I'm Going to Make a Tin Can Telephone

Yesterday was certainly a day. It was probably the most perfect day I've had here so far. It had everything: breakfast, grocery shopping, my first lecture, elation, lunch, an hour walk in the park, a horse to touch, a creek to watch swans in, a bridge to shake, an apple to eat, fancy Italian coffee, some slightly better reading, my first tutorial for my dreaded major course, elation, a street corner jam session, a home made dinner, some bluegrass practice, and a really really good evening. And a good night's rest. And beautiful weather. And it was Tuesday, my favorite day of the week anyway.

The lecture was great. 200 students in a great big hall with 500 foot ceilings and I understood what the guy was talking about.

The tutorial was even better. Way better. It was scary and intimidating and held someplace I'd never been at 6 p.m. He'd ask a question I simply couldn't answer. He'd describe the concept to me, sometimes using absurd situations: "So, if I knew that I had a big nose and I said, 'ok, everyone gets paid according to the size of their nose. The bigger the nose, the more you get paid.' Now in the original position, you don't know how big or small your nose is going to be so..." I made the conscious decision not to laugh. It was funny. It should have broken the ice a little bit and made me feel more comfortable. I wasn't having it. I can't imagine how uninviting I must have looked. Well, I can because I was intending to look pretty freaking unamused.

After about 20 minutes of him looking bored, shoes off, knees propped against the table, hands constantly rubbing his head, neck, face, eyes, or what felt like a lot longer, the facade was dropped. "How much of the reading did you actually do?" I was asked. "Because there's no way you could have really done the readings and not be able to remember what reflective equilibrium is." I'd done a lot and told him what I'd done. "Right, Ok. I get the feeling you're being forced to do something you don't really want to do. This isn't what you really wanted."

So after much prodding, he was finally able to get out of me what it is I wanted to study. What I was interested in. "Ok, did you vote for Barack Obama?"

"My husband's in the Army and stationed in Iraq right now."

So we went from there. He tagged me as having slightly leftist tendencies exhibited by my slightly leftist haircut. Yeah, the mohawk. So we'll spend the next 6 weeks looking at "the cool stuff." Distributive justice, morals/ethics of war. What is a just war? Combatants vs. Non-combatants. Terrorism. Torture. Things that he's just as interested in and excited about actually teaching.

He's really young and was married really young too. Chatted about our weddings. He really like that we were married under a picture of a black Jesus and then went to the northern most Denny's in the world afterwords.

And still stars are aligning, things are coming together, pieces are falling into place.

Coming out of my tutorial I was elated. Things were magnificent. I heard a busker playing the guitar. I walked over to the bearded, scruffy haired man and asked if he knew the song "Wagon Wheel." No. So I told him the chords and he played them and I stood there leaning down and sang what lyrics I could remember. He played it really fast and not quite the right chord progression but it was close enough to make it work. We made it work and it was - really something special. He got to play with someone and I got to sing with someone.

I also saw a man with the biggest eyebrows I think I've ever seen. They were royal. Dark dark brown and grew straight up and inch or so. What fantastic eyebrows.

Well, again I've managed to spend my morning on not incredibly pressing issues. But I've got no plans for the rest of the day. Read. Read stuff I'm excited to read.

Life Is a Song

I couldn't hear my footsteps this morning when I walked to Sansbury's to buy some groceries. I could hear the woman's in front of me. I could hear the students' as they rushed to a lecture or tutorial or to the Bodliean Library. They all mixed together in a clattering clicking rain like rhythm. Mine were quietly adding a low back beat. They weren't too loud or out of time. Just right.

It's nice to know the street accepts your footsteps.

I made it for breakfast this morning. Bacon and Egg Tuesday. Thank goodness. I'll have to go to that Friend's Meeting on Thursday.

I think me and Rawls are starting to get used to each other. Thank goodness.

I Wore My Sunglasses Today

Someone asked me today at lunch how I was settling in. And you know? Really quite nicely.
I've been here for two full weeks and I think this past weekend everything kind of fell into place. All it took was a little Friday night Karaoke.

I missed breakfast again. I'm going to get that stupid race car clock today.

I've made dinner twice now with some friends. Some of us had a little midnight jam session. I've joined the HMC Film Society that meets on Sunday nights. I'm organizing a group of people to go to a jive this Thursday. I'm going sky diving February 21st with the Oxford Sky Diving Society. I'm going to a Quaker Friend's meeting tomorrow morning. I'm taking videos of the usual walks I make around campus and the city. I'm getting to know students and educators and shop owners.

I even have a few friends who will go with me to the Eagle and Child. I don't have to go alone. One of them invited me to go with him to his favorite breakfast place.

I just feel good about it all.

I love the days here and I love the cold. I love the kind of cold it is here. It's constantly between 33 and 49 degrees. it's perfect for a sweater, jacket, and scarf. Maybe a hat if I haven't washed my hair. It's an invigorating kind of chill which is very strange for me. Usually if it drops below 59 I'm miserable. My blood is slowing in my veins. My mind is shutting down for hibernation. But not here. With a new places comes new habits. Oh I've still got many of the old ones like procrastination, easily lead into distraction, and general preoccupation with dancing.

But new good habits too. I eat an apple every day between lunch and dinner. I eat a fruit corner yogurt every day at lunch. I generally am up for breakfast. I do a little yoga a couple times a week. I walk every where, which is more because I don't have another option, but it's so nice to walk.

It's so good and so beautiful.

