From the tube in London to the cobbled streets of Oxford

Although I feel inclined to begin my very first post with a W.B. Yeats quote—with good reason, I assure you—allow me to hold off until I recap my past eight days. That is, let me build up to the insight of Yeats (an Irishmen and not English, duly noted, for those keeping score) through my experiences in the U.K. so far. Indeed, as the Winston Churchill himself once said “We are masters of the unsaid words, but slaves of those we let slip out.” Thus, cheers to you Mr. Churchill, I will opt to slip at the end. In the meantime, I am free.

To begin, despite the fact that it has certainly been a whirlwind of activity since leaving Boston on the evening of Wednesday January 6th, it has been quite a pleasant one at the same time. My taxi ride from Heathrow to the hotel in London was a nice surprise, as I forgot that all cabs in the city are the classic black (pic 1 below), and although I had some trouble getting into my room—the key-cards at the St. Giles are tempermentally magnetic and stop working if you put them near your cell phone—I arrived in England feeling simultaneously serene and vibrantly excited. Not sleeping on a red-eye flight will do that to you. Napping, I suspect, cures this, but I have yet to perfect the art. In due time, hopefully.


Now, once most of the group made it to London (flights were delayed due to mere inches of snow, more on that later), the actual planned “orientation” took up very little of our four days in the city, which meant we had loads of time to explore. The first night we went to a traditional English dinner of meat pie and spotted dick, the latter being a dessert resembling an upside-down cupcake with raisins in it, all drenched in custard, and the former being a classic English staple, as I’m beginning to suspect that anything baked in a porcelain bowl under a crust of bread is edible in this country. As one Oxford student told me at dinner one night at St. Catz when describing his favorite band Status Quo: “They’re as English as pie, mate.”

Still, sticking to London (and before I get ahead of myself), the planned events that Butler had for the group were somewhat entertaining—albeit some more informative than others. For instance, one morning we met with Lord Taverne (a member of the House of Lords) and he essentially gave us British Government 101. The House of Lords—along with the House of Commons—make up Parliament, with the key difference being that Lords are appointed for life while those in Commons are continually elected. This makes for some notable benefits (the House of Lords is not as party driven, they make decisions on the “merits of the argument”) as well as some interesting Lords themselves (such as 23 bishops, a slew of scientists, and a handful of writers), yet I couldn’t help but get the sense that the House tends to be a politician’s dream retirement home—and I don’t think Lord Taverne would disagree. You see, since you can essentially show up whenever you like, some Lords only choose to go to the discussions they have a say in, and some simply enjoy viewing all matters from the sidelines without jumping in; a sort of purgatory of abstain. And the judges in England are very much the same way, although they take aloofness to an extreme. Sample quote: “Who is this Mr. Beckham you speak of?” No joke, chaps.

In general politics, Britain is interesting because although it is “conservative” in terms of tradition and change happens slowly, the country is quite progressive on matters that the U.S. still struggles with, such as abortion rights and gay marriage. Just picture taking our entire political spectrum and shifting it all to the left so that the Republicans rest as moderate democrats in our sense (known as the Conservative Party or the Tories), Democrats are even more liberal (known as Liberal or Social Democrats), and the Labour Party sits somewhere in between. Indeed, for England “liberal” is a median term and the Brits thus find it funny to see it used as an insult in the States.

Now, as for something the Brits don’t find funny: guns. Ever since a crazed Scotsman shot 20 infants dead some time ago in the U.K., England has adopted draconian gun laws, and they find America’s obsession with the firearm to be mystifying bordering on horrifying. You know that photo of Sarah Palin with the sniper? Would never see that in the U.K. Interestingly, same with God. Despite having the national Church of England, only 8% of the population regularly attends church and it is never invoked in political rhetoric. One time, after visiting with George “Faith-Based-Initiative” W. Bush, Tony Blair dropped a “God bless Britain” in Parliament only to have the next day’s headlines scream “TONY—WE DON”T DO GOD IN POLITICS.” As for “God save the Queen?” Hey, it’s my first week, beats me.

