. This was bad. Not only was it almost 4:30 p.m. and I hadn’t written a single word, but dwelling on that fact was causing anxiety and frustration to further paralyze me. I spent the next couple of hours talking to different people around the house, complaining that I had run face first into writers block and was utterly unable to find my way around it. I was desperate.
When it came time to eat dinner, I searched my shelf and found only raw oatmeal and honey. I had nothing in the fridge. Instead of cooking the small amount of oatmeal I had left, I felt satisfied to sit at the table and eat it raw with the honey. I laid my head on the table as I ate, completing the picture of a poor desperate student in the midst of an essay crisis. The table was hard beneath my head, and the tough oatmeal sat in my mouth like cud, but I was almost enjoying it, wallowing in this terrible woe that had befallen me. People offered me food, but I refused, insisting that I liked what I was eating but really enjoying the role of martyr for overwhelmed students everywhere.
This academic roadblock is not what makes this story worth telling; students endure these everyday. It is how I was pulled from the depths of despair and placed into one of the most memorable nights spent at The Vines that is significant. I was perfectly content to pass the evening with my head on the table, mouth full of raw oatmeal, teetering on the brink of insanity, but that’s not what happened. I was saved, not by anything extraordinary or earth-shattering, but saved nonetheless. My good friend Bryce convinced me to walk to the grocery store with him. As soon as I felt the cold, hard pavement under my thin-soled shoes I realized that I hadn’t been outside in over twenty-four hours. No wonder I was approaching a nervous breakdown.
It was a long walk to the store, but I enjoyed each of the chilled moments. They revitalized me. I bought some food at the grocery store and even decided to take a break from the sugar-free diet I had recently adopted in an attempt to combat insomnia and lack of focus. It had, after all, not done me much good on that particular day. We found something called a “holiday Yule log,” which was essentially a chocolate cake in the shape of a log. “The Vines could use a little Christmas spirit,” we decided, and so we bought it, rented a movie from the ever-dependable Blockbuster, and then journeyed back home. I had put the essay out of my head. It was not going to be written that night and that was okay. I shared a Yule log with my friends, even sang “Good King Wenceslas” as it was opened, and too many of us piled on one couch to watch our movie.
This may not seem like any sort of remarkable story, but I was reminded of something that night and every night thereafter. In the midst of my tendency toward devout independence and self-sufficiency, I had forgotten something very important - the value of people. I needed people that night. I need people every day. There was no way I was going to write that paper, and it was even more unlikely that I would be able to save myself from the resulting rut. In the midst of a terrible day, I had reluctantly allowed someone to meet my growing need for fellowship. Why had it taken so long and why had I not sought out the help that would rescue me? I know that not needing anyone is almost a modern virtue, but it makes for a lonely lifestyle. In fact, I would say that living life without admitting your need for people is almost like eating raw oatmeal. Having that need met is more like eating chocolate cake.
“I think I would feel better if I took a shower,” I reasoned. “It will wake me up and then I could definitely write this paper in no time.” I carried my things to the shower, leaving the blank computer screen behind me. It may have been an unusually long shower, I wasn’t really paying attention, but I did certainly take my time picking out clothes, drying my hair, putting on makeup, though I knew I would most likely not leave the house that day. It was 1:30 p.m. before I looked in the mirror, finding nothing else that could be done. I looked at the clock and decided that it was time for lunch. Much like breakfast, and every other meal in The Vines, it can take as long as one allows. I allowed it to take two hours, convincing myself that it was most important for me to spend time with these people who, before long, I might never see again. This was true, but so would be my chagrin if I arrived at my tutorial without an essay.
The clock in the lower right hand corner of my computer screen said 3:27 p.m.. How had I let it get that late without doing anything? Frustrated with myself, I read the outline again. It was a good outline. My fingers were poised over the worn keys of the computer; I absolutely needed to begin. Not one finger moved. “What is wrong with me?! I have done this a thousand times. I have all the information I need, more even. I just need to write the paper!” I couldn’t do it. I sat at that desk for half an hour just staring at the screen. This was bad. Not only was it almost 4:30 p.m. and I hadn’t written a single word, but dwelling on that fact was causing anxiety and frustration to further paralyze me. I spent the next couple of hours talking to different people around the house, complaining that I had run face first into writers block and was utterly unable to find my way around it. I was desperate.
When it came time to eat dinner, I searched my shelf and found only raw oatmeal and honey. I had nothing in the fridge. Instead of cooking the small amount of oatmeal I had left, I felt satisfied to sit at the table and eat it raw with the honey. I laid my head on the table as I ate, completing the picture of a poor desperate student in the midst of an essay crisis. The table was hard beneath my head, and the tough oatmeal sat in my mouth like cud, but I was almost enjoying it, wallowing in this terrible woe that had befallen me. People offered me food, but I refused, insisting that I liked what I was eating but really enjoying the role of martyr for overwhelmed students everywhere.
This academic roadblock is not what makes this story worth telling; students endure these everyday. It is how I was pulled from the depths of despair and placed into one of the most memorable nights spent at The Vines that is significant. I was perfectly content to pass the evening with my head on the table, mouth full of raw oatmeal, teetering on the brink of insanity, but that’s not what happened. I was saved, not by anything extraordinary or earth-shattering, but saved nonetheless. My good friend Bryce convinced me to walk to the grocery store with him. As soon as I felt the cold, hard pavement under my thin-soled shoes I realized that I hadn’t been outside in over twenty-four hours. No wonder I was approaching a nervous breakdown.
It was a long walk to the store, but I enjoyed each of the chilled moments. They revitalized me. I bought some food at the grocery store and even decided to take a break from the sugar-free diet I had recently adopted in an attempt to combat insomnia and lack of focus. It had, after all, not done me much good on that particular day. We found something called a “holiday Yule log,” which was essentially a chocolate cake in the shape of a log. “The Vines could use a little Christmas spirit,” we decided, and so we bought it, rented a movie from the ever-dependable Blockbuster, and then journeyed back home. I had put the essay out of my head. It was not going to be written that night and that was okay. I shared a Yule log with my friends, even sang “Good King Wenceslas” as it was opened, and too many of us piled on one couch to watch our movie.
This may not seem like any sort of remarkable story, but I was reminded of something that night and every night thereafter. In the midst of my tendency toward devout independence and self-sufficiency, I had forgotten something very important - the value of people. I needed people that night. I need people every day. There was no way I was going to write that paper, and it was even more unlikely that I would be able to save myself from the resulting rut. In the midst of a terrible day, I had reluctantly allowed someone to meet my growing need for fellowship. Why had it taken so long and why had I not sought out the help that would rescue me? I know that not needing anyone is almost a modern virtue, but it makes for a lonely lifestyle. In fact, I would say that living life without admitting your need for people is almost like eating raw oatmeal. Having that need met is more like eating chocolate cake.
Oxonian Anecdotes: Giving Thanks
As Thanksgiving approached, I didn’t expect much. There was hardly what one might call the warm feeling that grows inside as the holidays approach. In fact, I had a tutorial scheduled for Thanksgiving morning for which I was anything but thankful. I was far too busy with school to think festive thoughts and, sadly enough, not terribly excited about a Thanksgiving spent in England. None of our English counterparts cared that it was near. Most of them did not even know that in a matter of days there would be warm gatherings of family across the United States, gatherings of which we longed to be a part. We knew that they would continue without us, and so our attention turned to other things.
