Feliz Navidad

Merry Christmas everyone, and yes, I am still alive. I don’t have much of an excuse for not writing these past five weeks, other than the last three weeks of term were absolutely insane and I’m a slacker, but I’m back with this, the first of what I hope will be multiple interesting, engaging, and noteworthy posts on this blog.

My story begins with a 4 a.m. bus ride from Oxford to Gatwick Airport outside of London. It was the morning of December 14th, a day that would find me traveling from Oxford to an ultimate destination of Granada, Spain, where my friend Tom has been studying and blogging these past four months. I quickly realized on that misty morning something that would be reinforced for the rest of the day: that I am utterly incapable of getting anything remotely resembling sleep on anything that isn’t a stationery bed in a room. On the bus, I had to reconcile the fact that I’m 6’4” with two cramped seats, a battle that only resulted in severe lower back pain. On my flight from London to Granada, I lucked out and had an entire row of seats to myself, so I could actually lie down in a position roughly resembling that of one dozing naked in an igloo. However, as it turns out, commercial aircraft are powered by jet engines, which tend to be on the noisy side, so not only did I not get a solid nap, but I also missed out on enjoying my complimentary ham-and-pasteurized-cheese-food sandwich, courtesy of British Airways. Luckily, I had the forethought to put this scrumptious morsel in my backpack to enjoy later, as I sat in a Madrid train station almost passed out from hunger. Finally, I would have slept on the four-and-a-half-hour train ride from Madrid to Granada were it not for the yelping children in my car. I instead contented myself with watching Iron Man dubbed in Spanish by actors who sounded nothing like Robert Downey, Jr. and Jeff Bridges.

Granada itself is a beautiful city in southern Spain of medieval streets and wide boulevards, palm trees and pomegranate orchards (the Spanish word granada translates into “pomegranate”), Moorish facades and Franco-era fascist apartment blocks, a thoroughly enjoyable locale to say the least. First on my list of things to do (a list actually created by Tom, since I didn’t know a single thing about the city before I arrived) was to visit the Alhambra, the 14th-century Moorish fortress and palace overlooking the city. It happens to be Spain’s largest tourist attraction due to its exemplary Moorish architecture, and had I remembered to bring home my camera’s USB cable, you could see pictures of what I’m talking about (I’ll try to upload them once I get back to England). Take my word for it, though: the Alhambra was an amalgam of shady courtyards, trickling fountains, imposing towers and sheltered cloisters, all shaped with the distinctive touch of the palace’s Muslim denizens. Unfortunately, I happened to visit during a spell of the city’s coldest weather in forty years, so I only spent as much time outside as I absolutely needed to, and the palace’s naturally cool interior was a little too cool to thoroughly enjoy.

There were two other choice locations in Granada that I briefly explored. The first was the city’s old Muslim quarter, El Albaicin, a neighborhood of narrow, twisting streets and street vendors where during certain hours of the day you’re just as likely to get mugged as you are to buy a cheap Pashmina shawl. This also happened to be the part of town in which my hostel was located. The other attraction was the city’s cathedral, and again, if I could I would post pictures. The cathedral and the adjoining Capilla Real (Royal Chapel) hold fantastic chapels and the remains of King Ferdinand, Queen Isabella, and their daughter Juana (commonly known as “Juana la Loca” because she went a bit insane at one point in her life). Both were very cool, and the latter contained what I thought was a quintessential Spanish biblical representation: a statue of John the Baptist, or rather, John the Baptist’s headless corpse, complete with blood dripping down the neck and a large hole for an esophagus, while John’s executioners hoist his head in the air. I think I might have forgotten to mention that the Spanish are Catholic. Very Catholic.

My final note from Granada concerns speaking the language. Now, I took four years of Spanish in high school, and as far as I can tell I learned about as little as one possibly could in those four courses. Tom kept telling people I spoke Spanish, which inevitably led to me standing there with a dumbfounded expression while they rattled off some insanely long sentence that often contained some joke that Tom and the other Spanish speakers present found very funny. I came pretty close to mastering the art of what I call “laughing in context,” or, “when you see other people laughing, laugh along with them and hope to God that they don’t ask you your opinion (not that you’d know that they were doing so, anyway).”