Literacy is a Gift

All week I'd been looking forward to Pastry Day at breakfast. Pastry day is Thursday. Tuesday is Bacon and Eggs Day. Sunday is brunch. Every other day is cereal and toast.

I missed it. I slept through Pastry Day and was really upset about it. So I took myself out to the Alternative Tuck Shop, which is the official name of the famous bakery around our little corner. I had a cranberry white chocolate muffin, a cup of tea, and a bagel with butter. The muffin reminded me of the cranberry orange muffins from UIndy. Oh How I miss the Perk's cranberry orange muffins!

I have my first tutorial in less than two hours. I think I'm ready for it but we'll see how I feel come nooner.

I must wrestle with Rawls again for the next few days. Wish me more luck.

Apparently a big thing here that everyone loves to do is go to "bops." A "bop" is a themed party held on a Friday or Saturday night by various colleges at Oxford. They're usually themed something a little bit off the wall. This week's bop theme is "Junior High Black Tie." I'm assuming we're supposed to dress up as much as a 12 year old would. What would my 12 year old self wear to a black tie affair? I'm guessing my mother would have made me a modest, long sleeved, T-length, scooped neck black dress with an empire waist. I'd wear tights and one inch heeled black shoes which I'd take off within 15 minutes of being there. I might have combed my hair, but I doubt it. Oh, and a lot of lip gloss. My 12 year old self would have loved lip gloss.

I think that one's tomorrow. Tonight is karaoke in the JCR. (Junior Common Room). Wednesday is the night to go out, I guess. There's the Real formal dinner where you can't just wear your robe over jeans, you actually have to dress up. They serve wine at dinner and there's always a trivia game right afterwords in the JCR. Most people go. It's tradition. Some of the questions are a little biased, though, asking about old British television shows that none of the foreign student population knows about. We constitute more than half of the college's population.

Yesterday we had pizza for lunch and it made me miss home. Yesterday we had burritos for dinner and it made me miss home.

Oh, and the other day I went to the library to find a particular book by Flavious Josephus. The number for it was F1733/2. That's not how the numbers usually run in the HMC Library. They usually look something like JD 30 RAW. So I joyfully went to my favorite person in all of HMC, the librarian, to ask for help. I love asking her for help. She always helps in the warmest way possible. She lit up, "oh! That means it's in the stacks! Come right with me, darling." So we went down stairs, through the librarian's office, and into the back room. "Whot number is it, dear-y, let's have a look. Ah, F1733. "F" just means it's a big book and seventeen thirty-three is the year it was published, follow me!" We walked down a long hall with shelves to the ceiling on the right side. Most of them were right next to each other so there was no way to get between them. Each row of shelves had a crank about chest high and depending on where your book is, you turn that crank and it moves all the shelves down, opening a walkway between. Magnificent.

These were the books kept in locked rooms and under glass cases back home. These were the books you weren't allowed to touch with your grubby little fingers because they're delicate and important. And old.

I told dear Sue Killoran that I felt like I shouldn't be touching books this old and precious. Her sincerely hearty remark was "Oh, I think they like it. It's the best way to love a book, you know, to get it out and use it. That's whot they're for!" God bless this woman. She got the book for me and put it on foam wedges to support the spine, (it's a little old, she reminded me) and a long string of heavy beads that are lain across the pages to keep them from closing on you. She set this all up for me and said in an apologetic voice that "Now, we just ask that you not eat or drink around it. And you can't take it with you, but you can use it here as long as you'd like." That's all. Please don't eat around this 300 year old book. And don't carry it around outside. I think I shouldn't even be touching it and she just thinks I shouldn't eat around it! I guess that's how it is in a country that's more than 200 years old. Things aren't untouchable until...Well I don't know cuz I've been touching everything around here.

The book was so old that in many cases they used the letter "f" in place of the letter "s." A few examples: Jofephus. King of Perfia. Hiftory. Fo. Thofe. Difguife. Fucceffional (my favorite). Fuffer (my other favorite). Forfake. It made for some difficult reading and the verses I was suppsed to read weren't numbered in this translation. Sue Killoran went on a hunt for a more recent verfion for me and found one from 1926. Much more recent. She didn't bring it around for about 15/20 minutes though, becaufe she didn't want to "spoil my fun." She encouraged me to take pictures if I wanted. She commented on how clean and clear the pages actually were. Often, she said, a book will be in terrible condition on the outfide, but the infide will be in nearly pefect condition. Such was the case with 1733 Jofephus.

The pages were thick and surprisingly white. The text was somewhat hard to read because of the spellings and font. Some of the pages were printed and bound crookedly. Someone had written on the first few pages before the title page in a blue fountain pen. Maybe it had been black once. Sue Killoran thought this was wonderful, that someone had written in this magnificent book.

I compared 1733 Jofephus to 1926 Jofephus. 1926 Jofephus was 6 inches tall while 1733 Jofephus was at least a foot. 1926 was divided into volumes with bible thin pages and was yellowed, falling apart, and an all aroud piece of junk compared to 1733. I attributed it to the fact that in 1733 a book was an extremely intense process and there weren't that many to go around. They were fashioned to last. By 1926 things were much easier. Cheaper materials, faster production, etc. etc. you get the idea.

And while I used 1926 Jofephus to cite in my essay, 1733 Jofephus spent some time with me in the light of day, stretching his spine and getting some much deserved credit for being who he was. I think the librarian was right. Old books aren't tired, sour old things who want to be left alone. They're bored and wise, waiting to teach us bright eyed and bushy tailed youths something they've known for a long time.

