Oxonian Anecdotes: Dessert Wine

I gained only one British friend while in Oxford who was not involved in my academic life. This is a tragedy, I know, but since it is the truth, I am happy to say that I would not trade Ruth for a hundred different British friends. She lives in Headington, the same area of Oxford in which The Vines bustles. I met her first when one of my housemates, Scotland, invited me to go with him to “the pub” one night to meet his friend Ruth and a friend of hers who was visiting from Canterbury.[1] As always, eager acceptance was my response, despite the growing pile of unread books on my desk. That evening, I knew that Ruth and I would be fast friends. Her quick wit and perpetual storytelling were attractive to me and the fact that her stories generally involved some exotic country and antics performed therein was an added bonus. When we arrived back at The Vines, I thanked Scotland fervently for the connection.

A few days after this particular pub night, Scotland and I were invited to a dinner party hosted by Ruth. We both beamed with excitement as our jealous housemates verbalized their longing to attend a truly British dinner party. We were the chosen ones and it was lovely. The party was not for a couple of weeks, so there was adequate time to fuss about what I would wear. I just wished I could pretend that I wasn’t an American. Of course if I tried, I would need to avoid Ruth all night and maintain a convincing fake accent. This was a temptation to which I succumbed every day in my interactions with the locals. Their disdain for Americans was not well hidden, and I had mastered simple words and phrases in the local dialect so as not to expose myself. It is wonderful how easily a quick “sorry” or “thank you” delivered in a fake British accent can gain a foreigner acceptance away from home. Despite this truth, I knew that my skill was not yet developed enough to hide my nationality for an entire evening and that I would no doubt be almost instantly exposed as an American, and a fraudulent, shameful American at that.

Days before the awaited evening, Scotland discovered that he had a schedule conflict and would not be able to attend the party. This was bad news. I was already anxious about meeting what I imagined to be an intimidating hoard of young British idealists, knowing that they would immediately hate me for being American, but also having decided that hiding it was not an option. Could I face them alone? Perhaps it was the American in me, but I refused to shy away from this confrontation.

When the night finally came, I selected a trendy, yet sophisticated-looking outfit, walked to the end of the road and waited in the dark. Ruth had offered to pick me up on her tandem bicycle and I had accepted. The cold, dark and unknown route through Headington was not welcoming and certainly not to one traveling alone. When she arrived, it was a bit of a spectacle. She rode the two-person bicycle alone and while wearing a giant, yellow ski-jacket. I stifled my laughter as she greeted me and explained how, exactly, to mount the tandem. Riding as a passenger on a two-person bicycle was far more frightening and much less quaint than I had expected – rather than singing “Daisy, Daisy . . .” I was trying to decide which part of my body I should sacrifice to the pavement if I fell off. Ruth instructed me not ever to lean, which was counter-intuitive, but I did my best not to topple us. I certainly questioned my decision to accept this mode of transportation, but when we arrived at her house, and were not dead, I appreciated the experience.

I was hours early - I had agreed to, in return for the ride, help prepare the meal. Fortunately, preparation of the vegan-friendly meal consisted almost entirely of vegetable-cutting. We sat in the kitchen, chatted, and cut vegetables. She offered me some tea, and I nodded and smiled. Tea had become one of my favorite aspects of life in the UK. She assumed I took milk and did not offer me sugar. I learned later that at least some British people consider sugar in tea to be a practice of the lower class, a member of which Ruth was not. This amused me. I imagined Ruth’s reaction if she were ever to taste the famed and aptly named sweet tea of the American South and decided that Americans, in our general addiction to sugar, must all appear to be lower class citizens. Perhaps this was another reason they found us to be uncivilized. At that moment I learned to drink my tea without sugar.

Eventually, the guests began to arrive, each with a bottle of wine in hand. I hadn’t thought to bring anything and felt out of place already. One person even brought dessert wine, something of which I had never heard. Ruth introduced me to fifteen British twenty-somethings that night, and at each introduction I did my best to appear confident, aware and informed. She included my nationality every time, making me glad that I had decided not to try to hide it. Contrary to my fears, they did not look on me with disdain, but rather with intrigue. I actually became a bit of a novelty. Perhaps my acquaintance with Ruth meant to them that I was not the type of American they despised. I was relieved and happy to answer their friendly questions.
One of the guests offered to drive me home so that Ruth would not have to take the tandem out again. I was grateful as the temperature had dropped and the contraption still frightened me some. After an embarrassing incident in which I began to open the driver’s side door rather than the passenger’s side, and a hearty laugh from my companion, we were on our way. By the time I reached my small sanctuary of Americans, the sound of my own voice seemed strange to me. I had heard nothing but English speech for hours and the sound of my American utterances and those of my housemates seemed much less musical than those of the conversations from which I had come. Other than this small oddity, I was glad to be home. I was asked by many to recount the events of my evening with the locals and did it gladly, laughing at my own fears of rejection and remembering the kindness I was shown.