I should probably give myself a little more credit (after all I did survive ordering breakfast one morning on my own) but it was painful at times. The true test of my Spanish-speaking ability came when Tom invited me over to his host family’s apartment for lunch. They were truly lovely people, a señora and her son, but the first time I went over I was very quiet because I couldn’t understand a damn word. However, Tom’s host mother apparently enjoyed my reticence very much, because she invited me over the next day to dine again, which gave me another opportunity to test out my almost non-existent bilingualism. The second time, however, Tom and I spent the half hour beforehand chatting with a couple of his friends while Tom introduced me to his favorite Spanish beer, Alhambra 1925 Reserva. The beer is excellent and I highly recommend it, but what Tom didn’t tell me at the time is that it has an 8% alcohol content, roughly twice that of normal beer. So, when we look at our watches and realized we had to haul it across the city to be in time for lunch, I had to chug most of my bottle, and as Tom and I speed-walked across Granada, I gradually became more and more buzzed until we reached his apartment and I was speaking Spanish like I’d never done before. Granted, I still had the vocabulary of a first grader, but I was at least able to carry on a half-stilted conversation. It was wonderful, to say the least.

That’s all the news I’ve got for now. I’ll try to write more often, I promise. Merry Christmas, and if I don’t write again before 2009 arrives, Happy New Year as well.

Tutorials

Since I've received quite a few comments/complaints/death threats regarding the fact that I never seem to post anything, and seeing as it's a Sunday night and I really don't feel like working, I figured I'd outline exactly how the school system works here. I'm five weeks into term at this point, so I think I've got a pretty good handle on it.

Basically, Oxford, like Cambridge, works according to the "tutorial system" of education, meaning that, instead of lectures, students attend meetings called "tutorials" once or twice a week. Each tutorial consists of a student or small group of students sitting down for about an hour or so and discussing a topic of the week with a faculty member or grad student known as (prepare for the shock) a "tutor" (they like to keep things simple over here - it's not like these people are smart or anything). Prior to the tutorial, the student (I'll keep it singular since that's been my experience so far) has spent the previous week slaving in the library for hours a day, poring through research material, and constructing a carefully crafted, 2000-word essay that argues a thesis related to the assigned topic. At least that's how it works in theory. I've devolved to the point where I wait until three days before my tutorial, then read two essays and a poem and write the entire essay the day before, maybe leaving time to proofread it.

The results of the latter approach have been rather mixed. The first essay I wrote for a tutorial on Wordsworth yielded quite favorable comments, but that ended up being my best one of the semester thus far. Last week, my tutor, a great guy whose judgment I wholeheartedly trust, wrote on my essay:

"Some good attention to the structure, but this is mostly mental bombast - Next week I'm calling time on all 1) eternal human verities, 2) tropes of self-realisation, 3) personal/value-judgments of verse ('beautiful yet fearful,' 'selfish,' 'puerile'). You've captured the Oxford Style and we need to replace it with something meaner and more academic.
But all's not lost. You do well to note the parallels of Milton and did well to read and think about Mill. Still, next week you are not allowed to gather ANYTHING onto the edifices of eternality."

Apparently I tried to glean too deep a spiritual truth from the poem I was reading. I think that's the case, anyway...he probably could have been more explicit.

My point is that it can be hit or miss on the essays if you're like me and tend to only write papers under the kind of pressure at which cold fusion is like baking a cake. Don't worry, though, I'm working on it.

In other news, next weekend, for anyone in the area (which I'm pretty sure is next to nobody, since one of the closest readers that I'm aware of lives in Spain), I'm in the Oxford University Gilbert & Sullivan Society's Michaelmas 2008 production of "The Pirates of Penzance." It's a fun romp, with memorable characters and some of the catchiest late-19th century semi-classical opera music ever written, in my opinion. It's not to be missed by anyone who happens to be in the area of the Magdalen Auditorium at 7:30 on November 20, 21 or 22, £7 Adults, £4 Concessions, email piratesofpenznace2008@googlemail.com to book tickets.

And now that I've filled my shameless plug quota for this entry, I'll leave you with this photo of a lovely sunset over Christ Church meadow, taken last week by yours truly. Until next time, cheers.

Dividends

Two things to say about the weather here:

-First of all, most of the time it's terrible. Out of the past seven days (Saturday-Friday) it has been cloudy and rainy for six. Only yesterday did it clear up for the first time, though it was still cold. Add to that the fact that the sun sets at 4:20, and it can make for a pretty miserable time.