Pre-Lunch Post

There are a lot of little funny things that happen here.

Finding the "Quiet Room" for instance. You have to remember that Oxford is ancient and all the buildings are ancient and there once was a great fire in London that changed the way everything was built. There are "fire doors" at the beginning and ending of every hallway. They're all marked with blue signs with white (or black) sans-serif letters "FIRE DOOR KEEP CLOSED" and each door is also 25 lbs.

The Quite room is located in the Brunner House on the south side of campus. You must go in through a back door, a first fire door, around a curve to the left, down two steps to the second fire door, up the flight of stairs on the right, up another flight of stairs directly on the left, and through one more fire door. The Quite Room over looks the street and you can hear every step that passes underneath. This is where we, several English students, one other American, and two Germans watched the presidential inauguration on a terribly fuzzy screen. It was raining so that made the reception worse. While the view wasn't the best, the sound was loud and clear.

It was clear.

Bangers and Mash!

Or sausage and mashed potatoes. That was our lunch menu for today. Quite lovely, in fact. Bangers and Mash with a side of cooked cabbage. I hear the English are known for their food.

I spent most of my day in the library. I spent the other most of my day walking around the city on various quests. The first quest was to find the Theology Faculty Library. It is a more modern library located on St. Giles Street not terribly far from campus, but far enough to be a commitment. It's a few doors down from a place called Eagle & Child. There's a picture of an eagle holding a baby like the stork usually does only I get the feeling an eagle isn't thinking of dropping it off to a lovely set of expecting parents...Anyway they seemed to have decent breakfast prices and they serve until 10 so next week when I'm on my way back to return the books, I'm going to stop in for a good, hearty English breakfast!

My second quest was to find a post office and get some international stamps. Luckily I was less than a block away from one when I left the Theology Faculty Library. They're not as expensive as I thought for postcards.

That was this morning, all before 10 a.m! Last semester I never even left my room until 11 at the earliest.

My 3rd quest came this afternoon, around 4. There's a tradition at Oxford that at formal meals your academic gown is to be worn. Everyone has a specific style depending on what stage they're at in their academic endeavors. Graduate, undergraduate, etc. I'm supposed to have a special gown because I'm not an undergrad at Oxford, but a visiting student. The way it was described to me was calf-length with mid-length sleeves. The regular undergraduate ones are sleeveless and jacket length. I was assured I could rent one.

So I set out looking for a shop that took me ages to find, even thought it was really on the main strip rather close. I went in and asked the gentleman for an academic gown of mid length with mid length sleeves. He assured me there were only 2 kinds of academic gowns: Graduate and Undergraduate. Undergraduate was what I should get and I had to purchase it. No no, I'm sure that's not what I want. He even took me up to his office and showed me the pictures of them online. This was a man who knew gowns. He pointed out the different aspects of each. The sleeves. The cut. The length. The shoulder things. Whatever. He was really nice and even wrote stuff down for me.
I walked all the way back to campus to tell them they didn't exist. Oh! No, you need a Scholar's gown, not an Academic gown. Duh. Right. Of course.
I walked all the way back to to The Varsity Shop established in 1846 and said: "I need to rent a scholar's gown with half sleeves and mid length." The young girl was like...Oh, riiight. Well, you aught to just buy one, renting is 15 quid per day. How many times will you wear it? twice a week? yeah, at that you're already practically at price. How much are they? 42 pounds. silence. Well I can't get one now.

So I walked out of the shop, for the first time since I've been here, mad. 80 bucks! 80 dollars to wear a black drape for dinner! Tradition! Back and forth to find this stupid gown to find it's gonna cost me a small fortune. I sat down out side the Sheldonian Theatre where some punk kids with tattoos and skinny jeans were doing bike tricks. I brooded a bit. I weighed my options. A) Never go to dinner on Monday and Wednesday nights. I did the math. Roughly 7 pounds per meal, twice a week...at 3 weeks I'd have spent over 40 BP on dinner avoiding dinner. But, I could try a different place Every time and make it a game.

At least I'll get to keep it. Sure it'll hang in a closet for years until my first born is old enough to find it and ask what it is. Then I'll be able to say, "Well, dearest, that's from when I went to Oxford and had to have a scholar's gown for the formal dinners we had. I bought it with you in mind."

Dinner was delightful. It seems like the first meal I've had here that was filled with comfortable chatting, not just that awakward, still don't know everybody and everybody's only talking about classes chatting.
After dinner comes dessert and after dessert comes a cheese platter. Not many people stick around for the cheese, which I don't understand, so me and Sebastian from Sweeden and Sebastian from Austria took the remaining cheese and grapes and saved them for an 11 p.m. pre-bedtime glass of wine.

It was lovely.

I also read an entire book and a half today for my theology class. Going well.

7 Days Later:

I've been here for one week.

I ate a cheeseburger out of a van parked on the street last night. It's alright, everyone else does it. In fact, it was recommended. Think of an ice cream truck only with a grill and a deep fryer. I ordered "chips and cheese" and a "cheeseburger with salad." Lettuce, Tomato, and Onion is called "salad" no matter what you put it on. It makes sense. I'm honestly a little partial to the term.

So that bakery, I play bluegrass music right above it. There's student housing there and then on the third floor. My god, I thought, that's just quaint. You have to enter basically through the bakery's back door and then go up a very narrow uneven spiral staircase to get to the rooms. But once you're there it's worth it. The rooms over look the street and are actually more spacious than you'd expect.