That dinner party gave me a new respect for British people. I realized that my assuming that they would judge and reject me instantly because of where I was born was just as ludicrous as if they had actually done so. I harbored the very prejudice I feared, but once I allowed myself to be surprised, I enjoyed a lovely night of good food and the sparkling conversation of good people who just happened to be British.

[1] I find it interesting that when British people, or acclimating American people, say “the pub,” they could actually be referring to
any pub in the whole of Britain.

Oxonian Anecdotes: No Picnic

Almost two months passed before I was confronted with an inevitable realization: Oxford was hard. It was pressing me and was not about to subside, regardless of tears or cursing on my part. It reminded me of that one week in every college semester when syllabi converge, piling paper upon exam upon presentation. Except this semester, that one week of trauma lasted from August to December. I’m not sure why it surprised me. Oxford University is debatably the most prestigious educational institution on earth. Why, then, when faced with an immovable, but understandable reality of difficulty, was I paralyzed by doubt and a desire to re-pack my big, red suitcase? I knew it was coming! The anxiety came to a head one particular afternoon. Up until then, I hadn’t quite been conscious of the ever-building pressure. I stared at the moving picture of my mother on the computer screen. She had given me a webcam before I left to avoid pricey phone cards.

“How are you?” she asked, in an ordinary way.

“How am I?” I repeated, preparing to answer the question as best I could. “Well, my proposal for my long essay is due this week and I hate the topic I chose. I thought it would be interesting, but I checked out eight commentaries on the book of Romans and none of them talk about Plato. I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s too late to change it, but I don’t think it’s going to work….” My voice started to falter. “And I have my secondary tutorial this week. I feel so unprepared for this, and I know my tutor thinks I’m an idiot. I just didn’t know enough about early church doctrine when I got here and there’s nothing I can do to fix that. I’m trying as hard as I can and I just don’t think he sees that….” Silent tears began to fall over my cheeks. “And my primary tutor assigned us two Dickens novels to read this week! That’s over a thousand pages of reading, plus the essay. I just can’t do it!” I involuntarily, quickly and audibly inhaled several times, the tears quickened and the pitch of my voice became appropriate to calling a dog. “I don’t know how they expect us to do all of this,” was my final and pathetic complaint through the tears I wished I could hide.

I made an honest endeavor to compose myself before speaking again, but it was no easy task. I didn’t want her to see me like that. I was supposed to be a strong, independent, brilliant young scholar, and here I was, weeping at the thought of my workload. I was embarrassed and felt as if the entire world was watching and shaking their heads in disapproval. While I floundered in self-pity and reluctantly worked toward composure, my mother delivered an inspired motivational speech. It fell on all but deaf ears. I wanted to believe I was incapable, to feel sorry for my poor, inadequate self. That would be easier than the work that I knew lay ahead.

That was my only academically induced breakdown of the semester.[1] I cannot be certain why I was overcome at that exact moment in time, but once I came to my senses, the situation became clear. I could only do what I could do. This was the one piece of wisdom offered by my mother that I did hear, and it rang true until the end. I wiped my eyes and began to work; my tear-soaked fingers typed furiously as my face began to dry. I worked as hard as I could. Some days this looked different than others, but by the time it was actually time to re-pack my big red suitcase, I knew I had done my best and was, in fact, capable of applying myself to accomplish great things.
I know that my experience in front of the webcam will not be the last one of its kind, as my delicate ego will continue to crack when the pressure mounts, but I also know that no matter what my adversary might be, I will not be defeated for longer than it takes my tears to dry.

[1] Of course, there were other types of breakdowns: poverty-induced, insecurity-induced, homesickness-induced, inadequacy complex-induced,
but those are not to be discussed here.

Oxonian Anecdotes: Becoming the Inklings, An Introduction

My flight to London was to leave that morning and my suitcase lay empty on the bed. A sigh expressed my frustration as I remembered my grand plans of exquisite preparation. What was wrong with me? I was to be a student at Oxford University, and yet packing in a timely fashion eluded me. Staring at the piles of clothes, I hoped that this next semester would be different; maybe I would finally find it within myself to follow through with something.

Though I complain most other days, that day I was grateful for my rather small wardrobe. If things had been different I might have missed my plane. I quickly filled my bright red, oversized, and slightly tattered suitcase, and dragged it downstairs one step at a time.[1] It was an aggravating task, but I have rolled that worn piece of luggage through so many amazing places that I could not ever bring myself to be angry with it, especially that morning, as my mind teemed with thoughts of the places we would soon see.