-Today, however, I woke up, and it was sunny and 53 degrees (Fahrenheit, roughly 12 degrees Celsius). Looking out my window now, I can't see a cloud in the sky, and I didn't have to wear a jacket as I was riding around town on various errands. It's days like today that make all the rain and darkness worth it.

NOTE: Yes, I did spell "Celsius" wrong initially. I'll be more vigilant in the future.

Why Can't I Feel My Toes?

My first serious winter campout as a Boy Scout (I believe it was January 2000) featured snow, wind, and a young scout (yours truly) who didn’t realize that only one pair of loose, thick socks will not keep one’s toes warm in temperatures so cold that your snot freezes before it has a chance to completely drip out of your nose. Combine this lack of basic survival knowledge with a pre-campout briefing during which the dangers of frostbite were emphasized, and you get a panic-stricken sixth-grader who runs to the scout leaders sobbing when his toes go numb after about an hour. Fortunately, after sitting next to the fire getting my toes vigorously rubbed by one of the leaders for about ten minutes, I promptly went to my tent and put on a pair of tight, wick-away socks under my thick ones, and my feet were fine from then on.

This story crossed my mind yesterday morning when my toes went numb as I was sitting in a boat in the middle of the Thames and wondering why I signed up to row crew. I quickly pacified myself with the thought that it was a beautiful morning (as you can see from the photo below, taken from right outside my college's boathouse – you can kind of make out the mist on the river) and I was rowing at Oxford, so I really didn’t have anything to complain about.

And I apologize once again to all my loyal readers for not having anything to say sooner. Life here has settled into a rhythm, where I get up at about 8:30, go to the library, work until 5:00 or so (with a liberal dose of procrastination thrown in), and then go off to an evening activity (including crew two nights a week) or do more work. It’s thrilling, to say the least. However, I will keep you all updated as more fun and fascinating stuff happens (and I’ll make more of an effort, I promise).

I'm Back!

So, it's been two-and-a-half weeks since I posted anything, and in that time I've done quite a bit, of which I'll now give you the highlights. I promise to be more diligent in updating this thing in the future; it's just that I've really been trying to settle into life here over the past couple weeks and with the workload, I haven't really had the time to write. Anyway, that said, here's what I've been up to:

LONDON

Last weekend I took a trip with my buddy Tom (whose blog on Grenada, Spain I highly recommend) to the beautiful city of London. In trying to picture England's capital, think New York traffic, but on the wrong side of the road, minus the skyscrapers and with a lot more limestone Victorian buildings. It was remarkable, to say the least, and the best part was, Tom and I got to see a huge chunk of the city because our hotel was about a three mile walk from anything. After an early dinner, we walked down to Piccadilly Circus (once again, Times Square without the...well, you get the idea) and, since it was seven o'clock, everything was naturally closed, so we settled on seeing a show (on a side note, it's amazing how early this country shuts down - all the stores close at six during the week and earlier on the weekends). We wandered into a random theater on the Circus, and, with our student ID's, got cheap fourth row seats to The Thirty-Nine Steps, a stage adaptation of the 1936 Alfred Hitchcock film/1915 John Buchan novel. A "quick-change" show, it featured four cast members, three of whom played multiple roles, often at the same time, and was a light-hearted way to spend the evening (for Rogers and Hammerstein fans, the female lead was the same actress who played Laurie in the 1999 adaptation of Oklahoma! starring Hugh Jackman...just a fun fact). It was fantastic, and if you can't make it to London, you can see it on Broadway, where it recently picked up a couple Tony Awards.

The other highlight of the London excursion was my first full English breakfast, eaten at a random corner restaurant that Tom noticed the night before while walking back to the hotel after the show. For those of you who aren't aware of the contents of such a meal, it consists of two "rashers" of bacon (slabs of what looks like pink fatty ham), two sausages, a fried egg, baked beans, and toast. The best part, I have to say, were the beans, although had I opted for black pudding that might have topped the list (not). It really made me feel like one of the locals, and the place we were in was indeed filled with construction workers, little old ladies in spandex and floral print shirts, and guys who looked like their job might have consisted of ripping holes in denim and applying copious amounts of hair gel. Like I said, a highlight.

MAGDALEN CHAPEL

Prior to leaving America, I was told by one of my professors that I had to attend one of the Evensong services at Magdalen (pronounced "Maudlin") Chapel, the church at the college of the same name (virtual tour here), and Wednesday night, I was sitting in my room with nothing to do. So, completely on a whim I figured, Hey, why not? and at quarter-til-six I walked up the street, over Magdalen Bridge and went to church.