We gathered there at 8. We ate some lentils. We tuned up our strings. We started with "Wagon Wheel" by Old Crow Medicine Show.
As it turns out, I'm the lead singer for the Harris Manchester Bluegrass Society. How did this happen, both you and I ask? Well, like most things that happen to me, it just happened that way. The pieces come together very slowly and discretely over years and years until: Ohp! I'm lead singer in a band at Oxford University!

Apparently the guy who lead the band last term chose all the songs and sang them all, too. I knew I could pull stuff together for someone else to sing. I knew I could play the bass. I knew I could tell you the lyrics. But something rather different came out of me tonight. It sounded a lot like singing and if you didn't know me you'd take it for simply that.
But it rose from my core and unfurled from my tongue. If I were really cheesy I'd call it "confidence" or "resolve" or some other thing representing my stubbornness to get through this all. No. It wasn't that directly related to the academic issue I've been having.
I think it was more a grasp of familiarity. Sweet pieces of the comfortable and recognizable among everything else that is subtly and unsettlingly different.

Oooo-Stop.

With your feet on the air and your head in the ground
Try this trick and spin it. yeah.
Your head will collapse
but there's nothing in it
and you'll ask yourself:
Where Is My Mind?

That's a great question to ask Black Francis, front-man for The Pixies.

Where Is My Mind?

I can't believe this. My head has been completely useless since, oh, I dunno, December 11th. No! Before that.

I amaze myself with my ability to NOT notice that I'm in the wrong class. That I couldn't even point out to myself that
1) I know only basic fundamentals of political theory and therefore am not capable of grasping all Rawls wants to offer me.
2) certain markings (letters) placed in certain sequences (words) represent specific concepts that are sometimes similar to other sequences, but most of the time they represent completely different concepts. The basic fundamentals of reading! The titles for the classes aren't even close! Theory of Politics. History of Political Ideas. "of Politic" is the only similarity there in the title. And while Theory and History and connected, they're not the same thing!

Twice since December 10th I've been presented with the opportunity to realize that what I was being offered was not what I anticipated or wanted or felt comfortable with.

How did I manage to read the words in front of me and convince myself that I'd made sense of them? How did my mind create a truth for itself that had no bearing in the real world?

At this point the how doesn't really matter. No, no. What matters now is the presence of human compassion. I cannot do anything but present myself to the authority, confess my sins of neglect and foolishness, and ask for forgiveness.



Where is my mind?
Way out in the water
see it swimmin'

I Love to Whistle

I didn't hear my alarm go off this morning. That's alright. I wasn't late for anything. I did miss breakfast but that gave me an excellent excuse to finally try the bakery. I got a pain au chocolat for 95p. Do you need me to tell you how good it was? It was a victory pastry. It was along the lines of I'm going to do this because I can't very well do much else. So I spent the money and ate it as I walked to the examination schools.

I am very aware of the sound of my own footsteps. They've seemed unusually distinct since I arrived. I notice other people's footsteps too but they don't seem as loud or self-conscious. There's only stone to walk on here. No grass. I still wear my big tennis shoes everywhere. It's not like I'm wearing high heels or boots. Just rubber bottomed tennis shoes. They still make quite a click. Especially in the library.

I seem to be that person who's so worried they'll be late for something that they show up unnecessarily early. Then I awkwardly stand around trying to decide if I should just trust myself that that's where I should be or ask someone. And even after asking someone I'm still not sure that it's really right. That's how it was showing up for the international student orientation today.

It's hard to consider myself an international student. It must be because I speak English. I know tons of stuff about England and I know loads of English people but it's still totally different than being in England. It's one thing to have actual knowledge of a place and experiential knowledge of it.

After my international student orientation some of the new people I'd met were milling around...what are you going to do now?...eh...check out books...I'd explained my futile situation to a few people in my normal, chipper manner and was asked "How are you not freaking out?!" Oh, but I am. I've just reached the point after already having my Orange World half pealed, to peal it the rest of the way myself. And I've discovered some very interesting things, now that I take a look at the juices in my hands.

1. I'm not a very good academic. I cannot seem to home in on one thing to do and I cannot bear the idea of spending the majority of my day studying it. As a result, I probably won't go to graduate school.
2. I talk to myself and to books. Today Rawls was telling me that "a person taking part in an institution knows the rules demand of him and the others." Well, yes John! In an ideal world! But not this world! I am still quite unaware of all the rules I should be following!
3. I am interested in what I'm studying but it is not my passion. This was the one invaluable thing I took away from the international student orientation. The "what's expected of you academically" speech involved something about being really passionate about what you're doing and that will get you through the difficult times. I just don't love political theory enough to love Rawls too. I'm sorry Rawls. I don't love you. I have never loved you. I could never learn to love you. From now on, our relationship is purely business. We've made this commitment and we will fulfill it but after that, it's goodbye.
4. Despite the juices on my fingers, I've still got to make the absolute best of this experience because it is still quite the experience, just not the experience I had anticipated.

I can't tell if I'm overreacting or under reacting. But on my walk back from my social science library introduction the sun was shining for the first time since I've been here. I've still got a stupid grin on my face because you know, it's all pretty funny. I'm at Oxford. It's my study abroad. I'm still only pulling cherry jolly ranchers out of the bag. I've been sent on a Herculean task. And things haven't even started yet.

A Theory of Justice

By John Rawls. Pages 3-195. I'm on page 13.

