What is your life?

"What is your life," you may be asking. So, basically, my computer died within the first month of me being at Oxford. I have lost my e-mail list in the process and life has been arduous and so, clearly, I have fallen behind in updates. I'm currently touring Europe and uploading photos onto Facebook as I go. So far I've met some amazing people and have fallen in love with everywhere I've been... Ireland, Rome, Greece, Turkey, Prague, and now Spain. I promise to put more into words when I finally settle back down in the "Ford." Right now I'm missing it a lot though and I'm looking forward to getting back to normal life at Oxford.

I miss all of you too though, so keep in touch with those e-mails.

Love,
Sue

Life at Catz

After living it for a week, I think I'm ready to talk about life at St. Catz. Catz, as I mentioned, is an architectural landmark built by the Danish architect Arne Jacobson. It's comprised of two quads, the original one where first and third years live and a newer addition surrounding a car park that houses second years. My rooms (both have windows covering an entire wall, an upgrade from the arrow slits of Stiles) overlook the "old" quad, which is large (about the size of Branford) with residential staircases (entryways) on either side of the central courtyard, library, and dining hall. The buildings are spread out and unfortunately aren't connected from the inside at all, so I actually have to get dressed to go to the library or dining hall. The courtyard's really nice, with a well-manicured lawn and nicely trimmed square hedges. The library is modern and beautiful on the inside and has really nice study spaces. The dining hall is HUGE but also beautiful and has rows and rows of banquet tables.

At 7:00, if professors and the master are coming to dinner, the bell tolls and everyone makes their way to the hall. It's kind of scary and cultish. We all line up and shuffle in, and instead of finding your friends and sitting with them in little groups everyone just fills in the seats of the tables in order of where they were in line. It's nice because it makes everyone kind of dispersed and we meet different people everyday, except Oly and I are usually the last ones there and we usually sit with the same latecomers. Then, while we sit, servers bring the silverware and set the places, bring us the "appetizer" of the day (a soup or salad), and once we're finished eating take that away and bring us plates. It's a family style meal where the main entree is put on our plates by the servers and the side dish (a vegetable and some variety of "chips," which are fries) is put in the middle for about 6 people to share. When they see we're done with the entree, the servers efficiently whisk away our plates and bring some dessert, fruit, or yogurt. The food hasn't been bad, although I've heard it steadily declines in quality throughout the term. Last night we had profiteroles with caramel sauce, for example. I didn't even know what profiteroles were; apparently it's just a fancy name for cream puff. At the end of dinner we can all get up and help ourselves to coffee or tea; this is the most social mingling portion of the dinner, as everyone stands around where they've placed the pots. All in all it's a very quick and efficient affair, and everyone's out of the hall by 7:50. I'm kind of sad that I can't waste my days away by going to dinner at 5:00 and staying until 7:30, getting up for more food every 20 minutes, but in the long run it's probably better for my productivity and weight. :)

When the master and professors show up for dinner, they all wear their formal robes and file into the hall in rows. We all have to stand in respect until they take their places at the "high table." It's literally just like Harry Potter. I mean, really.

After dinner, it's time to go hang out at the JCR, or the Junior Common Room. It's like the common room, game room, and buttery all next to each other, basically, except the buttery also serves as a bar where you can buy cheap, college-subsidized alcohol. St. Catz is supposed to have one of the largest and best JCR's. There are two pool tables, two foosball tables, and a row of pinball machines and arcade games. This week the British students haven't been out as much since they were studying for collections (exams) held Friday and Saturday, so the Americans have been taking over the JCR. Usually at about 10:30 more people show up and we mingle with them a bit. St. Catz students are great, and we're supposed be a little bit of a party college, although I've yet to see it live up to its reputation.

I've learned the social schedule here of clubbing, which is Filth on Mondays and Fridays, The Bridge on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Bar-Risa/Jongleurs on Wednesdays, and Clementine's on Saturdays. The weekends are the most low-key, since Clementine's is the only place open and very little else is going on. Clubs are busy from 11 to 2 or 3 when they close, but pubs are usually where people go earlier in the evening.