I had a feeling I was in for a good time from the moment I got into the chapel. First of all, the sun was almost set and they didn't have any overhead lights on, so the place was dark. The only light came from candles in the middle bank of stalls (in Anglican churches the congregation sits facing each other in stalls, which are arranged in a row down the sides of the church), which it turned out were for the choir, and little bulbs over the long, bench-like podiums in front of each seat so that the congregation could read the order of service. Very cool.

At a few minutes before six the prelude began to play, and, looking at the order of service, I read, "All remain seated when the Choir enters. All then stand when the clock has struck." Sure enough, the choir came in, the prelude stopped right in the nick of time, and we all sat there in silence while the clock struck six times. After the sixth bell, everyone stood up and the service began.

Now, at this point I was thinking, This can't get any better, but, sure enough, it did, because the choir began singing. I didn't realize that the choir consisted of students from Magdalen College School, the boys boarding school down the street, which meant that seven-year-olds were singing the soprano and alto parts while older, high school aged guys sang the men's parts. I'd never heard an all-male choir before, and from the first chord they hit, I felt like I was in heaven, and I stayed there for thirty minutes.

Over the past four days I've tried to figure out what it was, whether the candle-lit ambience, the music, or the fact that I hadn't been to a church service that really moved me since, well, a while ago, but that half hour Wednesday was a truly profound spiritual experience. I think I can safely recommend it to anyone who wants to experience something cool in Oxford (it's open to the public), even if it doesn't move you like it did me.

CHAMPAGNE AND CHOCOLATES

I'd like to close with the event that I attended Friday night at my college known as "Champagne and Chocolates." It's based on really quite a simple concept: get dressed up, go into the chapel with 200 other people, and eat chocolate/get drunk on champagne until they run out. I got to wear black-tie for the first time since coming here, and standing there in a gothic building drinking champagne while wearing a shawl lapel tuxedo kiiiinda made me feel like James Bond. Adding to the festive atmosphere were multiple acts of drunken Public Displays of Affection (in none of which I partook, for the record), which seem to be considerably less taboo over here than in America. In addition, other Americans were running around snapping photos left and right, so naturally I happened to get caught in some candid shots, like the one above, taken with my friend Ally, another Holy Cross visiting student. All in all, it was a worthwhile evening, and one of the social highlights of the term thus far.

* * *

Well, that's all I've got for now, though I'll be sure to keep you updated as I continue my year abroad in Merry Olde England. Until next time, cheers.

Mr. Smith Goes to Hogwarts

Today I took a walk around Christ Church, the college where numerous scenes from the Harry Potter series have been filmed. I felt like a VIP since I got to use the "University Members Only" entrance to the college and got to walk around the quad in places where visitors aren't allowed, though this feeling was promptly cut short by the porter at that entrance. The man, dressed the in Christ Church porter's uniform of a navy blue overcoat and a bowler hat, seemed to be about 70, and thoroughly enjoyed giving me a long list of prohibitions, including "No pictures, no standing in the quad" and the (I think) sarcastic "No eating the grass, no fishing and no breathing." I stood there dumbfounded, seeing as I've never been quite sure how to respond to mocking without displaying behavior that merits further mockery. He finally left me alone, and I was free to walk around the quad, Christ Church Cathedral, and the Hogwarts Great Hall. I don't have any pictures of the quad (though there is a virtual tour here - just click in the center of the quad), but I can say that it was immaculately groomed, as it should be, considering no one is allowed to walk across it.

The cathedral was large and in charge, and has to be experienced to be appreciated. I also wasn't sure about photos in there, and the air of snobbery that seemed to permeate the place prevented me from meekly asking permission (though once again you can view the tour). Then there was the Great Hall. I've included these photos, which are taken from the end of the hall and the center, respectively. The front tables were all laid out for a reception (hence the video screen), and a sign at the entrance clearly stated that visitors were not allowed to sit at the tables. Like the cathedral, it kind of has to be experienced, but I will say that it made me wish I were a Christ Church student. As you can see, portraits of famous Christ Church patrons line the wood-paneled walls, and at the head of the hall there is a large portrait of Henry VIII, the king when the college was founded. It was cool, and very Oxfordish, to say the least.