One British family did know Thanksgiving was coming and was preparing to celebrate. It was Ruth’s family, and when I had spent time at their home weeks before, Ruth’s parents questioned me as to how they might make a proper Thanksgiving meal for some American graduate students they would be hosting. It was a ministry for them and I’m still not sure if they know how important it truly was. I did my best to recall everything they would need: mashed potatoes, turkey, gravy, green beans, stuffing, sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce, bread, and I was sure to add that any of these things might look different depending on the region of the states and even on the household. They wrote everything down as I thought hard for the sake of my fellow Americans.
To my delight, I was invited to this Thanksgiving celebration and so reaped the fruits of my thoughtful labor. It was a much different party than the one I attended before at the same residence. The guests were older and American and so somewhat less interesting to me and certainly less intimidating. I did very much enjoy the food. That meal may be the best Thanksgiving meal I have ever had and it was their first attempt! It was beautiful and delicious irony. The food was wonderful and the hosts were warm, but something essential was missing from the Thanksgiving celebration: family.
The Saturday after this official Thanksgiving meal there was to be another Thanksgiving celebration for all of the American students and British staff in my program. I did not expect much from this. Almost one hundred people were to attend and the preparation of the food had been divided between the students. How could this possibly be mistaken for, or even compared to, an intimate and traditional family affair? I was convinced that it could not, but was welcoming the socialization and potentially better-than-average food that might accompany the day.
Sometimes it is the lowest expectations that receive the most surprising reality. I awoke on that Saturday, our Thanksgiving, found a brown sweater to borrow, in true Thanksgiving apparel tradition, and walked downstairs. What I found astounded me. It was a bustling kitchen, a living room filled with laughter and an American football game in the back yard, the rosy-cheeked players enduring the chill of the November air while leaves crunched under their feet. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say that I was at home,” I thought. Then I realized something: I was at home. The people that surrounded me were the people with whom I lived and shared life and had been for months. We called the same old brick house home, made meals in the same kitchen, and ate them around the same table. They saw me when I had an unfinished essay, when I was late for my tutorial, when I felt like I didn’t belong there. They knew me, and I knew them. In that moment, it didn’t matter that we had only met in August: we were family.
Once I accepted this new family of mine, the day could not have been more like a “real” Thanksgiving if I had been at home with my “real” family. We played cards, gave thanks, ate wonderful food made for one another by our own hands. There was a dessert competition, and entertainment was provided by the very British and adorable children of our head tutor. The smallest one, Harry, even played us a ‘hoe-down’ on his violin in honor of America. A crowd of us went to the pub later in the evening, and when we returned, only The Vines residents were left, the living room was dim, lit only by the white lights of our Christmas tree, and a jolly group of students were making Christmas ornaments. We joined them, and I could not imagine a more festive scene. Clinging to the day, we piled on our couches and fell asleep watching Christmas movies.[1]
That day, our fake Oxford Thanksgiving, will most certainly live in my memory as one of the greatest, warmest, and most familial Thanksgivings I have ever enjoyed. I did not spend it with my parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, or cousins, but I was blessed with the company of others who I love, most of whom I will never see again except in my memories of Oxford in which that day glows as one of the brightest.
[1] We actually watched Transformers, but for the sake of the story, let’s just say that it was It’s A Wonderful Life.
One British family did know Thanksgiving was coming and was preparing to celebrate. It was Ruth’s family, and when I had spent time at their home weeks before, Ruth’s parents questioned me as to how they might make a proper Thanksgiving meal for some American graduate students they would be hosting. It was a ministry for them and I’m still not sure if they know how important it truly was. I did my best to recall everything they would need: mashed potatoes, turkey, gravy, green beans, stuffing, sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce, bread, and I was sure to add that any of these things might look different depending on the region of the states and even on the household. They wrote everything down as I thought hard for the sake of my fellow Americans.
To my delight, I was invited to this Thanksgiving celebration and so reaped the fruits of my thoughtful labor. It was a much different party than the one I attended before at the same residence. The guests were older and American and so somewhat less interesting to me and certainly less intimidating. I did very much enjoy the food. That meal may be the best Thanksgiving meal I have ever had and it was their first attempt! It was beautiful and delicious irony. The food was wonderful and the hosts were warm, but something essential was missing from the Thanksgiving celebration: family.
The Saturday after this official Thanksgiving meal there was to be another Thanksgiving celebration for all of the American students and British staff in my program. I did not expect much from this. Almost one hundred people were to attend and the preparation of the food had been divided between the students. How could this possibly be mistaken for, or even compared to, an intimate and traditional family affair? I was convinced that it could not, but was welcoming the socialization and potentially better-than-average food that might accompany the day.
Sometimes it is the lowest expectations that receive the most surprising reality. I awoke on that Saturday, our Thanksgiving, found a brown sweater to borrow, in true Thanksgiving apparel tradition, and walked downstairs. What I found astounded me. It was a bustling kitchen, a living room filled with laughter and an American football game in the back yard, the rosy-cheeked players enduring the chill of the November air while leaves crunched under their feet. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say that I was at home,” I thought. Then I realized something: I was at home. The people that surrounded me were the people with whom I lived and shared life and had been for months. We called the same old brick house home, made meals in the same kitchen, and ate them around the same table. They saw me when I had an unfinished essay, when I was late for my tutorial, when I felt like I didn’t belong there. They knew me, and I knew them. In that moment, it didn’t matter that we had only met in August: we were family.
Once I accepted this new family of mine, the day could not have been more like a “real” Thanksgiving if I had been at home with my “real” family. We played cards, gave thanks, ate wonderful food made for one another by our own hands. There was a dessert competition, and entertainment was provided by the very British and adorable children of our head tutor. The smallest one, Harry, even played us a ‘hoe-down’ on his violin in honor of America. A crowd of us went to the pub later in the evening, and when we returned, only The Vines residents were left, the living room was dim, lit only by the white lights of our Christmas tree, and a jolly group of students were making Christmas ornaments. We joined them, and I could not imagine a more festive scene. Clinging to the day, we piled on our couches and fell asleep watching Christmas movies.[1]
That day, our fake Oxford Thanksgiving, will most certainly live in my memory as one of the greatest, warmest, and most familial Thanksgivings I have ever enjoyed. I did not spend it with my parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, or cousins, but I was blessed with the company of others who I love, most of whom I will never see again except in my memories of Oxford in which that day glows as one of the brightest.
[1] We actually watched Transformers, but for the sake of the story, let’s just say that it was It’s A Wonderful Life.
Oxonian Anecdotes: When She Sings
Of all my forty-two housemates, Johannah changed me the most, and she slept in the bottom bunk across from my own. She was tall, thin, graceful and quirky.[1] Her short hair was the color of chocolate, and adorable freckles covered her nose. It was easy for an outsider to think that she didn’t talk much, but I came to learn that she spoke when she had something necessary or helpful to say, a practice I would have done well to learn. Johannah played music. The first hint was the guitar in her pile of things on the day we moved in.
“You play the guitar?” I asked, excited to be living with a kindred musician.
“A little,” was her modest reply. I assumed that she was learning and could not help feeling a bit disappointed.
Before the first week was over, a small number of other musicians living at The Vines had made themselves known. One night, we found ourselves in our pajamas sitting on the cold brick patio, blinded by one bright floodlight that would automatically shut off if we stopped moving, leaving us in total darkness. It was not an ideal setting, but we each held a hot mug of tea and happily passed two guitars around the crooked circle. When Johannah’s turn came she said she would play something she wrote. I was intrigued. As soon as she opened her mouth to sing all conversation stopped and we were still. The floodlight turned off but my eyes never left the dark, swaying silhouette.
Johannah was no beginner. She wrote melodies like I have never heard, and her voice sent chills through my body. We talked later about her music.