So far I've been out into downtown Oxford about every night but one. The first few nights I went out with some American students to the King's Arms (KA), your run-of-the-mill 16th century pub. It isn't that crowded and has a nice friendly atmosphere. Thursday night the boys wanted to see a band perform at the Jericho, which is famous amongst Radiohead fans as their first regular gig, so we made the half-hour trek out there and discovered that the so-called band was really a Jamaican DJ. After a few pints of hoegarden we checked out the Bridge. Before paying the 3 pound entree fee, I asked the bouncer whether it was busy inside, to which he brightly replied, "There about 17 people upstairs. But they're American!" Sweet... so we left and stopped at another, smaller club called Mood, where I got a small first taste of where the British get their horrible reputation for dancing. We didn't stay very long because people started staring, probably thinking that we Americans were dirty, dirty people for the way we danced.

Last night some of the girls and I met some nice British boys at the JCR who took us to PT, or the Purple Turtle. The bar/club is part of the Oxford Union, which if you hadn't heard, is a pretty big deal. It's a private debating society that many students join for life for an exorbitant fee, after which they don't really attend the lectures but do go around for the rest of their lives flaunting the fact that they're members of the Oxford Union. Famous speakers include the Dalai Lama and Stephen Hawking. The PT itself was a very hidden, underground place with winding passageways leading to many chambers, including two bars and a cave-like dance floor. Everything was bathed in a purplish light. The whole place made me feel like I was in the Leaky Cauldron. Yes, the Harry Potter comparisons will continue, unabated.

So despite its crappy modern architecture, I do love Catz so far and hopefully will have more to tell in the weeks to come.

Audible Memories

Last night my roommate Erin and I visited the British Museum and caught the last day of the Voices of Bengal exhibit. Elaborately decorated scrolls were displayed across from ornate statues of Bengali gods and goddesses. We had a chance before the museum closed to peek in at the Egypt section on mummies, which always thrills the inner child in me for some reason. There was a section on medical diagnoses, where analysis of bones and tissue led to findings that ancient Egyptians seemed to suffer from rotting teeth due to sand getting into all of their food, various forms of anemia, etc. Maybe I could graduate medical school and become a mummy doctor.

The following morning I woke up at 4:00 in the morning and couldn’t fall back asleep. I laid in bed until about 7:30, at which point I said to myself, “Fuck it!” and decided to get up and go to breakfast downstairs. Somehow I never made it to breakfast but left the hotel and proceeded to walk all the way down Charing Cross Street to the acoustic strummings of Jack Johnson until I reached Trafalgar Square, and since that only took about 20 minutes, I continued walking until I reached the Hungerfood Footbridge on the Thames. I stayed around there for a while longer until I caught the morning sun finally peeking out behind the London Eye. The walk back was completely different, since the buildings were all bathed in the early morning light. I have to say this was one of the best hours I spent in London.

We took the bus to Oxford a few hours later. On the way, it began to rain, the light, misty, weepy rain that is characteristic of southern England. When we finally arrived at St. Catherine’s, I had begun to weep, too. The modern, yellowish brick buildings are worse looking than Stiles. However, like Stiles, St. Catz is a modern “architectural landmark.” After unloading and a long queue at the Porter’s Lodge, the check-in point and mail room for the college, we dazed and lost Americans lugged our bags through a courtyard to our staircases (equivalent to entryways) and rooms. I live on the 2^nd floor (which really is the 3^rd) with a roommate, Oly. Apparently the Americans are the only ones to have gotten doubles, which I think is less screwing us and more making sure we have a buddy to commiserate with. It’s a two-room double which is nice, and we have it set up with two beds in the back room and two desks in the front. We have our own bathroom, which is awesome, but it’s a tiny room about 5’ x 5’ with a standing shower and the most economical use of space possible. There are also just three columns of open shelves and a tiny closet for our clothes. Our linens and duvet is provided and are laundered weekly, which is the thing I’m most looking forward to so far.

All right, the bell has just tolled for dinner in hall. More on St. Catz living later in the week. :)

Future Ex-Pat

We’ve only stayed two nights here but I feel like a week has passed. Still, I really don’t feel like I’m in a foreign country. I’ve bought a new SIM card so I can make cheaper calls to the US and have decided to use the internet café across from the hotel.