I had quite a journey ahead of me and many places stood, in every sense, between me and my destination: Oxford, England. I began in North Carolina and remember glimpses of Boston, London, New Hampshire and Iceland, though surely not in that order. The complicated itinerary looked different on paper weeks before – I was excited to have found such a cheap flight, even if it was going to take me a little longer to get there. I believed that anything was worth saving a bit of money. I was only en route to Oxford and already I was learning; saving money is not, in fact, worth anything and particularly not forty-eight hours spent half on planes and half in airports. I arrived in London, England, extra money in hand, but having lost brain cells for lack of sleep.

If I hadn’t been carrying twice my weight in luggage, I would have sprinted through Heathrow airport to the bus depot – the time at which my hostel would close its doors was drawing neigh. Ironically, on this particular night, the 9:30 p.m. but aspired to be the 9:25 p.m. bus and succeeded. I sat, quite glum, on the suitcase that had slowed me until the 10:00 p.m. bus began to board.

The corpulent and scruffy-faced bus was in a foul mood. His was the first British company I met, and the experience did not bode well for the next few months. He avoided eye contact and refused to acknowledge my questions. In fact, the only noise I heard from him was a painful groan under the weight of my luggage. I assumed this was directed at me and his lack of cordiality officially succeeded in dampening my excitement at finally being in England, but I pressed on. A friendly, tall, bald, middle-aged man from Boston befriended me. He was waiting for the same bus and was kind enough to provide me with the information and guidance I needed to find my hostel quickly and avoid sleeping on the street that night.

The next morning, family cars, too many planes, unfriendly busses, shiny black taxis and a less-than-immaculate hostel behind me, I finally stood at the door of my new home. It was a large red brick house nestled among a small forest of trees filled with the countless bright green leaves of late summer. There was a sign posted on a tree by the road that I could see from where I stood - it read “The Vines.” As I made use of the large brass knocker on the door, I could not help smiling at the thought of living in a house with a name. I felt as though I would be living in a Victorian novel. “The Vines,” I repeated in my head. It was decidedly fitting.

There would be forty-three of us living in The Vines that semester and I was one of the first to arrive. A pretty, young, blonde woman named Jackie opened the door and invited me inside. I learned later that she was one of the two people responsible for keeping us from burning the beautiful old building down. I dragged my luggage up the stairs, one step at a time, found the room that bore my name on its door and set my things down inside. There were two bunk beds and four desks in an otherwise large, blank, beige room. I chose a bed and a desk and wondered about the other girls, my roommates. I knew next to nothing about them. It was strange to think about how much those relationships might form and change in a matter of days.

I spent the next several hours meeting my forty-two housemates. We were an eclectic group, all from small, Christian liberal arts schools and all engrossed in the humanities, but each with slightly different interests. The names of obscure authors, philosophers and theologians filled the air, and the excitement swelled as we all realized we were among our own, and need no longer be ashamed of our love for learning. I heard conversations around me begin with rather unusually scholarly questions like “Who is your favorite French philosopher?” I was amused, but one thought lurked in the back of my head: “Do I belong here?”

That first night, though sleep seemed a distant memory, we refused to get much-needed rest like responsible Oxonian scholars-to-be. Excitement provided the energy that sleep could not. Anxious to explore our new surroundings, we unanimously decided that there was no choice but to visit The Eagle and Child Pub on this epic first night’s journey. Pubs line the streets of Oxford, but this particular pub had served as a home for the Inklings, a small literary society including the famed C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. After making the long walk into the city, we entered the pub. It was a narrow, dark space with a low ceiling, and the walls spoke to us. They told us of tales weaved in that very place, stories that had formed minds and imaginations for decades, young and old. We found a small table in a back corner and tried, rather unsuccessfully, to blend in.

There was something about that place, an ambience that made ordinary conversation inadequate. We needed to offer something to the great artists and thinkers that had lingered there long before us. We did our best, as the night wore on, with our hushed voices drifting in and out of theological debates, philosophical discussions, on and off of soapboxes. The night was surreal, and as we journeyed back to The Vines, I knew that the feeling of awe would likely not subside until I was once again boarding a plane to cross the Atlantic.

That night launched my initiation into Oxford life. It was the first time that simply standing in a place called me to better myself, and it certainly would not be the last. Under the spires of Oxford I felt a beautiful tension begin to stretch me, the tension between who I was and who I was becoming, who I wanted to be. I did not know it then, but for the next few months I would be forced to defend or reject everything that I thought made me who I was, every belief, every opinion, and every inclination. What would emerge would be something completely different, and that night began the transformation.


[1] I actually had a large duffle bag as well, but decided not to mention it– we don’t have the same relationship.

Oxonian Anecdotes: Forward

I spent the fall of my senior year of college as a visiting student at Oxford University. The experience allowed me to grow me in ways I never expected. I have no doubt that one catalyst for my transformation was the number of precious, kindred souls with whom I was blessed enough to live while there. When planning this project, this ode to my formative months in Oxford, I could not imagine it complete without adequate representation of those brilliant people who became so dear to me. I have illustrated the following pages with photography, poetry, prose, and song lyrics - art created by some of those fellow scholars closest to me, in an effort to infuse this collection with their stories as well as mine.

