Brits and Americans

The American take on being British: sport a fascinator and a well-dressed butler.

The British take on being American: sport denim, carry a baseball, and wave the American flag.

The gargoyle from my window. . .

This lil guy has been giving me an ugly look all summer. Maybe Dad was right when he said, "your face will freeze that way."

The Accidental - Time & Space

My anthem for the summer....

August 1st

"I wonder anyone does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking." - William Butler Yeats

Blenheim Palace

Blenheim from afar

Inner Blenheim Palace

The Water Terraces

Italian Gardens

Our picnic overlooking the Palace

A few days ago, my dad and I spent the day at Blenheim Palace. Blenheim is located in Woodstock, just a short bus ride away from Oxford. The home of the 11th Duke of Marlborough, Blenheim is a privately owned palace. It was originally a gift from Queen Anne to John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough. And yes, this is also where Winston Churchill was born. It's quite a place!

Blenheim Palace has many spectacular grounds and gardens, and we spent the day exploring them. My favorite was the Rose Garden, as it smelled absolutely heavenly. However, due to the extent and size of this estate there are so many areas we had to leave unexplored. I hope to return soon!

Recent shots around Oxford

Woodstock (and my Dad who's visiting!) I ask myself this question all the time.

Christ Church, Oxford

Oxford

Bridge of Sighs, Oxford

Most likely....

(probably) the best coffee in town!

Englishitarianism

Deep-fried Mars bar

Meat pie with chips and boiled vegetables Roasted lamb with potatoes Steak, mushroom and ale pie with potatoes and boiled vegetables

"A vegetarian is not a person who lives on vegetables any more than a Catholic is one who lives on cats." - George Bernard Shaw

It is evident from this quotation that George Bernard Shaw spent some time living in England. In England, a vegetarian does not live on vegetables. A vegetarian either starves to death or lives off bread alone. Or sucks it up and eats a steak and ale pie.

When I decided that I would spend my summer in England, I was aware of the reputation of English food as being, well, awful. I knew that the food was heavy and either fried or smothered in gravy (or both). As a result, I resolved to go back to my vegetarian days whilst (yes, in England whilst is perfectly acceptable) at Oxford. I imagined myself living a healthier lifestyle and coming back to the States as my more "natural" size extra small (you laugh??).

My friend Eve warned me against this saying, "JK, it's an island. There are no vegetables. You'll starve to death." I assumed that Eve simply didn't have the "wherewithal" to find the vegetables in the UK. She assumed that I probably wouldn't be returning from England as she did indeed know that vegetables don't exist here. And so we said our goodbyes. She could have at least made a pretense of shedding a few tears as she sent me off to my bleak future as a vegetarian in England.

When I arrived here, my first task was to sign up for my meal plan. The options were vegetarian, fish and fowl, or meat. I'd spent an hour in England at this point. My resolve was strong. I would choose vegetarian. I would show Eve. Brad, who was here for the first few days, urged me to be strong and choose the vegetarian meal plan. (I now have suspicions about his recent inquiries into my life insurance plan.) I marched into the Bread Loaf office and declared,

"Vegetarian, please!"

I wasn't prepared for Mary, our administrator. She shot my decision down with a very detectable grimace. "Oh no, don't be a vegetarian here!" She insisted, "you'll starve to death!"

I felt my resolve slipping away. I saw her grimace, and raised her a very weak "Okay, fish and fowl?"

Mary shook her head with a strong look of reproval. "No, no, do the meat plan. It's quite good. You don't want to be stuck with a plate of fish while (didn't she mean whilst?) the rest of us are enjoying rump of lamb."

I looked to Brad for help. Nothing. If you need someone to go into battle with you, let me save you some trouble: do not bring Brad. He said, "it's up to you, sweetie. Do you think your tummy can handle it?"

I contemplated my tummy. I gave it more credit than it deserved (Wretched, traitorous organ!). I didn't want to starve to death. I didn't want to be stuck with a plate of fish whilst (while??) my fellow Bread Loafers dined on the finest rump of lamb. I really didn't want Mary to grimace at me over every meal we shared together. I wanted. . . "Meat!" I declared.

Thus, I sealed my fate.

Here I am, over a month later, with an extra layer of potatoeyness that no longer allows me to wear the summer dresses I had brought (another amateur move: One does not wear summer dresses in England. It's bloody cold here). I've eaten countless meals consisting of meat drenched in gravy or fried, or, alas, both. I've eaten so many potatoes I have become a potato. I'm hoping that I won't also begin to resemble my meat and become a meathead. But, I have survived. I have been no more a vegetarian than Cathy is a Catholic. I will return to Eve and Brad again. . . with or without their help.

Oxford Morning

photo credit: frozentako.wordpress.com

The dawning day drops.

Fall into sleep

to dodge the drop

drop dropping of the day.

It's not the pattering,

but the dropping downing

the flightly falling of the few, that

was the drowner of the dew.

The dew that glistened in the sun

is in the rain now overrun.

But- rise and listen, vision glisten-

as the day drop

dropping

falls to a pit pat

pattering

soon stop stop

stoppered by the sun.

Preteen Potter Mania, or How I Managed to Stay Awake for an Entire Movie

As many of you know, I'm not one who frequents movie theaters. In fact, the last time I was in a movie theater was the summer of 2005. Yep, six years ago. Brad and I saw Wedding Crashers. It was one of the very rare times that I did not sleep through the entire movie.