We’ve spent most mornings being talked at by the stout little British man named Andrew who runs our program and a glamorous woman named Lynn who wears neat pleated skirt suits and reminds me of Julie Andrews. Yesterday we were visited by a member of the House of Lords, a Life Baron, who I’d love as a professor or grandfather. He gave us an enlightening talk, describing the British political system and social issues in between extended sessions of loud nose-blowing into his handkerchief. I’ve decided that I’d be content to become a British ex-pat. The British have a culture of irreverence and post-Christianism that is really appealing. Abortion is hardly an issue, nor capital punishment; the outcry in response to the latest act allowing gay civil unions to have the same rights as marriages was, “Oh, whatever.” 68% of young people in national polls list David Beckham as the most influential character in their life; only 2% name Jesus and 1% God. I could go on and on, but I already love this place.

The evenings we’ve had free. Most adults here hit the pubs right after work at about 5 and drink themselves drunk until 8; since we’re young and wild Americans, we haven’t gone out until 8 and stay out way late until the pubs close at 11. Everything’s expensive: a pint of the cheapest beer is the equivalent of about $5-$6. We’ve gotten carded everywhere because apparently we look under 18, but we flash our pearly American smiles that they’re so envious of as we hand them our IDs and they let us right in. I’ve been hanging out with a different group of people every night. Since tomorrow we don’t have to wake up, at all, I’m hoping to go to a club with some girls and actually stay out past midnight.

Today we saw a play by Emile Zola called Therese Raquin. Horrifying, terrifying. I wanted to shut my eyes through the entire second half but couldn’t. Not that it was graphic or gory, it was just, disturbing. It was French, after all, nothing less to be expected than the ripping apart of human existence.

St. Giles, London

Just arrived at the St. Giles Hotel in London, where I’ll be staying 4 nights. Massive amounts of luggage belonging to 80-some high-maintenance American students have been moving about the city of London and have finally been dispersed into their respective rooms. I personally am lugging two 47.5 pound suitcases, a 10 pound backpack and 6 pound “personal item.” The hotel is right across from an internet café, which I’ll be frequenting probably, a block away from the underground, and a few blocks from the local University College Hospital—basically, I’m all set. I’ve already made two calls from my cell phone to the US—laying down the foundations of what will be (by the end of my stay here) a monstrous bill. Dinner will be in 3 hours. I think I’ll take a nap now. The question of the day is: where are my pajamas?

Tazo Chai Tea lethargy

I’m stuck at the Newark Airport on a layover that was previously 4 hours long, and has been extended by an extra hour and a half because of flight delays. I was mooching off of the wireless from Continental’s Presidents’ Club, but someone must have figured out that they were broadcasting internet to the whole terminal and stopped it. Now I’m forced to finish my Tazo Chai tea at Starbucks that I bought in hopes that I could sit here writing in my blog while sipping tea, instead of walking around like a trucker with two huge bags in my new loud, black leather boots. Ouch.

Right now I don’t feel like I’m leaving the country at all. If anything, I feel like I’m going back to Yale. So far, I’ve been reminded of Yale by:

1. Being at the Newark airport. I feel like I should be sprinting down the concourse trying to claim my bags and catch the 3:05 Amtrak to New Haven.
2. Seeing large numbers of Jewish people. There aren’t many back in Hudson, Ohio.
3. Feeling exhausted and sleep-deprived.

Last time I was at an airport, I ended up in conversation with a man that was a chef at the airport bistro. First he annoyed me by explaining to me exactly how to go through airport security, as if I had never done it before, but then since we were walking in the same direction he struck up a less condescending line of conversation. It went something like,

Man: Where are you headed?
Me: Hawaii.
Man: California? I’m hoping to move out west sometime. Open up a restaurant.
Me: Oh? What kind of food?
Man: A little bit of everything. I want it to be an international restaurant. Are you Chinese?
Me: ... Yes.
Man: I want to go to China sometime. See how they cook over there.
Me: That’d be great.
Man: Then I want to go over to Europe, maybe France, see how they make things over there too. How old are you, 20?
Me: Yeah, just about.
Man: It’s been many years since I was 20. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.
Me: My name is Sue. What’s your name?
Man: I’m Melvin. Pleased to meet you.
Me: Pleased to meet you Melvin.

He proceeded to tell me about the type of food I could get at his Bistro, and what other food I could get at every other restaurant in the terminal, before we parted ways.

I’m done with my tea now; it’s time to truck myself back over to Terminal B. Click, click, click.

This blog is dedicated to Melvin, who seemed like a nice man.