As one might imagine, my academic life in Oxford also played a large role in the positive personal development I experienced. One of the most helpful things I learned through the challenging tutorial system of Oxford University was the value of footnotes – most of the essays I wrote became saturated with them. I have, therefore, decided to employ these useful little devices in the unlikely venue of creative nonfiction. They will not, as they most often did in those complex academic dissertations, be used to cite original sources, but rather to provide small bits of information not essential to the stories, but helpful in providing some perspective. I hope you enjoy reading the following stories as much as I enjoyed living and writing them. I also hope that you have been, or at least will someday be changed as I was changed under the spires of Oxford.

Tea, Biscuits and Brontë

This is the last blog I wrote for the Stampede regarding my time in Oxford.

Tea, Biscuits and Brontë

Katie DeConto

Issue date: 12/7/07 Section: Features

To make things a little interesting, I decided to make this second and final installment of my Oxford blog, so graciously published by the Stampede, a sort of interview. Now, I know what you're thinking, "How is she going to interview herself?" Well, my dear Milliganites, I will show you . . .


Q: What were your biggest fears upon entering the Scholar's Semester at Oxford?

A: I actually had a few different fears, but two of the biggest and probably most applicable to those of you thinking about a semester abroad are as follows. I was afraid to leave Milligan. It has become my home, and I love my life there in a way which made it difficult to leave - I was afraid my experiences in Oxford would not be worth what I would miss at Milligan.

I was also afraid of the workload at Oxford. Academics have never really been the most important thing to me - I have, several times, gone to Applebee's without a second thought when I should have been paying attention to my classes. How was I going to succeed or even survive at Oxford?


Q: Did these fears come true?

A: Absolutely. In a sense, everything I was worried about actually came to pass. Now, before you finish filling out a sympathy card, let me explain.

I did miss Milligan. It would have been impossible for me to not have missed Milligan. Every time I opened one of Jess Carter's e-mails about things I could not attend, which happened several times a day, a little Milligan-shaped hole in my heart would ache. That being said, I have met more amazing people and done more amazing things in this semester than I ever thought possible. I cannot imagine having not gained friendships I now treasure, or enjoyed experiences which have shaped me. I can confidently say I do not regret leaving Milligan for a semester, which is a weighty statement from a girl who wears her MILLIGAN t-shirts as if they were going out of style (but they never will).

The workload was incredible. I have opened more books, written more words and spent more time in libraries this semester than in the whole of my collegiate career previous. I have a stack on my desk of all the completed essays, and it is approaching an inch thick! Because of these scary statistics, however, I now enjoy the feeling I could have only achieved by working harder than I thought I could to accomplish something incredible.

I have learned so much, and not just from my own studies, but also from living in a house with 42 people working as hard as myself but in completely different areas. The conversations I have been blessed to be a part of would never have happened if we were not forced to dive into this world of academia and let the genius of our predecessors wash over us. I cannot say I have fully defeated the demon of procrastination, as the two of us have had much fun this semester, but I can say I do not regret my performance here at Oxford. On the contrary, I am quite proud of myself, my colleagues and our accomplishments.


Q: How has your semester abroad changed you?

A: Wow, Katie. That is a loaded question. Well, I certainly feel more educated. I suppose that is something I should have expected, becoming an Oxford student, but it has really occurred in a bigger way than I anticipated. I could talk to you until you were blue in the face about Victorian literature, or some of the early church fathers, but education is so much more than an accumulation of facts. I now feel comfortable, if not confident, in the ways of higher academia. I have been presented with countless different ideas I had never considered before, and each was an opportunity to shape my own ways of thinking and understanding the world which surrounds me, its history and its future.

Having spent so much time in a different country has definitely changed me. I now have a greater understanding of how America is seen by the world, and how I, myself, see America. It seems that when you are removed from a community, your allegiance is immediately challenged. My allegiance to the United States was certainly challenged, and being able to view it from the outside was certainly enlightening.

Besides changing my view of academia, and of the USA, this semester has most definitely shifted the way I see myself. One of the reasons, I think, a study abroad is so powerful, is that it takes away everything outside of you, everything physical, which makes you who you are, leaving only you. It took a different country, a whole new set of relationships, and an entire semester for me to see things in myself I never thought I would find.


Well, there you have it. There is so much to say about life here that these two entries were quite difficult. If you have any further interest in the topic, feel free to visit my full blog (www.oxfordblunders.blogspot.com) or track me down at Milligan in the spring. Until then, have a wonderful week of finals and an even more spectacular winter break. See you in January.

how was Oxford?