“I want to write music desperately, but nothing ever comes. How do you do it?” I asked, eager for advice.
“Last year was really hard for me,” she faltered and her eyes fell to the ground before she continued. “I went through a lot. Somehow the music just grew out of my grief.” Her response didn’t cure my writer’s block, but my concern shifted. Johannah told me about a boy named Nate. She loved Nate, and he loved her. He was a talented and attractive musician. He wrote songs about her. They shared something beautiful until Nate began questioning things Johannah wished he wouldn’t question. His priorities changed, and he experimented with things that hurt him, things that hurt her. Johannah’s heart was absolutely broken, and she didn’t know how to fix it. She knew she needed to let Nate go, but it was a long and painful process, eventually leading her to find solace in Oxford. I was glad she ended up in my room, but regretted the grief that led her there.
Over the semester I saw her grow and heal, but it was slow. With tears in her lovely hazel eyes she asked me often if I thought she would ever be free from the ache that haunted her, if I thought she would be able to face him again when the time came. I knew that she would and Johannah tried to believe my assuring words, but I saw in her face that her faith was challenged by brokenness. She spoke of the things she had learned, and why she believed everything had happened the way that it had. She was a wounded and fragile young woman, but not bitter, injured in a beautiful way that I have come to admire, wishing that I, too, might sometimes focus on my helplessness rather than always on my independence.
I learned something valuable through Johannah’s pain. I was jealous, at first, of her music, but then came to understand that it was something for which she had paid a high price. How dare I covet something that was only possible because of heartbreak I had never known? How dare I ever envy people about whom I know nothing? This is something that people do every day, but it wasn’t until then that I saw its injustice exposed.
Johannah continued to play for me throughout the semester, and the chills came every time. It bothered me at first that she looked down when she sang, almost as if she was ashamed. She never looked at her audience and smiled like performers do, but bore her soul to the floor with her eyes closed. Of course she wasn’t ashamed, but she was vulnerable. Her songs were her heart, her offering. The more I loved Johannah, the less I envied her. I believe that with real love, there is no room for envy. I still wish she would raise her head when she sings, but I know now that her songs are not about mere entertainment, but about honesty. In each one she tells a different story - of unconditional love, profound grief, gifts of healing or heartfelt praise. Johannah almost sounds like a different person in each, but I know that every one was written in a place where truth meets honesty.
[1] I have recently been informed that Johannah is actually average height, but as I stand not quite 5’2”, I am content to say that she is tall.
Oxonian Anecdotes: Glow of Stone
Sometimes it is difficult to recognize captivity until freedom is granted. For weeks I had been planning, with five of my housemates, a trip to Canterbury and Dover. We had reserved the hostel, rented the car, and mapped out a rough itinerary. As the morning of departure came near, I panicked. Driving off to the English coast hardly seemed like a responsible thing to do. Two hundred pounds had been stolen from my wallet during the first week of the semester and financial strain had haunted me ever since. Also, the essays for which I would be held responsible in just a few days weighed on my mind so that I actually developed a headache. “This is a ridiculous idea,” I thought. “I don’t have the time or the money to go, let alone enjoy myself.” The one unavoidable obstacle that prevented me from staying in my bed that morning was the group waiting for me. I could not tell them no; as hard as I knew it would be to recover when we returned, I also knew that it would be harder to face their disappointment if I remained.
I had not slept the night before, plagued by insomnia, and considering my mental state, it is no wonder. I thoughtlessly stuffed my backpack, applied enough make-up to compensate for my groggy state, and joined the gathering crew in front of The Vines. The car was there. It was a shiny green hatchback which we immediately nicknamed “chia pet,” appropriate not only because of the leafy color, but also the rather small interior. The latter characteristic was of most interest to us, a group of six embarking on a three hour-long journey. The four smallest bonded in the back seat, while the two drivers negotiated the joys of driving for the first time in the UK.
Though the drive was lovely and the company charming, I could not shake the feeling that I was making the wrong decision and that nothing that might happen in the next two days would be worth the misery to which I would return. Every muscle in my body was tense, despite my growing fatigue, and even my companions could not help noticing that my usually chipper demeanor was suffering. I hated being an obstacle to their excitement, but could not find it within me to rejoice; my empty wallet and the blinking cursor in the middle of my unfinished essay at home were the only thoughts to which I could respond, and that response was acute anxiety.
This attitude of desperation endured throughout the day although, for the sake of my companions, I worked harder at hiding it. We arrived in Canterbury, checked into our hostel and then strolled into town. It was a quaint little city with cobblestone streets, an endless supply of interesting little shops, and a town center complete with two musicians and their repertoire of American pop music. All of these things would have typically brought me lightness of heart, but not today; my chest felt as if it were filled with lead. It was not until the sun was setting that I began to see things in a different light. We entered a large courtyard through a tall stone gate adjacent to the town square in search of the famed Canterbury Cathedral. We found it. It stood surrounded by short green grass and illuminated by the amber-colored rays of the retiring sun. The warm glow of the grey stone took my breath away. The structure was majestic and intricate and wholly overwhelming. We sat within its shadow in awe of the antiquated power; we felt life in the inanimate formation, as if it were somehow watching over us in that moment.
It was all worth it. Right then I realized that no matter the consequences of that trip, I could withstand them in honor of Canterbury Cathedral. I felt ashamed, knowing that I had allowed and even nurtured the anxiety that robbed me of the experiences of the day. I had wallowed in self-pity rather than seizing a likely once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I was in Canterbury, England with a group of good people, experiencing something special and yet, up until that point, was allowing my mind to be held captive by worry and fear of regret.
Lucky for me, the weekend was not nearly over. We made ourselves makeshift pizza in the crowded kitchen of our hostel. Whether Indian flatbread really makes the best pizza or it just tasted that way in light of my new-found freedom, I may never be sure. We watched the rugby World Cup in an over-packed downtown pub, pretending to be devastated at each sign of the impending English defeat so that our apathy might not make us victims of drunken British disappointment. In the morning we worshipped with the congregation of Canterbury Cathedral, a surprisingly warm church body, and then conquered the white cliffs of Dover before finally squeezing into chia pet for the last time.
The music erupted from the speakers around me: “You can’t always get what you want. You can’t always get what you want. You can’t always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes, you just might find you get what you need.” Our singing voices and the sound of the air tearing over the open windows nearly drowned out the radio as we sped down the road toward Oxford. The song had never meant much to me before, but right then, nothing could have felt truer.[1]
[1] We also listened to Jesus Freak. It didn’t have the same effect.
I had not slept the night before, plagued by insomnia, and considering my mental state, it is no wonder. I thoughtlessly stuffed my backpack, applied enough make-up to compensate for my groggy state, and joined the gathering crew in front of The Vines. The car was there. It was a shiny green hatchback which we immediately nicknamed “chia pet,” appropriate not only because of the leafy color, but also the rather small interior. The latter characteristic was of most interest to us, a group of six embarking on a three hour-long journey. The four smallest bonded in the back seat, while the two drivers negotiated the joys of driving for the first time in the UK.
Though the drive was lovely and the company charming, I could not shake the feeling that I was making the wrong decision and that nothing that might happen in the next two days would be worth the misery to which I would return. Every muscle in my body was tense, despite my growing fatigue, and even my companions could not help noticing that my usually chipper demeanor was suffering. I hated being an obstacle to their excitement, but could not find it within me to rejoice; my empty wallet and the blinking cursor in the middle of my unfinished essay at home were the only thoughts to which I could respond, and that response was acute anxiety.