After meeting possibly the most important and gracious person on campus, the Librarian, I'm in a bit better spirits for no other reason that she is a gift from God to students everywhere. My situation is still desperate and hopeless. I got acquainted with the library which is small and beautiful. It inspires reverence for knowledge. You realize how sacred cataloging is. It takes someone with finesse to run a library like the Harris Manchester Private Library.

Anyway, I've already checked out five intimidating books and printed off one 30 page article. I'm not done yet. I figured I'd dive right into John Rawls because he's the main focus for week 1. I found a cozy little nook and began my reading. I can't write directly in the book, so taking notes is rather difficult. Round about page 11 I dropped my pen with several clanks on the desk, then floor. Not wanting to scoot my chair back and make even more disruptive noises, I folded my body in half while still sitting in my chair, reached my arm and head under the desk, grabbed my pen and noticed the names on the books behind me on the bottom shelf: Wordsworth. Both Dorothy and William.
My heart fell. I looked up and around a little. Shelley. Keats and his odes. Dylan Thomas. Larkin. Byron. Edmund Blunden. I'd managed to intuitively select the poetry section. I reached for poor upside down Edmund. "Hey old friend" I dorkishly muttered. It wasn't Undertones of War but it was him alright. He'd helped me get in this terrible mess I'm in. All these poets watched as I line by line deciphered Rawls' interpretation of justice as fairness in the original position. Like me, they wanted to know why I was doing this. I don't rightly know. But it's too late now. I can't very well spend the time leafing through their works when Rawls demands my attention.

They shall remain neglected by the likes of me.

I was the first person to dinner this evening so I sat at the very first chair of the first table. That meant it was my duty to serve everyone their red beans and beef. I was complimented on my serving technique and ability. That I accredit to my dear mother, who taught me the formal way of dishing food and passing plates. As a child when I continually questioned why she insisted on teaching me this useless skill, she must have known I'd be able to use it at Oxford. She must have thought, "When she goes to Oxford or is dining with the President or the Grand Duke of Luxembourg, she'll have the proper manners to do so."

And I do. Thanks mom. You made me look good.

Wanna Hear Something Funny?

Here it is!

My fist 2000 word essay is due (Drum roll, please) Sunday, 18 January, 2009 by 5 p.m. (earlier, he'd like, if I'm able.)

That gives me - Calculating...calculating...73 hours to complete the reading list and write the essay. The mandatory reading list for week 1, mind you, "is considerably more than is required during the rest of the term. However, since this provides you with the methodological equipment to deal with the rest of the term's material, it is necessary to go the extra mile while you have the time."

Aparently "The vacation and first week are devoted to trying to work out just how we ought to be doing political theory, especially within what can broadly be described as the liberal tradition. Before we can start making any arguments, we have to establish just what sorts of reasons are admissible, and what criteria of justification can be applied in the absence of any real certainty about most hard questions in moral and political philosophy."

What have I gotten myself into?

I Gotta Pig Home In A Pen

Couldn't sleep last night. Kept thinking of all the bluegrass tunes I know and if I can lead a melody on them or not.

Made it up in time for breakfast this morning. The watch proves to be reliable. The meals here are pretty good. But I never thought I'd have to adjust to English food. Really weird. There's a small crew of people who go to breakfast and I think it'll serve me well to attend as often as possible. The meal staff has already welcomed me with open arms and extra helpings. My view over looks the dining hall windows.

I had my first meeting today with a tutor. Dr. Eve. From the Theology department. He's certainly a character. His office looks exactly like you'd think...books and records and papers and CD's and everything from floor to ceiling, wall to wall. I set up my schedule and we'll meet every other Friday at Noon starting this week. I managed to set myself up with 2 papers due the first week. Excellent. Getting myself acquainted early.

Met another Sarah from Minnesota. She's the violinist for the bluegrass group. She informed me that the main resource for last term is no longer here. He was the one who knew all the tunes. Looks like that'll be my job. Apparently they haven't played much down home authentic bluegrass so they're about to get rocked. I'm gonna start them with my first bluegrass experience: Pig In A Pen. The lyrics are as follows:

(chorus) I gotta pig home in a pen corn to feed him on,
all I need is a pretty little girl to feed him when I'm gone.

Yonder come that girl of mine, how do you think I know
I can tell it by her gingham gown, hangin' down so low.

Dark clouds a-rising surely sign of rain
get your old grey bonnet on, sweet lil' Liza Jane.

Bake 'em biscuits baby, bake 'em good and brown
when you get your biscuits baked, we're Alabamy bound.

Goin up on the mountain sow a little cane
raise a barrel of sorghum, sweet lil' Liza Jane.

Sung repeatedly and in no particular order.

Went to the smallest museum in the world today. Oxford Museum of Modern Art. It was literally 5 rooms. 5 installations. 3 of the 5 were seriously creepy with menecing classical music and lights and...when I was in 6th grade I did a report on skitzophrenia. My guest speaker brought in a tape that his patients had made that was like what they heard in their heads. The same kind of scary I experienced listening to that tape was what I felt today, 8 years later. Fantastic.

It's 2:15 and things coming together. I'm about to go to the library and learn how to use it. Wish me luck. But it'll have to retrospective luck...does that work? Knowing that when you read this in 6 hours from now, and at that moment you wish me luck, will it transfer back to the moment I first go to the library (which is the actual instance you'll be wishing luck for) or will it act as a credit for the NEXT time I visit the library (even though it's not specificually meant for that time)? This is a phenomenon that I should look into.