Oh goodness, how this question haunts me. I don't talk about Oxford much, at least not near as much as I think about it. I feel like the the short, canned answer I have come up with to answer this question is an insult to the experience, but there is no way to express the importance in a way that honors the questioners who will not understand, and many of which don't care to hear the real answer. I will write it here for those of you who care to know. Know that, thought there is a mild frustration that accompanies the fact that no one in my pre-Oxford life will understand, it is also something I expected and I know to be typical of any such experience that many of us have enjoyed. No one understands, but that doesn't detract from what we have.

In any case, I have learned a lot about myself as well as about Victorian literature and early church doctrine. Through the initial isolation of moving overseas, and also through countless conversations with good people, God revealed things to me I never knew. I see now the depth of my own pride. I see how I motivate myself through feelings of guilt and failure so that I never really accept the grace of God. I try to better myself alone, finding my validation in my success, but never really letting myself enjoy it, believing the lie that none of it is never enough. This way, I am motivated to continue without ever having to ask for help. I am an island, a lonely, terribly unsuccessful island. If I never stop and realize that my failure is something to be celebrated, rather than an ever-crippling weight, because it allows me to be embraced by the grace of God, then I will never find lasting joy. Oh how this has haunted me, though I never knew exactly where I was going wrong.

In discovering this, other successes followed. I realized my own self-sufficiency was a hindrance in my own ability to build real relationships with people. I began to let go of my boundaries, to let people in, to let them know that I love them, rather than assuming they know. This too, I'm sure, contributed to the depth to which I felt love for these people. It is hard work moving an island to the mainland, but I'm now working on it.

I'm trying to love myself more, to cut myself more slack and to recognize those things I have accomplished, rather than hiding every good thing I have done behind the heaps of things I think I should have done. Trying to change my mentality from 'I have done nothing great on my own' to 'I have done much by the grace of God' is a hard transition to make, but I'm working on that too.

Now, I'm sure that at this point you're wondering about the academic side of things. I complained and complained about the work that I did, but now all I can talk about is self-evaluation. Well, let me tell you, there was plenty of academic learning happening. In my Victorian literature tutorial I read a lot of Victorian literature. Go figure, right? I studied Jane Eyre, Aurora Leigh, R. Browning poetry, Tennyson poetry, Oliver Twist, Dombey and Son, Esther Waters, Sherlock Holmes, Picture of Dorian Gray, Wuthering Heights and Mary Barton. It was cuhrazy but actually not particularly difficult - just time consuming.

My church doctrine tutorial, however, was much more challenging. I studied Justin Martyr, Origen, the Gnostics, the theological anthropology of the Nicaean Debate, and Augustine and Eusebius' views on church/state relations. If you don't know what any of that means, then you can imagine my own feelings when I was given the sort of syllabus. Eek. I didn't think I would survive, I was convinced that they would discover that I wasn't really supposed to be there, but every two weeks, I immersed myself the the subject and the question and every time I came up with a respectable paper. Imagine that, hard work paying off. It was a much different feeling than a cram session the night before an exam and still getting an A. I worked for the accolades I received and slowly began to believe that I wasn't a fraud.

There are some ways in which Oxford changed me that I think may manifest in negative ways. I am more skeptical now. Now that I know how much information is out there, a pessimistic light is cast over any statement made by someone who seems to think they have it figured out. I don't like doubting everything I hear, or assuming that other people just don't get it, but it's a real battle I have to face in the wake of studying with and reading some of the most brilliant minds in those particular fields.

Well, like I said, I can't really being to see all the ways in which I've changed, but I can say that there is a hole in my heart, and it's shaped like the spires of Oxford. When I see anything on TV that reminds me of England, my heart jumps as it remembers the warmth it felt, even on those chilly, rainy days I refused to bike to lecture.

sweet sorrow and table jug

Here it is, my last e-mail about Oxford, and I am essentially heartbroken, but to have heartbreak, there must first be joy, so let's start there . . .

I had grand plans of how I was going to finish my long essay well before the deadline. Per usual, these plans did not exactly come to fruition. On Tuesday, I woke up later than I should have, got ready for a day of studying in my room and then decided to accompany Mr. Ben to the Duke Humphrey Library at the Bodleian. It is supposed to be the most incredible part of the Bodleian, which means a lot. Actually, parts of Harry Potter were filmed there! In any case, I had never been and had ordered some books to read there, so I thought that to be as good a day as any. We made then lengthy walk into the city, and I entered a non-Camera Bodleian building for the first time (sad, I know). Getting into the DHL was quite a process. We emptied our backpacks, locked them up, put our laptops in the clear plastic shopping bags provided and stacked our books on our free hand. This position made showing my bod card (type of ID, not innuendo) a little difficult, but I did it and we continued the journey.