This attitude of desperation endured throughout the day although, for the sake of my companions, I worked harder at hiding it. We arrived in Canterbury, checked into our hostel and then strolled into town. It was a quaint little city with cobblestone streets, an endless supply of interesting little shops, and a town center complete with two musicians and their repertoire of American pop music. All of these things would have typically brought me lightness of heart, but not today; my chest felt as if it were filled with lead. It was not until the sun was setting that I began to see things in a different light. We entered a large courtyard through a tall stone gate adjacent to the town square in search of the famed Canterbury Cathedral. We found it. It stood surrounded by short green grass and illuminated by the amber-colored rays of the retiring sun. The warm glow of the grey stone took my breath away. The structure was majestic and intricate and wholly overwhelming. We sat within its shadow in awe of the antiquated power; we felt life in the inanimate formation, as if it were somehow watching over us in that moment.
It was all worth it. Right then I realized that no matter the consequences of that trip, I could withstand them in honor of Canterbury Cathedral. I felt ashamed, knowing that I had allowed and even nurtured the anxiety that robbed me of the experiences of the day. I had wallowed in self-pity rather than seizing a likely once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I was in Canterbury, England with a group of good people, experiencing something special and yet, up until that point, was allowing my mind to be held captive by worry and fear of regret.
Lucky for me, the weekend was not nearly over. We made ourselves makeshift pizza in the crowded kitchen of our hostel. Whether Indian flatbread really makes the best pizza or it just tasted that way in light of my new-found freedom, I may never be sure. We watched the rugby World Cup in an over-packed downtown pub, pretending to be devastated at each sign of the impending English defeat so that our apathy might not make us victims of drunken British disappointment. In the morning we worshipped with the congregation of Canterbury Cathedral, a surprisingly warm church body, and then conquered the white cliffs of Dover before finally squeezing into chia pet for the last time.
The music erupted from the speakers around me: “You can’t always get what you want. You can’t always get what you want. You can’t always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes, you just might find you get what you need.” Our singing voices and the sound of the air tearing over the open windows nearly drowned out the radio as we sped down the road toward Oxford. The song had never meant much to me before, but right then, nothing could have felt truer.[1]
[1] We also listened to Jesus Freak. It didn’t have the same effect.
Oxonian Anecdotes: Quick Breaths
One break, one small vacation provided a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel during those first few weeks of Oxford academia. When the time came and those last few essays finally left my hand, I was liberated, even if only for a few short days. It was as if I had been under water since the beginning and had only now been allowed to surface for a few quick breaths of delicious air. I chose to take those breaths away from Oxford, a city that I had come to love, but also that had seemed to be ever-shrinking during my long days amid the stacks of the Bodleian Library.
The time of freedom commenced at the Imperial War Museum in London, where I was to meet my cousin, Sonja, and begin the London chapter of my vacation. She, also a college student studying abroad, had only moved to the bustling capital the week before, but, I don’t doubt, still felt as anxious as I to see a familiar face. I waited with anticipation in the large, bright atrium of the museum, watching groups of British school children foil their chaperones’ attempts at organization. As soon as I spotted Sonja revealing the contents of her purse to the thorough security guard at the door, I felt joy and relief greater than I had expected. When he granted her entry, we met, shared a warm a hug and then raced around the museum. The pace of our feet was matched only by the rate at which we were chattering; excitement sped both. Finally, we stopped and admitted that neither of us, at that particular moment in time, cared to examine the nurses’ uniforms from World War II and found a bench on which we might rest our weary legs.
We gushed excitedly, telling stories of how we had already embarrassed ourselves in this strange new country and sharing bits of information that might slow the collection of such tales. I, being the much more experienced English impostor, had valuable wisdom to impart. “Pants are underwear, so always say trousers,” I warned her, quite seriously, since lacking this important piece of information could mean an embarrassing misunderstanding. “Biscuits are cookies,” I went on. “Jam is jelly, jelly is Jell-O and Jell-O means nothing. A queue is a line, but you don’t queue up, you just queue. A quid is a pound - sort of like a buck is a dollar. Uhh…,” I searched for more pearls, “…oh, and they use the French words for eggplant and zucchini, but I don’t remember what they are.” I paused and we laughed at this last warning, considering the likelihood of Sonja desperately needing to find an eggplant or a zucchini.
The next two days passed like a gust of wind - quickly, but with force. Sleep was not a priority. In the day I was an amateur tour guide: my slight familiarity with London appeared expertise next to her inexperience. We took pictures in front of Parliament for our mothers and, along with countless other tourists, craned our necks to achieve the perfect view of “Big Ben.”[1] At night we engaged in city life with the few acquaintances Sonja had made in her short time there. I remember one young man in particular who enlightened us by explaining that men from Austria, his homeland, were known to be quite charming. I questioned this stereotype as he proceeded to list off the languages in which he was fluent, being sure to poke fun at the general ignorance of foreign languages in America. Sonja and I made an attempt at defense by mumbling some high school Spanish back and forth, but ultimately were forced to concede his point.
When the morning came for me to move on to the next part of my journey, I didn’t want to leave. I had booked a flight to Barcelona, one of the few places I was determined to visit while living in Europe, but the reality of making the trip by myself suddenly seemed terrifying as compared to our safe jaunts around London. Fighting this anxiety, I set out early from her tall apartment building with my backpack and a borrowed pop-up map that would hopefully lead me to Liverpool Station.
I had spent many afternoons and evenings in London, fighting my way through crowds of tourists, but the city in the early morning is a different place. I enjoyed the quiet and the stillness of the city streets along my route, disturbed only by newspaper delivery trucks and faithful shop-owners preparing for the day. When I arrived at the train station, I was relaxed and awake, ready to embark on a day of travel. I bought a train ticket and after an hour-long train ride finally found myself at Stansted Airport.
I had packed for the break in one small backpack. In it were a few toiletry items, which, according to several signs around the airport, were too big to take on the plane. I did not wish to part with them and so decided to push my luck. When the man behind the x-ray machine asked if I had gels or liquids, I said “yes” and showed them to him. He told me that the containers were too big, but hesitantly, so I pushed farther by tilting my head and furrowing my brow as if I didn’t understand. He handed the Ziploc bag containing the questionable items to a colleague who examined them, I suspect just for show, and then handed them back to me. I thanked him earnestly and then chuckled to myself as I walked away. Those bottles could have been dangerous and I felt a little less safe, but I had won.
Security battles behind me, I boarded a tiny plane belonging to a discount airline, Ryanair. It was not the most luxurious flight I have ever taken, but the ticket was cheap.[2] Nothing on the plane was free and the in-flight entertainment was limited to watching the flight attendant demonstrate for us the complicated process by which we could fasten and unfasten our safety belts. The flight was short and I was glad. I disembarked at Girona Airport and quickly found a bus that would bring me closer to my hostel.
The directions to the Mediterranean Youth Hostel I had copied from their website were less than thorough. Initially, I was feeling far too independent to ask for help, but soon the sun and the weight of my backpack put my pride to rest. I approached several strangers asking, “Do you speak English?” and finally resorted to pointing to the hostel address scribbled on a piece of paper. They would point and make cheerful explanations in Spanish, at which I would nod, smile, exclaim “gracias,” walk one block in the direction they had pointed and then repeat the process, finding yet another unsuspecting local. At one point, knowing that I needed cash to pay for my bed, and having only British pounds, I attempted to ask a couple of young men on a bench, in Spanish, where I might find a money exchange bureau. They stared at me blankly as I stumbled through different forms of the same question. I finally asked if they spoke any English and, while shaking their heads, the confused young men, in broken English, explained that they were French. Feeling sufficiently embarrassed, I laughed, apologized, and continued with my quest.