Misty Morning Photos

Cemetery wall.
Looks like a comfortable spot to spend eternity.
Walk way to Arlsoh Field.
The cemetery I found today.
Misty English morning.

Just Found Home

I just found home as of an hour ago. I went out to find my academic buildings. I walked past an apartment with the sound of drums coming from within. I made the note that it was apartment #9.

That was the foreshadowing.

On my way back to HM, I saw a familiar face. He was standing by the gate smoking a cigarette and waved. I walked over and we chatted a bit about what we were studying, where we were from, etc. Music. It was brought up. Ben, he plays bluegrass. There's 5 or 6 of them that play bluegrass. They've got a bass and an amp they'll let me use. No upright, but that's alright. And blues. I can't believe it.

I'm home.

We've already traded music. We've already set aside a time to jam. Sunday. I'll meet the others tonight at dinner. I found it. My niche. Everything he says is "brilliant" and everything I say is "excellent." The music is brilliantly excellent.

Of course there's bluegrass at Oxford! Don't be silly!
Dr. Guthrie was right, maybe I should have flown my upright out...

Semi-Charmed Life

It's 1:33 in the afternoon. I managed to get the alarm on my watch to work. There's no snooze or backup alarm, so I must be very careful. The very last thing I want to do is wake up late for a lecture or meeting with my tutor.

I woke up stiff this morning. It's much cooler today than the past few days. That's alright. I had F/H wrap #3 with the second most delicious apple in the world from the same little shop. I might be a regular already.

This morning was so misty and foggy and beautiful. There's moss and ivy and various other types of foliage that climbs on every ancient wall. I can't help but love every exterior wall I see here. I wandered off the main strip today, enthralled with the mist. I thought I walked fast but people pass me all the time. I can't tell if my regular pace has slowed because I'm looking and listening and making mental notes and eating H/F wraps with one hand and sipping tea in the other. I have no particular place to go as of now, but I should probably locate all the buildings for my various meetings tomorrow. I'm a little nervous.

My sleeping patterns still aren't quite right. I forced myself to bed 2:30 a.m. and forced myself out of bed at 9:30 a.m. I got back to the room after my morning stroll and couldn't help but take a quick nap. It was 40 minutes long but at least I got the watch alarm down. The bells ring every 15 minutes. I love it. They're so beautiful. I tried to buy a bedside clock but they were VERY expensive. 50 BP for a cheap looking thing. I did find one for 9.99 BP but it was race car themed. The alarm sound was a car revving up and tire squeals. I'll risk the watch beeps. They remind me of the watch I had the summers I worked at Raquette Lake. I'm here at Oxford for the same amount of time I spent at Raquette Lake so it's really comforting. I have something to compare it to...even if the comparison is more like a contrast.

Raquette Lake / Oxford
Lots of English people: check / check
Warm weather: check / -
A lake: check / -
Lots of children: check / -
Intellectually stimulating: - / check
3 month duration: check / check
Own room: - / check
Responsibility for self only: - / check
Easy contact with outside world: - / -
Somewhat intimidating authority: check / check
An unusual locale: check / check
Rain: check / check
Personally challenging: check / check
Privacy: - / check
Bears: check / -
Feet: mode of transportation: check / check
Once in a lifetime opportunity: check / check
Old: check / check
Beautiful: check / check


I did some yoga stretches for about 20 minutes. I'm very stiff and sore. I yawn a lot. I'm physically tense. It must be this uncomfortable desk chair and, you know, trying to reassemble my world because it just got rocked. It's being cracked open and split into quarters and segmented into the tiny little juice pouches like an orange. It's been cut with a knife so some pouches have spilled open but others are clumped together nicely, keeping a strong hold on what is sacred and inside. Some of the seeds are being flicked out and this orange is only half pealed. Partially pealed, not quite half. This Orange World of mine is not being destroyed, it's being prepped for something good and nourishing and beautiful.

As my first attempt to listen to music that was not specifically meant for England, I dove right into my favorite song. Semi-Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind. I rely on this song because never have I listened to this song and felt worse or even the same. It makes me swell and nod: Ok. This is alright. This is manageable.
I don't know how it can capture every sorrowful moment I've experienced and associate it with...beauty, for lack of a better word or way to describe it. I hear this song in my head constantly. It used to be my ring tone. Every time someone called me it was the first thing I heard before hearing them say "hello" or "hi" or "what up" or "Sarah!" or "000010110110" or "que tal" or "bonjour" or "hey, lady."

4 times through the song and I should venture out of my room again. I've stretched. I've blogged. There are voices and footsteps a plenty around Morrison Hall. I think every thing is coming to life and I must participate.

Hearing from you all is facilitating. It helps. It's needed. I'm alone here but I'm not alone. It's so good.



The sky it was gold, it was rose,
I was taking sips of it through my nose.
-Third Eye Blind

what the desk looks like.
Notebook Lydia made for me.
We circled quite a bit for our landing.
View from my window!
My beautiful window!

I'm gonna try and figure the best way to post pictures. Bear with me for a while.

Thank you Apollinaire for the word "Surreal"

What in the world have I gotten myself into?

I walk around and I realize that none of this is real. All of this is by definition reality. There are music shops and every store is actually a bookstore that just happens to also have a pharmacy or a sandwich counter.

I was here for a matter of hours before I managed to botch something up. Needed an adapter for my very American laptop. Right. I ended up blowing the the 4 sockets in my room and poor Ellen's next door as well. Heh. Oops. As a result of not having any power in any of the outlets, I relied on my fully charged ipod and manually powered knitting needles. The scarves are coming along smashingly.