We reached the library and it was everything I thought it would be - amazing. I couldn't believe I was a student at the school it belonged to. Nuts. We showed our cards again, had our presence recorded in an intimidating notebook and then proceeded to the book counter. When we asked for the books we had ordered, the man behind the counter gave a little speech about how the DHL was for reading manuscripts, not regular books. We feigned ignorance and apologized. I expected such a situation. I had heard a funny anecdote about a classmate who had ordered Alice and Wonderland to the same library, for a lit tutorial, and endured the same scolding.

We set up camp and worked for hours. We were planning to meet Nick at the Turf Tavern at 7ish - both the DHL and the Camera, where Nick was, closed at 7. He came to visit us at one point, and actually spent the last hour in our little isle with us. Ben had purchased candy mid-study session and gave Nick some M&Ms. Soon a candy-rolling-on-a-desk sound echoed throughout the definitely-not-to-be-eaten-in library. I stifled laughter as he pushed a few over my way. I didn't get as much done as I wanted to, mostly because there was far too much to do, but it was quite fun.

We couldn't handle it anymore, so we left before closing - heading to the Turf around 6:30. It was just around the corner, so it was about 6:34 when we were told they stopped serving food at 6:30. Darn. Famished we were, but sometimes other things can satisfy hunger, like chips, irony and good friends : ) We walked home, stopping at a corner store, and ate some food before returning to the books.

By the end of Tuesday, I had a lengthy outline for my paper, and so Wednesday, all that remained was to write the paper - not so hard, right? That's what I thought, which is why I decided that it would be a good idea to go sight-seeing with a group of friends. Sure, I had a paper to write that would determine the entirety of a grade for a 3-credit class and it was due the next day, but I also like to have a good time. You see, I had this list of things I wanted to do before I left, and seeing some of the beautiful colleges of Oxford was one I had yet to do. A group was going and I was not about to miss my opportunity. We set out, into a city we had dwelt in for over three months, but had had little time to explore. It was our last few days in Oxford, and it felt like the first few had - everyone full of excitement and wonder as we explored the city, except this time, we knew the people around us, and loved them.

We visited a few colleges, all beautiful, took lots of pictures. Trent even batted his eyelashes at one of the guards to let us into one of the colleges early and it worked like a charm :) Okay, maybe he didn't bat his eyelashes, but he did ask nicely. At one point the sky opened up and rain fell as if it had been waiting for years. We were caught in an archway in one of the colleges for a few minutes with a group of strangers equally plagued by the rain. We waited a bit, but then decided to run for it - there were papers to be finished for some, and not a moment to waste waiting for the rain to subside. We ran to the next college and the rain tapered.
We saw deer parks, old trees, an ordinary-looking room named for Oscar Wilde and then made our last stop at the Eagle and Child, the pub wherein I had spent my first night in Oxford.
After the pub, we all took a classic photo in a red phone booth across the street and then parted ways. Abby and I headed back to the Vines, as I was the one most in need of paper-writing.

As I said before, I didn't expect the writing of the paper to be so difficult, but it turned out to be a challenge, mostly because Justin Martyr, Origen, Judaism and Ancient Greek Philosophy aren't the easiest things to write about, especially when one isn't exactly a classicist. By the time I finished writing, it was near midnight. I didn't actually have a conclusion written, but I couldn't write anymore, so I printed a copy and gave it to Abby to read. She read it while I tried to comprehend the looming completion of my academic work in Oxford. The house had a bizarre energy about it. Most of the papers had been completed and people didn't quite know what to do with themselves. When she finished editing, I addressed her remarks and then decided to sleep instead of writing a conclusion.

I set my alarm for 9. The paper was due down town at 12, so I figured I'd have enough time to edit it myself, write a conclusion and take a shower. 9 came too soon. I shut the alarm off and, without really choosing to do so, went back to sleep. Johannah woke me up at 11. Arg. I knew I wouldn't have time to do everything I wanted to do - it was a 40 minute walk! I wrote the conclusion and tried to print it, so Jo could bring it to Frewin for me. Our printer was out of ink. Wonderful. I met Nick on that stairs. He offered to have me e-mail it to him so he could print it at Frewin (where it was due) and turn it in for me. I took him up on the offer. Ben ended up forging my signature. What friends!

Many of us had planned to meet at Frewin at 4 to make a celebratory trip to the Trout Tavern. The Trout is quite far away, but supposed to be world famous and, according to friends who had already gone, pretty amazing. I got ready, cleaned my room etc, and left around 3. Luckily I met Johannah on Pullins Lane. She told me that plans had changed and that we were not meeting at 5 to go to the Turf. I decided to go into town anyway - do some shopping or something. I didn't actually accomplish much besides buying a giant bar of mint-filled chocolate. I was satisfied with one piece but knew I would have no trouble getting rid of it once I joined the group. I went to Frewin.