During my search for an exchange bureau, I found my way to an area of Barcelona known as Las Ramblas. It was a long street that stretched from the middle of the city to the waterfront and had a median filled with all sorts of curiosities. Costumed street performers entertained in strange ways: some standing still, some dancing, some miming and some performing tricks. I stopped and watched a lovely young woman wearing a heavy ball gown, standing on a pedestal perfectly still. I began to imitate her stillness, wondering what it might be like to make a living that way. There were little shops set up everywhere selling a variety of wares: typical souvenirs, newspapers, candy, and even a strange selection of pets. As I observed the caged chickens on display, I couldn’t understand who would buy them. Surely tourists did not generally buy live fowl on impulse as they would a shiny keychain, and the chicken-seeking locals certainly knew of another place to make such a purchase, avoiding clowns and unicycle-riders.
To this day those chickens perplex me, but the most interesting thing I witnessed that afternoon had little to do with unusual product placement. As I approached the end of Las Ramblas, where the street ended amidst a few antique markets not far from the water, I heard the loud beating of drums. The sound grew and singing joined the ruckus, but I could not see its source. I did see a mass of people ahead of me, and assumed the music was the object of their attention. I circled the crowd until an opening revealed itself and I was able to stealthily claim a spot with a view. What I found was not nearly what I had expected. There was a cart attended by several men wearing what looked like white togas. The men in togas were not the only ones participating. Several of the onlookers were quite enthusiastic about the goings on, dancing and singing, which made me even more curious as to what exactly was happening. The cart shone with beautiful decorations - brightly colored flowers and shiny ornaments. Amidst the decor were a variety of small figures, which looked like some variety of idols. I suspected that I was witnessing a sort of worship service or celebration, but could not understand the words spoken or sung; everything was in Spanish.
As soon as I had decided that it was time to move on, something different began to take place - three of the toga-clad men each picked up a coconut and placed what looked like sugar cubes on top of them. I quickly learned that they were not sugar cubes as another of the men set each on fire.[3] The fire from the small white cubes quickly ignited the surrounding hair of the coconuts. Then, without warning, the men simultaneously threw the flaming coconuts to the ground. They shattered and the newly released coconut milk extinguished the small blazes. I was baffled and further confused when the pieces of coconut were snatched up by members of the crowd, some being eaten, others hid in purses and pockets. The unusual ceremony completed, I walked away, head buzzing with possible explanations for what I had seen. Much like the chickens of Las Ramblas, I still can’t be sure.
After an entire afternoon of wandering the streets of Barcelona and battling the language barrier, I finally arrived at my hostel, euros in hand. The colorful establishment sat at the top of two narrow flights of stairs and kept most of its large windows open. It was hot that day, making me question whether or not the open windows acted in place of air conditioning. I hoped that they did not. After I was shown to my room, I picked a bottom bunk in the corner. It was one of ten beds in the large, square room nearly filled with iron-framed bunk beds. I dropped my things, lay on the uncovered mattress and wondered what I would do alone in a foreign city for three whole days.
My question was soon answered as other travelers began to arrive. I
observed the young men and women quickly claiming the vacant beds around me and noticed something; they were all Australian. This fascinated me further because none of the small groups of backpackers seemed to know each other but almost instantly united after discovery of the common homeland. By the end of the night, at least eighty percent of the hostel residents were “Aussies.” There were also a couple from New Zealand, who I learned were called “Kiwis,” and another party of girls from America who I decided were not particularly familiar with the hostel lifestyle after noticing their oversized suitcases and multiple wardrobe changes. The Kiwis kept to themselves, the Americans left early in the evening, and so I was left amid a throng of rambunctious Aussies.
“What’s your name?” asked Gabby, a spunky blond girl who was unpacking on the bed next to mine. We chatted and as soon as she learned that I was traveling alone she asked
“You’ll come out with us tonight then, yeah?” I was thrilled and immediately accepted. My fears about spending the weekend alone quickly melted into new fears about what my new friends would think of me. I had not spoken to them much yet, but already realized that we were very different. A few of them had just come from Oktoberfest in Germany, which meant they were slowly recovering from a hazy week of drunkenness remembered only by means of the few blurry pictures they had managed to take. I’m still not sure how they had the resources to travel so much. Many had been in Europe for months, partying their way from hostel to hostel.
I did learn that some had been doing “bar work” in London at a popular Australian-themed restaurant. Apparently the company hires only Australians, pays them very little and keeps them all in the same low-quality housing. The idea sounded a bit reminiscent of modern slavery, but the victims themselves didn’t seem to mind. I also discovered that a group of the young men had been paid cricket-players in London. I nodded and smiled during this conversation until I was found out as knowing absolutely nothing about the sport. They laughed and were kind enough to explain the rules of the game while I feigned interest – it seemed to me to be an inferior form of baseball.
When I told them that I didn’t drink much, and that I was actually a student at Oxford University on break, I became an interesting novelty. They were determined to see me join them in their unprecedented sangria consumption, but began drinking so early themselves that they soon forgot about their mission. That was a night I will not soon forget. They liked me. I was different from them in almost every way imaginable, but they still found a great deal in me to enjoy, and I in them. Though there were parts of their lifestyle was something I might never understand, I was inspired by their ability to accept me based on the fact that I was willing to accept them.
The next morning, one of the bigger groups asked me to sightsee with them and I happily agreed. The idea was much more appealing than wandering the city streets alone. As a person quite familiar with the official tour, I found it amusing that their idea of sightseeing was to meander around, taking pictures of things that looked like they might be important without actually learning the significance of anything. They cared little for art or history and almost every conversation was monopolized by topics related to alcohol, sex or food. The morning was certainly educational, but not in any way that I had expected.
I took it upon myself to try and teach Crystal, the only other female in the tour group, some Spanish. She was a willing student, but knew so little to begin with that I fear my efforts were in vain. She did not even know how to say “hello,” and the repetition of “hola” on her lips sounded awkward. I found this situation absurd and then began to wonder how much American culture is unknowingly influenced by our neighbors to the south.
After a few hours walking in the oppressive Spanish heat, we returned to the hostel for lunch and a siesta. We ate on the patio and after only a few minutes the conversation took an interesting turn. I had just explained that my school back in the States didn’t allow drinking on or off campus for students of any age, and that many of my friends were getting married soon when the bewildered young men, looking for an explanation, asked if I went to a Christian school. I laughed and said “yes.” “So then you’re a Christian?” one asked, in a hesitant way, as if he was afraid to offend me. I said “yes” again and then, to my surprise, began an hour-long conversation about my faith. They told me that they were atheists. For some reason I suspected that wasn’t what they meant. “Most people our age call themselves agnostic – not knowing or sometimes even caring whether or not God exists,” I explained. “Uhhh…yeah. We’re not atheists, we’re agnostics,” they responded, grinning at their own apathy.
Though their own religious beliefs didn’t seem to concern them much, mine were of great interest. I answered each question as best I could, being sure to explain that, in many cases, different Christians' beliefs fall on a broad spectrum. “The most important thing, really, is no what we don’t do, but keeping ourselves pure, our hearts right toward the one who we believe made us. That’s all. We follow Jesus and he made it clear that we are supposed to love God and love people, period,” I explained. I tried hard to be honest with them, to not to pretend that all things were clear to me. In my youth, conversations with those outside my faith had been so different. I feared that they would find out that I didn’t know everything and worked hard to make sense of the Christianity they saw. This time, I wanted them to know that my knowledge was imperfect and that I could only explain the Christianity that I knew.