There's a little bakery directly round the corner for HMC. It's beautiful. It smells beautiful. The doughnuts look better than any doughnut I have ever seen. I haven't given in to their temptations yet. But I feel my defenses weakening every time I walk past. See, the thing is, it's cool and grey outside. Everything looks dark and mossy. This bakery window sill is painted white and absolutely illuminates every item the bakery has to sell. It's positively inviting.

I've had a falafel and hoummos wrap twice today. At lunch it was coupled with an apple that may have been the most delicious apple in the world. This apple was created and God knew it was the best one, but didn't tell anybody. He let it get bruised in one spot and sit atop a few tiny clementines and grey bananas in a closet of a sandwich shop in Oxford. I found it. I ate it as I wandered around Broad Street. Thought about eating the whole thing: core, seeds, stem and all in honor of Schyler Wood but I didn't.

I tried to find a bench to sit on while I ate F/H wrap #1, but couldn't find one quickly enough, so I spotted a few tables and chairs that I would have considered in the street...next to some impressively full bike racks. I ate most of F/H wrap #1 and someone from 'The Buttery' shop came out to ask me to leave, because the tables were strictly for...mouth full so a head nod was all he got. Had a cup of tea with milk. Oh so good and delicious and the right kind of warm.

As for the outlets, they were fixed, I was a little more careful with my use of an adaptor, and I'm in business! (So is Ellen).
Ellen and I each have our own rooms and we share a very VERY small kitchen and a nice sized bathroom. Not a showerroom. A bathroom. There is no shower fixture. For some reason I can't get the little nuances of the toilet flush down. It's very different than in the US. You have to press the handle with the right amount of vigor for the proper length of time or it doesn't work properly. When I discover the successful equation after a little more research, I'll post that, too.

Ellen invited me to her birthday party on Friday. That way I can meet the other students in a social setting instead of an academic one. I'm overwhelmingly grateful. Overwhelmingly relieved. Overwhelmingly overwhelmed. I know how Fabi and Caio and every international student friend I've ever made and invited to hang out felt. I haven't been the new person at school since freshman year of high school.

It took me all of 35 minutes (or a little bit more) to unpack and get settled. The room still looks rather bare but it looks personalized too. Everything I brought to put on the walls is less than 8 1/2 by 11. So I have two entire walls with nothing at all on them. I may buy ONE poster of the cheapest type I can find.

I've been listening to the music mixes composed and compiled by my dear friends and family. They are excellent because the songs are not affiliated with too many memories of home, so the 20 hours I was without any outside contact at all, I was able to hold it together.

Today I thought I saw Brad Hoekstra and Dr. Corn. Dr. Corn always wears a trench type coat and a driving cap. I walked by a store and the song "Yellow" by Coldplay came on. Ached for 30 seconds. 30 seconds later I was overcome with beauty. All the bikes. There are so many bikes! If Lydia Joy could dream up a perfect world involving bikes, this would be it.

I carry my ipod around with me everywhere but I never listen to it because I want to hear the streets and conversations and rain and footsteps. Everything is dark by 5 and everyone goes home. No one is out past 5:30. Maybe they're all at the pubs. Either way, all the shops are closed. No 24 hour all purpose store at my fingertips, let alone within walking distance. I feel safe and comfortable walking around by myself, but I shall not make it a habit after 5 p.m.

Technically before using the internet, I should have turned in a sheet of paper with lots of info about my computer...like my ethernet address. I don't know what that is or how to find it on a Mac. No one else does either. Tomorrow the IT lady, Sarah, will help me find it.

What else? There's so much more.

I live on the top floor (3rd floor) of Morrison. It's really quaint. I love living on the top floor. The view from my window is beautiful. (Is anyone counting how many times I use that word? Any suggestions for a little variety?)

Mansfield Road constantly reminds me of Kitty Flowers' Freshman 101 class. I have about 15 dollars in USD and I just can't bear to exchange it for like, 9 BP. US economy! What is it with you going to Hell before I have to leave for England! You're making me look bad!

I haven't figured out how to set the alarm on my new watch. It didn't work last night...maybe I can work out the kinks by tomorrow. Without my cellphone, I don't know how to tell myself to wake up. There's not clock in the room.

I have a bag of jolly ranchers and every time I reach in, I always pull out a cherry. Cherry is my least favorite next to Blue Raspberry. I have to dig for the other flavors. I tell ya, not everything is easy.

I made such a big fuss about having sunglasses. I bought an extra pair. I found a pair at Sheena/Lydia's. They're not exactly necessary here. I suppose I knew this subconsciously but still...the just seemed so pressingly vital. The ground is always damp but a nice, unobtrusive damp.

I love my window and want to leave it open all the time. The first thing I did when I got in the room was throw open my window and rejoice! It was also uncomfortable warm in my room and didn't want to mess with the heater, least I break something. (Wish I'd had that kind of reservation about the outlets, but it's all in the past. About 26 or 7 hours in the past.)

The cab ride from the bus station to the college was shared with Alex, from Greece. He'd never even heard of Harris Manchester and studies math. He has family in New Jersey. I was dropped off first and he said he'd pay for the whole cab but I insisted on paying for my half. That was stupid. I should have let him pay it! I woulda saved myself 4 BP! (That's almost 8 USD!)