Screaming Babies and Lost Property: A First Day in England

I’ll say in advance that this is a long post, seeing as it encompasses the past two days and all that has transpired therein. My flight took off from Boston at about 9:45 Sunday night. On board, I sat in an aisle seat next to an Indian woman and her two daughters, ages seven and about one-and-a-half. Sleep, therefore, was difficult to come by for the first couple hours since the infant kept throwing her toys on the floor, and after watching the woman, who might have been five-three, strain to reach them, I’d bend over and grab it with my gargantuanly-long arms and hand it back. Then the baby started crying, then she stopped, then she started again…you get the idea.

So, for entertainment I instead decided to flip through my Esquire 75th anniversary issue, watch You Don't Mess with the Zohan, and eat my meal in peace. The meal, by the way, was a terrific experience, as far as airplane food is concerned. When the flight attendant, an Italian named Roberto who spoke English rather thickly (e.g. when he asked, “Tea or coffee, sir?” I only understood the latter and thus responded with, “Yes, please”) first came around with drinks, I was hesitant to ask for alcohol, even if it was British Airways. So I had water instead and got a “Suit yourself” look from Roberto. Then, when the meal (chicken and mash with bread, salad and lemon cheesecake) came, he asked straight up, “And your choice of wine, sir?” Crappy airline chardonnay with chicken, of course. I also thought the wine would help me sleep, but ‘twas to no avail. I really shouldn’t have gotten in the habit this summer of going to bed after one every night.

Anyway, the flight landed, I made my way through passport control, baggage reclaim and customs, and phoned home before hopping on the first of two subway transfer trains that would take me to the terminal where the 10:20 Oxford bus would be waiting for me. Unfortunately, after making the half-hour journey to that terminal, I reached into my pocket to get my wallet so I could pay for some much needed water, and found that said wallet wasn’t there. Racking my brain, I realized I had left it on the pay phone I had used at the first station, and turned around. It took forty-five minutes to make it back to the first train station, and keep in mind that all this time I was carrying a forty-pound duffle bag and wheeling a forty-pound garment bag. It was, to say the least, a lovely situation indeed: I had missed my bus, was getting callouses on my hands from carrying my bags, was about as thirsty as I’ve ever been in my life…oh, and I had potentially lost all of my cash, my credit card, ATM card, and every form of photo ID I owned apart from my passport. Yeah.

Anyway, to make a long story short, a conductor had fortunately picked up my wallet and brought it to the security office, so getting it back was just a matter of asking a porter and receiving an admonishment of “You’re very lucky” from the security staff. To be honest, I didn’t really give a damn; I thanked them and, after making it all the way back to the required terminal, changed my shirt, bought the water that had prompted my mini crisis, and caught the bus into Oxford.

* * *

As for the rest of my day, I was dropped off at High Street, Oxford’s main thoroughfare. I was going to catch a cab Mansfield College, which is about a five minute walk from the bus stop (longer with eighty pounds of luggage), but, as you can see from the photo, that section of road was devoid of virtually any automobiles at all, let alone taxis (just for reference purposes, the building on the left is University College). So, I lugged my bags through the narrow lanes of Oxford until I arrived, tired and sweaty, at the door of the Mansfield College porter’s lodge. The college porters are the school’s gatekeepers and information kiosks wrapped into one outstandingly helpful package, and after I checked in, Barry, the head porter, was kind enough to call a cab for the half-mile schlep to my dorm. Also, while I was at the porter’s, I ran into three of my fellow Holy Cross JYA’s, which was comforting, in a “So-I’m-not-the-only-stranger-here” kind of way.

The remainder of the day was devoted to unpacking in my bread box-sized room, sleeping (as of my arrival at my dorm I hadn’t slept in about 24 hours), venturing out to a pub to have a beer and nothing else because the food was so freaking expensive, and eating dinner at the local Burger King. Yes, that’s right, my first night in England I had a Whopper for dinner, a testament to how far into the culture I had thrown myself .

And today? Well, I woke up at 11:30 (yay, jet lag!), hungry as I’ve ever been, and promptly went to the Subway across the street for lunch. A toasted foot-long Italian B.M.T. on wheat has never tasted so good, I can assure you. I also made my first UK purchases: an umbrella, because, surprise surprise, it rained all day today, and some groceries to tide me over for the next couple days. My assessment of England thus far? Well, I probably need a couple more days to really let it sink in, but I have no complaints (other than the cost of pub food…and beer, for that matter). I’ll keep writing, and hopefully you’ll keep reading. Until next time, cheerio.