Some people were downstairs watching a movie. This seemed quite strange to me, as movie-watching, save desperate procrastination, or rare slow nights at the Vines, were not a common accurance - I interrupted and distributed chocolate. We waited a while for people to show up and then headed to the Turf. So began what might stay on the list of greatest nights of my life forever. It was dark and sprinkling, but the wetness made our beautiful city shine and no darkness could dim the joy we felt at finally being free to enjoy ourselves, without looming essays.

There was a great turnout at the Turft - maybe 25 or so people, all but one from the Vines. We gave poor Katherine, the lone Crick representative, a hard time about the Vines being family and Crick hating each other, all in jest, of course.

The excitement that I felt that night, at that pub is something that I can hardly describe. I may be that excited again on my wedding day, maybe. I had done it. I conquered Oxford. I worked harder than I thought I could to accomplish more than I thought I would, and it felt good. We ate and drank and laughed and made toasts, all in an effort to comprehend what we had done. We had written close to 45,000 words, we toasted to that, among other things. It was as if 25 prisoners who had served a life sentence were suddenly released and given back their youth. I could hardly remember life before the stresses of Oxford academia, and all of a sudden it was lifted, and I was left with a few nights in a city that I loved and people that I loved even more.
I could write and write about the feelings of that one 'pub night', but I don't think I could ever do it justice.

Slowly, people began to leave - there was a caroling event going on. I was raining harder at this point, but, as I said, our spirits could not be dampened, even if our clothes were. A small group of us decided to walk the long way to the Vines. Nick's bike had broken that day, and he wanted to throw it off a bridge into a small river we crossed daily. We walked in the rain for a long time. The entire way there, the guys expressed their own sense of victory by committing violence against the bike. It was thrown high into the air, against trees, against brick walls, into the street, straight into the ground. It was thrown countless times, occasionally surrendering a piece of reflector or, one time, its seat to the efforts of the victorious scholars. Even Hilary and I each took a turn on the bike, finding it to be surprisingly fulfilling and not only an arbitrary act of destruction. We finally reached the bridge. Everyone took one final throw, leaving the poor vehicle looking more like ball of scrap metal than anything else, before Nick hurled it into the swollen current. It was glorious.

We finished the walk home, forsaking any hope of being even partially dry. What a sight we must have been upon entering our home. The first order of business was to get in dry clothes. Check. Then I went downstairs to explore the wonderful array of sweet things in the living room. I learned that they were for the carolers so they would be available for partaking when the festive singers returned. I'm not sure what happened then, my memory skips forward a little to mince meat pies and a viewing of Elf, and what a wonderful combination it was. *disclaimer* mince meat pies do not have meat in them.

When we were still at the Turf, Scot took it upon himself to announce that later that night Ben and Johannah would perform. Everyone was pretty excited. As soon as the movie ended and the living room cleared a bit, the bashful musicians prepared. While they prepared, trusty Bryce played a set. Bryce is always ready and willing to perform on command. It was funny because as he played and Ben and Johannah readied themselves to play, many of us were reminded of that time, in the early days, that a small group of us sat outside of the lodge and played music. I wished hard in my head that we had done it more.

Bryce finished and the dynamic duo hi the stage, or pair of chairs. I joined them for the first couple, adding little to their original heartwarmers, but feeling grateful to be called to participate. It was both joyous and heartbreaking. I loved it, but I knew that it would be the last time.

After the musicians were reluctantly allowed to desist by their adoring fans, we would not let the night end, but instead put on a movie and made the couches home. When the movie ended, another was begun - Cast Away. A few of us resisted, but we could feel it ending, and there was nothing to be done but prolong it by denying ourselves sleep. Eventually I succumb to the call of my bed, knowing that watching Tom Hanks endure grueling isolation would not prevent my own separation from a newfound family.

The next morning there was a tea at the Vines, beginning at 10, followed by a chapel service to begin the debriefing. Johannah woke me at about 10:20. We dressed quickly and ran downstairs in just enough time to make some tea and find a seat. The chapel service commenced, followed by farewell speeches by the administration, our own reflections in small groups and some final paperwork. Then, over snacks and tea, we bid farewell to our faithful leaders. They taught us much and encouraged us more. It is profoundly sad to say goodbye to someone who has changed you when you know you will never see them again, but it had to be done.