But back to London. Saw the sights—Big Ben, the Eye, Buckingham Palace (pics 2, 3, 4 below)—rode the Tube, went to Harrod’s (never again lest I suffocate), but what surprised me was how new it all is. London’s supposed to be old! Everywhere we walked was shiny and hip with that modern Euro vibe and BMWs rolling around like letters in a game of Boggle. Piccadilly Circus? Think Times Square. Go to a club? Picture Neo in The Matrix. Of course, this doesn’t mean that one can’t find Old London if one looks—my favorite pubs were the ones with the simple wooden counter and warm ales on tap—but the youth of the city definitely gravitates towards the trendy side of life. It’s definitely cool, but to a degree. Indeed, I can’t help but ask if $4,000 caviar or even the latest pair of designer shades is entirely necessary. For me, the best part about London—and something that ties into its hip appeal—is its multiculturalism. Walk down the street and you’ll hear eight, maybe ten different languages, easy. Apparently more languages are spoken in London than in any other city in the world. Now that’s cool.


A final point before Oxford. Ever heard of the unit stones? Neither had I. One morning, after running on the gym treadmill and watching the Darts World Championship (seriously, it’s intense over here), I came across the strangest conversion chart I’d ever seen next to the gym scale—one which converted kilograms to stones. Quick math: multiply kg by 2.2 (get lbs) and divide by 14—you get stones. It’s madness! Nobody even knows what they way in pounds, but stones, no problem. I spoke with a chap later that evening who told me that currency used to be the same way—all sorts of odd conversions. J.K. Rowling you are sooooo original (more on that later).

Or how ‘bout more on that now? Since I’ve been in Oxford for a few days, it’s inevitable I’d stumble upon the Great Hall, and now that I have an Oxford Student Card I can go pretty much anywhere—which takes some getting used to. Alas, two days ago a good friend of mine, Peter (from Carleton College) and myself wandered through town and down to Christ Church College, walked right onto the main quad, and checked out both their cathedral (pic 5 below) and hall (pic 6 below). I'll have to go to a service soon—just being in the building feels holy—and yes, the portraits in the hall do talk to each other. As for life at St. Catz, it’s also a bit Harry Potter-eqsue, as each night at late dinner all the tutors sit at the high table and the Master says grace in Latin before we all eat. Well, almost every night. One night they never showed and so midway through dinner a student ran up to the high table, screamed grace to the hall, and hit the gavel that the Master uses to start each meal, generating laughter and muted applause among the rows of tables. All in good fun.


As for classes, I’ve had one meeting so far with my secondary tutor, and it was certainly interesting. The course I’m reading is titled “Existential phenomenology as it applies to current issues” (very L.A.—liberal arts—I know), and we’re getting together every other week at Trinity College, a beautiful spot right on Broad Street in the center of town (my walk to the tutorial, pic 7 below). To get there, I must meet at the Porter’s Lodge to open the gate, and when I told them where I was going they gave me directions in a way I had never gotten before. Indeed, after sketching out on the College map where I was to go (through certain gates with codes for each keypad), the Porter then showed me their black-and-white security camera of the back alley where my tutor’s flat was and directed me to walk past all the parked cars (BMWs, Audis, Mercedes) and ring on the lefthand door. So Bond-esque. I was off.


Now, I’ve heard that the organization of one’s study correlates to the layout of one’s mind, and after meeting my tutor (picture Henry Kissinger) and entering his office, it hit me—here was the most quintessential absent-minded professor I’ve ever had. His office? A mess. Books everywhere—falling off the shelves, in enormous disorderly stacks on slanted tables, some in several pieces just lying on the floor. Still, I think it’ll be good—even if simply due to the fact that he wrote some of the works on my wide-open 300-book reading list. Library, here I come.

All in all, it’s still magical to be here, and I hope it doesn’t rub off. I already have a favorite sandwich shop right near St. Catz’s campus (pic 8 below) and the scenes of Oxford in the snow are pretty cool.

Ah yes, the snow. You see, they don’t plow here (or “grit the roads” that much, or even shovel the sidewalks) and thus walking everywhere is somewhat sloppy at the moment, with people sliding in all directions. When I arrived in London the major news story was the snow, as the country essentially shuts down (even the Tube stops running) when the white stuff falls. But now for that Yeats quote (and thus the reasoning behind my blog title):

“I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all like an opera.”

So cheers all, and here’s to starting some actual work (although I hope to still dream and remember at the same time).

Nick

More photos (counterclockwise, Radcliffe Camera, Trinity College, and some random graduate of ChristChurch who has a painting of himself in the hall):