“It’s cool that you’re so open minded,” one of the young men remarked, toward the conclusion of the lunch hour conversation. I smiled, happy to have challenged the stuffy Christian stereotype, if only in the minds of those few young Australians. “Wow, I don’t know if we’ve ever had such a deep conversation,” he then exclaimed to his mates, and they all laughed heartily at themselves. We spent the rest of the day together, walking around the city, playing cards on our bunks, discovering that the English spoken in America and the English spoken in Australia hardly deserved the same name. I sat through many a conversation with a smile on my face, head nodding, trying to hide the fact that I had no idea what the subject was.
The next morning my friends were gone. Everyone in the hostel that I knew had checked out before I woke up. I sat in my bed, looking around the room. The colors of the walls and floor were faded and cracked, but tropical. Aided by the humidity invading through the open windows, this color scheme gave the room an exotic feel. The theme, though, was now contrasted by each of the grey, empty bunks, so plain without the open and disheveled suitcases of the day before. I mourned the death of those new relationships for a time, then took to planning an itinerary for the day. I would not return to England until the following morning and so would spend that day seeing things that may not have interested my departed friends. I saw the Modern Art Museum, the Picasso Museum, the Gothic District, several beautiful, old, little churches, and even more talented street performers. It was a lovely afternoon. I hardly spoke at all, the silence birthing reflection on the things I had done and seen, the words I had heard and spoken, and what lessons found their way into my consciousness as a result.
I had learned about acceptance from a group of unlikely young men and women who I, in my ignorance, would have quickly judged on the street as having nothing to offer society by way of moral virtue, and certainly not to me, an upstanding Christian student of humanities. Oh, how they proved me wrong and I was glad to admit it, if only to myself. I was humbled by the unlikely acquaintances I had made, but empowered by the trip itself and the independence it required. “What couldn’t I do?” I wondered. All too quickly I found myself back in Oxford, hiking Headington Hill between the bus stop and The Vines. Rain soaked my hair, but it could not distract me from a thought that overwhelmed: “That was one of the best weekends of my life,” echoed in my head and brought a broad smile to my wet face.
[1] I have set Big Ben within quotations because, contrary to a popular misconception, Big Ben is actually the name of the bell inside the famed clock tower of the Parliament building in London, rather than the clock tower itself.
[2] Sometimes lessons learned become lessons forgotten. (i.e. my inexpensive but extensive travel ordeal between the States and Oxford.)
[3] I have not actually tried to light a sugar cube on fire, but I do have some experience in preparing crème brulée and, therefore, am confident in saying that sugar is not as flammable as those cubes proved to be.
The time of freedom commenced at the Imperial War Museum in London, where I was to meet my cousin, Sonja, and begin the London chapter of my vacation. She, also a college student studying abroad, had only moved to the bustling capital the week before, but, I don’t doubt, still felt as anxious as I to see a familiar face. I waited with anticipation in the large, bright atrium of the museum, watching groups of British school children foil their chaperones’ attempts at organization. As soon as I spotted Sonja revealing the contents of her purse to the thorough security guard at the door, I felt joy and relief greater than I had expected. When he granted her entry, we met, shared a warm a hug and then raced around the museum. The pace of our feet was matched only by the rate at which we were chattering; excitement sped both. Finally, we stopped and admitted that neither of us, at that particular moment in time, cared to examine the nurses’ uniforms from World War II and found a bench on which we might rest our weary legs.
We gushed excitedly, telling stories of how we had already embarrassed ourselves in this strange new country and sharing bits of information that might slow the collection of such tales. I, being the much more experienced English impostor, had valuable wisdom to impart. “Pants are underwear, so always say trousers,” I warned her, quite seriously, since lacking this important piece of information could mean an embarrassing misunderstanding. “Biscuits are cookies,” I went on. “Jam is jelly, jelly is Jell-O and Jell-O means nothing. A queue is a line, but you don’t queue up, you just queue. A quid is a pound - sort of like a buck is a dollar. Uhh…,” I searched for more pearls, “…oh, and they use the French words for eggplant and zucchini, but I don’t remember what they are.” I paused and we laughed at this last warning, considering the likelihood of Sonja desperately needing to find an eggplant or a zucchini.
The next two days passed like a gust of wind - quickly, but with force. Sleep was not a priority. In the day I was an amateur tour guide: my slight familiarity with London appeared expertise next to her inexperience. We took pictures in front of Parliament for our mothers and, along with countless other tourists, craned our necks to achieve the perfect view of “Big Ben.”[1] At night we engaged in city life with the few acquaintances Sonja had made in her short time there. I remember one young man in particular who enlightened us by explaining that men from Austria, his homeland, were known to be quite charming. I questioned this stereotype as he proceeded to list off the languages in which he was fluent, being sure to poke fun at the general ignorance of foreign languages in America. Sonja and I made an attempt at defense by mumbling some high school Spanish back and forth, but ultimately were forced to concede his point.
When the morning came for me to move on to the next part of my journey, I didn’t want to leave. I had booked a flight to Barcelona, one of the few places I was determined to visit while living in Europe, but the reality of making the trip by myself suddenly seemed terrifying as compared to our safe jaunts around London. Fighting this anxiety, I set out early from her tall apartment building with my backpack and a borrowed pop-up map that would hopefully lead me to Liverpool Station.
I had spent many afternoons and evenings in London, fighting my way through crowds of tourists, but the city in the early morning is a different place. I enjoyed the quiet and the stillness of the city streets along my route, disturbed only by newspaper delivery trucks and faithful shop-owners preparing for the day. When I arrived at the train station, I was relaxed and awake, ready to embark on a day of travel. I bought a train ticket and after an hour-long train ride finally found myself at Stansted Airport.
I had packed for the break in one small backpack. In it were a few toiletry items, which, according to several signs around the airport, were too big to take on the plane. I did not wish to part with them and so decided to push my luck. When the man behind the x-ray machine asked if I had gels or liquids, I said “yes” and showed them to him. He told me that the containers were too big, but hesitantly, so I pushed farther by tilting my head and furrowing my brow as if I didn’t understand. He handed the Ziploc bag containing the questionable items to a colleague who examined them, I suspect just for show, and then handed them back to me. I thanked him earnestly and then chuckled to myself as I walked away. Those bottles could have been dangerous and I felt a little less safe, but I had won.
Security battles behind me, I boarded a tiny plane belonging to a discount airline, Ryanair. It was not the most luxurious flight I have ever taken, but the ticket was cheap.[2] Nothing on the plane was free and the in-flight entertainment was limited to watching the flight attendant demonstrate for us the complicated process by which we could fasten and unfasten our safety belts. The flight was short and I was glad. I disembarked at Girona Airport and quickly found a bus that would bring me closer to my hostel.
The directions to the Mediterranean Youth Hostel I had copied from their website were less than thorough. Initially, I was feeling far too independent to ask for help, but soon the sun and the weight of my backpack put my pride to rest. I approached several strangers asking, “Do you speak English?” and finally resorted to pointing to the hostel address scribbled on a piece of paper. They would point and make cheerful explanations in Spanish, at which I would nod, smile, exclaim “gracias,” walk one block in the direction they had pointed and then repeat the process, finding yet another unsuspecting local. At one point, knowing that I needed cash to pay for my bed, and having only British pounds, I attempted to ask a couple of young men on a bench, in Spanish, where I might find a money exchange bureau. They stared at me blankly as I stumbled through different forms of the same question. I finally asked if they spoke any English and, while shaking their heads, the confused young men, in broken English, explained that they were French. Feeling sufficiently embarrassed, I laughed, apologized, and continued with my quest.