The rest of the day was filled with wonderful nothingness. People packed, people played, people busily distracted themselves from thinking about the fast approaching farewells. I knew my mom and sister were in town, but didn't actually talk to them until the early evening. They made it to the hostel okay, but had been there for a while. I walked into town to fetch them back to the Vines, not wanting to miss too much time at what had become my home. I found the hostel in a part of town I had never been to, reminding me further of how I regretted having to leave so soon. The hostel was a bit circus-ish and so I felt bad for booking for my mom, but what was done was done. We walked through town a bit, I showed them around city center as much as I thought their jet-lagged heads and legs could bear. We meant to take the bus to the Vines, but decided to find a place to eat, and by the time we found a place, we were practically there. Well, I thought we were practically there. Walking distances are put in a different perspective when walking/biking are ones only form of transportation. We stopped at a nice little kebab place where the owned was happy to tell us of his adventures in Boston.
When we arrived back at the Vines, it was hectic, to say the least. Everyone was packing and cleaning and crying. The kitchen was completely filled with leftover food that had been emptied from the refrigerators and cabinets. Ruth was there to say goodbye to everyone. I felt like a bad host, but I really wanted to enjoy the last hours with my house-mates as well as entertain my new guests. They stayed for a couple of hours, then I walked the to the bus stop, made far too tentative plans for the next morning (no cell phones, remember) as the bus doors were closing and then walked back to join a curb party on the street.

We didn't sleep that night. There was no time. The first batch of people left at around 2am and then more groups every hour or so. We played table jug for a long time, and then death jug, except the death jug had to be ammended because of the large group of people - the table could not hold them. The jug was different too. Somehow the original jug was disposed of, and so a much larger one was used, making things more interesting. For death jug, the table was removed and we stood on the chairs. It was outrageous. I've never seen that kind of team spirit from a real sports team, let alone a group of sleep deprived scholars playing a made up game. I believe Nick even exclaimed at one point "I can't believe we're sober". I was an appropriate comment. We gathered a crowd at the doorways, most likely pulled from their rooms by the deafening cheers, intending to request quiet, as it was the very early morning at this point. Once they saw what was going on, however, no one could bear to ask us to be quiet, and many decided to join.

When the game was ended goodbyes had already been made. We each signed the jug, planning on leaving it in our house for the next generation to find and enjoy as we had, though it may not be impossible for anyone to enjoy anything as much as we enjoyed that empty milk jug.
The goodbyes kept coming and it couldn't be stopped. We watched The Goonies. Jo left at about 4. She spent her last few minutes wedged between Ben and I on the couch. When she left I cried. I was surprised. I told the boys later that I usually try to cry at goodbyes because I feel like I should, because everyone else is crying. Not this time, there was no stopping those tears as that taxi drove away with my roommate.
I went upstairs to Nick and Ben's room to watch them pack, but after seeing Nick smoosh his entire wardrobe into a suitcase unfolded, I resolved to help Ben by folding his shirts. Oh boys. Be selected some depressing music on his ipod as only he can. When our recording of The Advocate began, the tears came again. Had I gone soft? I tried to figure out why I was so heartbroken. It had, afterall, only been 3 1/2 months. Why were these people so special to me? We decided that it was like we had been to war together. We lived together, ate together, worshiped together, played together, and endured some of the most challenging obstacles together. Only we know what fall 2007 SCIO was, only we. We had seen each other happy, sad, depressed, elated, angry, frustrated, apathetic - you name it, we felt it that semester, together. It was as if we had experience years of friendships concentrated into that one, short time period. That was why I felt more like I was graduating and leaving my roommates of years than like I was leaving some people I had known only for a few months. It's a hard thing to explain, and I wont see most of those people again, but we'll always have Oxford. It was real.
Anyway, back to the story. They packed, more people left. We sat in the dark room and watched the skylight illuminate with the rising sun. More people left. We went outside and stood on that curb. More people left. I cried more and more people left. Ben and Nick finally left together for the bus stop. It was raining. I meant to go with them to see them off, but the thought of walking back up Pullins Lane in the rain by myself was unbearable and I hugged them at our door. I cried more and more people left. I watched as almost the entire house walked out of that front door, rolling giant suitcases behind them.

When the morning came, I had some jobs to do before I could leave. I started to pack. I became delirious for lack of sleep. I felt my age as I proved incapable of functioning after a night of not sleeping. The 'all-nighter', a tool I had used many time before, was failing me. When it became a decent hour, I called the hostel and told my mum and sis that I would be there sometime, I probably needed a nap and definitely had more work to do. I napped for an hour or so and then set to taking down shower curtains, one of my tasks.

I finally finished everything and had all my bags in the hallway. I was the last one to leave our room and so it was empty, so empty. It reminded me of the day I moved in - so absolutely clueless of what was about to happen. Dear, sweet Abby helped me with my things. I had planned on making the 45 minute walk to the hostel with all of my things. This would have been absolute hell/impossible by myself and miserable even with Abby's help. I decided to, instead, pay for both of us to take the bus downtown and was instantly pleased with my decision. It was still a rainy and unpleasant trip, but much shorter than I would have been, had I not opted for the bus.

So, that was it. That is how SCIO life ended, not with a bang, but with a whimper. I am changed. I can't even begin to tell all the ways in which I am changed. I know I will discover it more and more as time goes on, though I can see much already.