I feel slightly more gullible than I ever have in my life because I don't know all the particulars of this place yet. There's a key code to go out of college through a gate that's closer to me than the main door, but no one had told me the key code. So I saw 2 guys heading that way and I said, "Excuse me, could you tell me the code to the gate?" Now understand that we're all inside the college, trying to get out, not outside the college, trying to get in. You need the code both ways. The taller one says "I need proof that you're a student here. I can't just give the code out without knowing, you know." I pause and reach into my pockets. I don't have my ID yet. I don't have the formal letter of acceptance I showed my customs friend. I stammer a little, "oh, um, right..."
"I'm only kidding, it's blah blah blah."
Duh. It was funny. I introduced myself. The tall one goes here and the shorter one was his brother.

I'm constantly shifting from flooding with joy and flooding with worry. Both are constant but both rise to the surface with instances of electric appliances or being invited to a birthday party.

I wonder if anyone's down in the pool hall. I might go introduce myself to a few new souls.

My Feet Are Currently on British Soil

WHEW! I'm in England! I've been to London. I'm on a bus to Oxford. Free wifi. 29% battery life. No adapter as of now. First thing on my list after Lunch.

I gave everyone a bit of trouble all the way through. In Chicago they took away my lotion and almost took away a prescribed eczema cream. Thanks, government. Keep me safe from myself. Whatever. I took a class on terrorism. I know how dangerous it can be. Feel a little bad for the guy cuz I spent over an hour roaming around freakin O'hare cuz it's a mess. A wild mess. And I pack heavy.

Then! When I finally get to London, I'm stopped at the border. The guy asked me in a cool (not neat, but cold) British accent where I was going. How long. Working? No visa? No visa? you get 6 months. That's it. You say you're going to France, so you might be ok. OK sir, thank you too.

I made it. I read everything with an English accent in my mind. Chatted with a doctor from Dubai on the plane. Ate Chicken and pasta. Had a glass of Cabernet. Put on my complimentary eye mask and slept. Some girl got sick in the bathroom right before me...so I went to a different W.C.

It's cool...40 degrees F. Misty. Grey. Beautiful. Everything is lovey. The Driver of the bus is on the Right side.

I have a constant little grin just for myself. I had an aisle seat on the flight, that's cool. I was a little bummed about not getting a window seat. C'est la vie.

Watched an episode of Frasier. Thought of Dad. Watched an episode of the English The Office. It was exactly like the American one...only different people and accents. Same story line. Same characters, basically. Funny, huh?

Started Brothers Karamazov, thanks to Sheensta. On page 37. Dostoyevsky named the evil father after himself. huh.

Got a mini toothbrush and a barbie sized tube of toothpaste. I just chewed gum. Haven't changed my socks in...a while. Even got complimentary socks!

Encountered various helpful people. And somewhat less than helpful people. That's how it ususally is. Both my flights were delayed by 30 minutes or so. That's ok. I got red luggage thinking It'd be unique and easy to spot. Every 6th person has red luggage. Good thing I've got red tags on mine too.

I keep expecting to see people I know. Everyone looks like someone I know. Thought I saw dad. Thought I saw Dr. Martin. Thought I saw someone from Raquette Lake.

23% battery. Better save it.
I didn't cry too much at the airport. Few silly tears when I finally saw Keith and Christine leave. Waved to Mom, Nick, AJ, Sheena, and Lydia for another 7 minutes throwing up Vulcan signs, gang signs, the only 2 words I know in sign language (donkey and lion) and inventing some of my own sign language.
A security woman handed me a tissue. I know what time it is all the time even without a cellphone cuz Nick gave me the watch off his wrist. I love it. Sold the cell to Keith. but I don't remember getting any money for it...

More ASAP!
Love Love love to the world and all.

1 Day 3 Hours

It's 1 a.m.
I leave for Indianapolis at 10 a.m.
I'm not packing.
I've still got 9 hours.

I'm putting the finishing touches on my playlist for my ipod. I'm sending emails on facebook. I'm writing little notes in books that will be returned to various people. I'm thinking about laundry detergent. and towels. and luggage: expensive red luggage.

I get on a plane Sunday at 4 p.m. I fly from Indy to Chicago. I get on another plane at 8 p.m. from Chicago to London. I arrive at 9:30 a.m. and take a bus to Oxford. Then a taxi to Harris Manchester. After that I don't know what's really instore. Kind of. A little bit. I like the mystery.

I like knowing that England will be my home. I'll find the right places to go. I'll know the streets and be able to give someone directions. I feel a little bit like the main character from the movie L'Auberge Espagnol (The Spanish Apartment). If you haven't seen it, rent it. He talks about knowing the streets and corners.

But until then, I should probably put my life together and pack.

4 Days 9 Hours

I've got a list of 21 things I need to accomplish in the next 4 days and 9 hours. I feel like most of it will get done. I don't have much of a choice on some of them because they are along the lines of "pack" and "laundry."

One of those items (number 22) was "create a blog." Now, I would not consider myself the "blog" kinda person, but I figured that if I were going to Europe for 7 months, I might have some stories to tell. And stories I don't want to tell 5 months after they've happened and to 50 different people on 36 separate occasions.

So a blog it was. And here it is. I'm a little sad about putting the old fashioned pen and notebook on the back burner. It's much easier for me to scribble a few lines here and there whenever but that limits my audience to, well, me. I'm sure I won't completely forgo the journaling. It'll just take on a different form, I imagine.

Well I've not left yet and I've got no stories yet and I'm not sure about any of this yet. But gimme a couple of days and a few posts to get used to this.