During my search for an exchange bureau, I found my way to an area of Barcelona known as Las Ramblas. It was a long street that stretched from the middle of the city to the waterfront and had a median filled with all sorts of curiosities. Costumed street performers entertained in strange ways: some standing still, some dancing, some miming and some performing tricks. I stopped and watched a lovely young woman wearing a heavy ball gown, standing on a pedestal perfectly still. I began to imitate her stillness, wondering what it might be like to make a living that way. There were little shops set up everywhere selling a variety of wares: typical souvenirs, newspapers, candy, and even a strange selection of pets. As I observed the caged chickens on display, I couldn’t understand who would buy them. Surely tourists did not generally buy live fowl on impulse as they would a shiny keychain, and the chicken-seeking locals certainly knew of another place to make such a purchase, avoiding clowns and unicycle-riders.
To this day those chickens perplex me, but the most interesting thing I witnessed that afternoon had little to do with unusual product placement. As I approached the end of Las Ramblas, where the street ended amidst a few antique markets not far from the water, I heard the loud beating of drums. The sound grew and singing joined the ruckus, but I could not see its source. I did see a mass of people ahead of me, and assumed the music was the object of their attention. I circled the crowd until an opening revealed itself and I was able to stealthily claim a spot with a view. What I found was not nearly what I had expected. There was a cart attended by several men wearing what looked like white togas. The men in togas were not the only ones participating. Several of the onlookers were quite enthusiastic about the goings on, dancing and singing, which made me even more curious as to what exactly was happening. The cart shone with beautiful decorations - brightly colored flowers and shiny ornaments. Amidst the decor were a variety of small figures, which looked like some variety of idols. I suspected that I was witnessing a sort of worship service or celebration, but could not understand the words spoken or sung; everything was in Spanish.
As soon as I had decided that it was time to move on, something different began to take place - three of the toga-clad men each picked up a coconut and placed what looked like sugar cubes on top of them. I quickly learned that they were not sugar cubes as another of the men set each on fire.[3] The fire from the small white cubes quickly ignited the surrounding hair of the coconuts. Then, without warning, the men simultaneously threw the flaming coconuts to the ground. They shattered and the newly released coconut milk extinguished the small blazes. I was baffled and further confused when the pieces of coconut were snatched up by members of the crowd, some being eaten, others hid in purses and pockets. The unusual ceremony completed, I walked away, head buzzing with possible explanations for what I had seen. Much like the chickens of Las Ramblas, I still can’t be sure.
After an entire afternoon of wandering the streets of Barcelona and battling the language barrier, I finally arrived at my hostel, euros in hand. The colorful establishment sat at the top of two narrow flights of stairs and kept most of its large windows open. It was hot that day, making me question whether or not the open windows acted in place of air conditioning. I hoped that they did not. After I was shown to my room, I picked a bottom bunk in the corner. It was one of ten beds in the large, square room nearly filled with iron-framed bunk beds. I dropped my things, lay on the uncovered mattress and wondered what I would do alone in a foreign city for three whole days.
My question was soon answered as other travelers began to arrive. I
observed the young men and women quickly claiming the vacant beds around me and noticed something; they were all Australian. This fascinated me further because none of the small groups of backpackers seemed to know each other but almost instantly united after discovery of the common homeland. By the end of the night, at least eighty percent of the hostel residents were “Aussies.” There were also a couple from New Zealand, who I learned were called “Kiwis,” and another party of girls from America who I decided were not particularly familiar with the hostel lifestyle after noticing their oversized suitcases and multiple wardrobe changes. The Kiwis kept to themselves, the Americans left early in the evening, and so I was left amid a throng of rambunctious Aussies.
“What’s your name?” asked Gabby, a spunky blond girl who was unpacking on the bed next to mine. We chatted and as soon as she learned that I was traveling alone she asked
“You’ll come out with us tonight then, yeah?” I was thrilled and immediately accepted. My fears about spending the weekend alone quickly melted into new fears about what my new friends would think of me. I had not spoken to them much yet, but already realized that we were very different. A few of them had just come from Oktoberfest in Germany, which meant they were slowly recovering from a hazy week of drunkenness remembered only by means of the few blurry pictures they had managed to take. I’m still not sure how they had the resources to travel so much. Many had been in Europe for months, partying their way from hostel to hostel.
I did learn that some had been doing “bar work” in London at a popular Australian-themed restaurant. Apparently the company hires only Australians, pays them very little and keeps them all in the same low-quality housing. The idea sounded a bit reminiscent of modern slavery, but the victims themselves didn’t seem to mind. I also discovered that a group of the young men had been paid cricket-players in London. I nodded and smiled during this conversation until I was found out as knowing absolutely nothing about the sport. They laughed and were kind enough to explain the rules of the game while I feigned interest – it seemed to me to be an inferior form of baseball.
When I told them that I didn’t drink much, and that I was actually a student at Oxford University on break, I became an interesting novelty. They were determined to see me join them in their unprecedented sangria consumption, but began drinking so early themselves that they soon forgot about their mission. That was a night I will not soon forget. They liked me. I was different from them in almost every way imaginable, but they still found a great deal in me to enjoy, and I in them. Though there were parts of their lifestyle was something I might never understand, I was inspired by their ability to accept me based on the fact that I was willing to accept them.
The next morning, one of the bigger groups asked me to sightsee with them and I happily agreed. The idea was much more appealing than wandering the city streets alone. As a person quite familiar with the official tour, I found it amusing that their idea of sightseeing was to meander around, taking pictures of things that looked like they might be important without actually learning the significance of anything. They cared little for art or history and almost every conversation was monopolized by topics related to alcohol, sex or food. The morning was certainly educational, but not in any way that I had expected.
I took it upon myself to try and teach Crystal, the only other female in the tour group, some Spanish. She was a willing student, but knew so little to begin with that I fear my efforts were in vain. She did not even know how to say “hello,” and the repetition of “hola” on her lips sounded awkward. I found this situation absurd and then began to wonder how much American culture is unknowingly influenced by our neighbors to the south.
After a few hours walking in the oppressive Spanish heat, we returned to the hostel for lunch and a siesta. We ate on the patio and after only a few minutes the conversation took an interesting turn. I had just explained that my school back in the States didn’t allow drinking on or off campus for students of any age, and that many of my friends were getting married soon when the bewildered young men, looking for an explanation, asked if I went to a Christian school. I laughed and said “yes.” “So then you’re a Christian?” one asked, in a hesitant way, as if he was afraid to offend me. I said “yes” again and then, to my surprise, began an hour-long conversation about my faith. They told me that they were atheists. For some reason I suspected that wasn’t what they meant. “Most people our age call themselves agnostic – not knowing or sometimes even caring whether or not God exists,” I explained. “Uhhh…yeah. We’re not atheists, we’re agnostics,” they responded, grinning at their own apathy.
Though their own religious beliefs didn’t seem to concern them much, mine were of great interest. I answered each question as best I could, being sure to explain that, in many cases, different Christians' beliefs fall on a broad spectrum. “The most important thing, really, is no what we don’t do, but keeping ourselves pure, our hearts right toward the one who we believe made us. That’s all. We follow Jesus and he made it clear that we are supposed to love God and love people, period,” I explained. I tried hard to be honest with them, to not to pretend that all things were clear to me. In my youth, conversations with those outside my faith had been so different. I feared that they would find out that I didn’t know everything and worked hard to make sense of the Christianity they saw. This time, I wanted them to know that my knowledge was imperfect and that I could only explain the Christianity that I knew.