I'm not sure why, but I've always had trouble not sleeping through movies. It's due to this that I decided to stop paying $10 for a really good nap. I've always appreciated the sleep that comes with every movie I watch, but it seems a little silly to pay to drool on the shoulder of the lucky stranger next to me. These narcoleptic fits don't just strike me at the theater though, as Brad can attest there have been many a night that I've insisted we watch the latest period film only to wake up at the closing credits. In fact, I've even insisted that we watch the same film twice. This was the case with Elizabeth. I slept through it twice; Brad endured it twice. Now you understand why I rarely pay to go to the movies.

Today, however, was an exception. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows opened today, and when in Oxford. . . A group of Bread Loafers purchased tickets and allowed ourselves to get swept up in Harry mania. If only we'd understood what that meant. We found ourselves surrounded by costumed, screaming preteen girls. Racking sobbing and exuberant cheering filled the air at each turn and twist of the movie. When Daniel Radcliffe took off his shirt, the heat in the theater rose (and not just because, apparently, British movie theaters feel a need to maintain a sultry temperature of at least 30 degrees Celsius). It was quite an experience. I thought I'd have to call a medic for the two girls next to me. Needless to say, it was very exciting. For them. I personally think Hairy Potter could have afforded to get a bit of man-wax before taking off his shirt.

It was due to all of this preteen excitement that my narcolepsy didn't kick in. In fact, despite the excessive heat and the talking girls next to me, the whole movie going experience was fun. I'm thinking that I'll try it again sometime. Maybe I'll try a Bieber movie.

Perambulatory Peace

I've managed to settle into a bit of a routine after being here for over a week. My absolute favorite part of my day is my walk through either University Park or Christ Church Meadows. While Oxford is a city, it also boasts many beautiful walking paths that wind along the rivers or through the English countryside. Above, I've posted some of the photos I've taken during my daily walks. These walks have certainly inspired some new poetry. Once I have these poems worked out I'll post them as well.

Through the Looking Glass...

The real "Mad Hatter's" house

Beginning the Alice in Wonderland tour

The River Thames

A reading of "Jabberwocky" in the Botanical Gardens

'Twas brillig and the slithy toves

Did gyre and and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogroves,

and the mome raths outgrabe.

- From "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll

Today twas brillig. Oxford celebrated Alice's Day, a day commemorating Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. As I mentioned in my earlier post, Oxford is a city filled with history, particularly literary history. And so, today I took a walk along the Thames and the River Cherwell retracing the steps Lewis Carroll and Alice Little took as Carroll created a story to keep the young Alice occupied. Even 150 odd years later, the magic of Alice's world shimmers atop the glossy surface of the river. As I walked through Christ Church meadows and listened as our guide described the many walks and boat rides Carroll and Alice took, the otherworldly quality of the land struck me. White swans elegantly floated through the water as the trees bowed over the river, reflecting various shades of speckled green. Arched bridges stretched over the water. Through a trick of reflection, it appeared that just below the surface of the water bridges arched in the opposite direction, offering a route to the world through the looking glass.

It's days like today that are refreshing in that they allow adults to sport bunny ears and pretend to sip tea out of empty tea cups. Days like today allow us to imagine that another world exists in which words don't always need to make sense and the flowers can rise up and dance. I appreciate this as sometimes the adult world can just get so heavy. While I don't wish to regress to childhood, it would be nice to still live in a world of childhood. A world that never ceases to amaze and that offers endless opportunities for an imaginative experience of daily life. A world that makes sense in all of its nonsense. A world that allows us to wander confusedly through all of the madness and eventually find our home again.

To end today's blog, I'll leave you with some notable quotes from Alice in Wonderland.

Alice: I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!

Alice: I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, Sir, because I'm not myself you see.

Cheshire Cat: We're all mad here.

The Duchess: Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.

Alice: Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if only I knew how to begin.

Good Vibrations

Oxford. I have been struggling to find the right words to explain my experience at Oxford thus far. It is a place of magic, of history, and of beauty. Mostly though, I've found it to be a place of inspiration. As I walk the streets and stumble upon the same paths once taken by Tolkien, W.H. Auden or Lewis Caroll (among many others) I feel a sense of the history of this place vibrating around me. As Luke Gibbons states in "'Where Wolfe Tone's state was not': Joyce, monuments and memory", William Benjamin said it best in the Flaneur section of his Arcades project when he wrote:

The most heterogeneous temporal elements thus coexist in the city. If we step from an

eighteenth-century house into one from the sixteenth century, we tumble down the slope of

time. Right next door stands a Gothic church, and we sink to the depths. . . Whoever sets foot

in a city feels caught up as in a web of dreams, where the most remote past is linked to the

events of today. . . Things which find no expression in political events, or find only minimal

expression unfold in the cities: they are a superfine instrument, responsive as an Acolian

harp- despite their specific gravity- to the living historic vibrations of the air.

As a native New Yorker, I have not had much interaction with buildings and places of such history. When I was a child, I thought that my grandparents' house on Burton Street in Bath, NY was about as old as it could get as my father had grown up there. Which is why, as an American walking the streets of Oxford, I find everything around me inconceivable in its age, beauty and history. I find myself straining to hear the vibrations that echo from each building, stone, or tree. I feel inspired.