“It’s cool that you’re so open minded,” one of the young men remarked, toward the conclusion of the lunch hour conversation. I smiled, happy to have challenged the stuffy Christian stereotype, if only in the minds of those few young Australians. “Wow, I don’t know if we’ve ever had such a deep conversation,” he then exclaimed to his mates, and they all laughed heartily at themselves. We spent the rest of the day together, walking around the city, playing cards on our bunks, discovering that the English spoken in America and the English spoken in Australia hardly deserved the same name. I sat through many a conversation with a smile on my face, head nodding, trying to hide the fact that I had no idea what the subject was.
The next morning my friends were gone. Everyone in the hostel that I knew had checked out before I woke up. I sat in my bed, looking around the room. The colors of the walls and floor were faded and cracked, but tropical. Aided by the humidity invading through the open windows, this color scheme gave the room an exotic feel. The theme, though, was now contrasted by each of the grey, empty bunks, so plain without the open and disheveled suitcases of the day before. I mourned the death of those new relationships for a time, then took to planning an itinerary for the day. I would not return to England until the following morning and so would spend that day seeing things that may not have interested my departed friends. I saw the Modern Art Museum, the Picasso Museum, the Gothic District, several beautiful, old, little churches, and even more talented street performers. It was a lovely afternoon. I hardly spoke at all, the silence birthing reflection on the things I had done and seen, the words I had heard and spoken, and what lessons found their way into my consciousness as a result.
I had learned about acceptance from a group of unlikely young men and women who I, in my ignorance, would have quickly judged on the street as having nothing to offer society by way of moral virtue, and certainly not to me, an upstanding Christian student of humanities. Oh, how they proved me wrong and I was glad to admit it, if only to myself. I was humbled by the unlikely acquaintances I had made, but empowered by the trip itself and the independence it required. “What couldn’t I do?” I wondered. All too quickly I found myself back in Oxford, hiking Headington Hill between the bus stop and The Vines. Rain soaked my hair, but it could not distract me from a thought that overwhelmed: “That was one of the best weekends of my life,” echoed in my head and brought a broad smile to my wet face.
[1] I have set Big Ben within quotations because, contrary to a popular misconception, Big Ben is actually the name of the bell inside the famed clock tower of the Parliament building in London, rather than the clock tower itself.
[2] Sometimes lessons learned become lessons forgotten. (i.e. my inexpensive but extensive travel ordeal between the States and Oxford.)
[3] I have not actually tried to light a sugar cube on fire, but I do have some experience in preparing crème brulée and, therefore, am confident in saying that sugar is not as flammable as those cubes proved to be.
Oxonian Anecdotes: I Answer to Jesus
It was a late night in London. So late, in fact, that my legs ached and my eyes drooped as three of us Vines residents made our way to the bus stop by the Marble Arch, bidding farewell to the city, and remembering how well it had treated us during that long day of sight-seeing. Before we reached our destination, our surroundings began to change, not the landscape, but the people. There was an increasing number of them and soon we were forced to become alert if we were to avoid an embarrassing and possibly painful collision with oncoming pedestrians. The situation became more curious as I noticed that all of the members of the mob that overtook us were dressed in an unusually patriotic fashion. There were Union Jack t-shirts and flags; faces streaked red, white, and blue; and a variety of glowing and blinking objects of the same colors. “What is going on?” I thought, wondering what would ever possess people to express patriotism in such flamboyant ways. The only thing in my memory to which the sight could be compared was walking in Boston anywhere near Fenway Park after a Red Sox game had ended, pennants waving above a sea of jerseys. I could understand such expression for the Red Sox, but for my country?
“I would never paint an American flag on my face, or anywhere else on my body,” was my smug judgment, but I was suddenly shocked at my own train of thought. Was I ashamed of my country? When had I jumped on the hipster bandwagon, so popular with my generation across the world, wielding an anti-America bumper sticker? It was not that I had offended myself by lacking patriotism; I was bothered by the fact that I had no idea from where these strong feelings of disgust had grown. Had I been brainwashed without consent? The only thing left for me to do was decide what I thought about patriotism right then and there. I knew how I felt at that moment, but I hadn’t made that choice – it was not an educated selection of personal philosophy, but a passive absorption of popular media. What I sought was rightness of thought. How should I feel about patriotism?
“I am an American,” I thought, as I climbed the steps and handed the bus driver my ticket. I was born in America and there was nothing I could do about that, regardless of what I decided. I was, on the other hand, a Christian first and a Christian by choice. How, then, should Christianity inform my relationship with America? Jesus told me to submit to earthly authority, pay taxes, and obey laws. I was lucky enough that the laws of my country did not directly interfere with my faith. Beyond those concessions, I decided, I owe the United States nothing. I must love and respect my leaders, of course, as I must love and respect all people, but it would be a grave mistake to believe that my sensibility was somehow bound to the America dream, be it at home or abroad. I answer to Jesus.
By the time I was beginning to find peace in this decision, the bus was slowing near our stop. I gently patted the sleeping head on my shoulder and we disembarked. The walk from the bus stop to The Vines was a short one, but quiet and long enough to reflect on what was happening to me. I heard, before making the move across the pond, that living in a different country challenges feelings of loyalty to one’s own. Tonight I had found that to be true. Political conversations with British people had peppered my experience up until then and that night, being able to view patriotism in the context of someone else’s country, I felt the grip of my homeland loosen. I knew that no matter how my nationality had shaped me, that shape could be changed. I could be a citizen of the world, rather than simply an American, but what did that look like? Something told me that learning how to live at peace with humanity would take longer than a bus ride from London to Oxford, but I felt better already.
“I would never paint an American flag on my face, or anywhere else on my body,” was my smug judgment, but I was suddenly shocked at my own train of thought. Was I ashamed of my country? When had I jumped on the hipster bandwagon, so popular with my generation across the world, wielding an anti-America bumper sticker? It was not that I had offended myself by lacking patriotism; I was bothered by the fact that I had no idea from where these strong feelings of disgust had grown. Had I been brainwashed without consent? The only thing left for me to do was decide what I thought about patriotism right then and there. I knew how I felt at that moment, but I hadn’t made that choice – it was not an educated selection of personal philosophy, but a passive absorption of popular media. What I sought was rightness of thought. How should I feel about patriotism?
“I am an American,” I thought, as I climbed the steps and handed the bus driver my ticket. I was born in America and there was nothing I could do about that, regardless of what I decided. I was, on the other hand, a Christian first and a Christian by choice. How, then, should Christianity inform my relationship with America? Jesus told me to submit to earthly authority, pay taxes, and obey laws. I was lucky enough that the laws of my country did not directly interfere with my faith. Beyond those concessions, I decided, I owe the United States nothing. I must love and respect my leaders, of course, as I must love and respect all people, but it would be a grave mistake to believe that my sensibility was somehow bound to the America dream, be it at home or abroad. I answer to Jesus.
By the time I was beginning to find peace in this decision, the bus was slowing near our stop. I gently patted the sleeping head on my shoulder and we disembarked. The walk from the bus stop to The Vines was a short one, but quiet and long enough to reflect on what was happening to me. I heard, before making the move across the pond, that living in a different country challenges feelings of loyalty to one’s own. Tonight I had found that to be true. Political conversations with British people had peppered my experience up until then and that night, being able to view patriotism in the context of someone else’s country, I felt the grip of my homeland loosen. I knew that no matter how my nationality had shaped me, that shape could be changed. I could be a citizen of the world, rather than simply an American, but what did that look like? Something told me that learning how to live at peace with humanity would take longer than a bus ride from London to Oxford, but I felt better already.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
