Every once in a while, I pause and consider, “I wonder how I sound to the Brits?” Sometimes I get very self-conscious and overly aware of the “shwa” that we’re famous for. I close my eyes and listen to the British and their various accents, and there is a certain cadence to their respective regions, and certain characteristics. Not too long ago, I had to record my cell phone message and when I heard the playback, I sounded embarrassingly “English” (I say “embarrassingly” because I have no business emulating others’ dictions). I immediately erased the message and put forth a concerted effort to reestablish my “Americanness,” enunciating and denunciating exactly where necessary.
I remember a long time ago, some people I knew compared French and German. They said that if someone insulted you in French and you’d thank them, whereas, a German might be saying, “I love you,” wherein you’d have a visceral urge to punch that person. I like to watch my host family watching our American television programs, and commenting on how they just can’t understand some of our English. I imagine we sound like we’re chewing when we’re talking, or that we’re quite loud. On the flip side, I seem to be absorbing the European English quite well, despite the occasional confused word that creeps into conversations, more of which I will write about in an entry all by itself.
I wonder if people look at me and give no thought to my presence, but when I speak, they are immediately drawn to misunderstand me, or as I think Bush said, “misunderestimate” me. Is the sound of my Amercanese off-putting or “lesser than” to the British or European ear? I am originally not from America so I hear things a little differently, despite my sameness. In Japan, Americanese sounds almost funny if you don’t speak the language (which I didn’t have a keen grasp of when I was a child). Yet, I had a general understanding of English because of my American father. Japanese call non-Japanese people “gaijin,” which means, “foreigner.” They shyly giggle at foreigners’ (especially Americans’) attempts to speak their language. Americans, on the other hand make fun of others’ languages in a way that almost puts any given ethnic group down.
So if the theory of “what goes around comes around” is true, then it is logical that I get some of that disdain back – “karma by proxy,” if you will. I don’t like to make fun of others’ languages because I was at the receiving end of learning “English” once upon a time; but in a shared system, I represent my country and embody any preconceived notions one may have to project. We, as a nation, have left a bad taste on the global arena as well, so it makes sense that we will need to be patient and hope that the image we leave behind is not so distasteful. On that note, President Obama is in London and I feel relieved that it’s him there, and not Bush. Everyone I’ve met here who I’ve had the occasion to discuss President Obama is really enthusiastic and upbeat about our new president. His Americanese passes muster, and my place in this universe has been vindicated. After eight years of hearing Bushese and Bushisms, I have to say it’s music to my ears.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Is There a Doctor in the House?
Yesterday, I had to go to the doctor’s to get my medications refilled. I’ve heard so much negativity about socialized medicine in the United States, and how it would be the ultimate end-all to civilization as we Americans knew it if we switched over to something like “what England has.” I’m going to rain on somebody’s parade because it was an eye-opening experience in the positive, with respect to my less than enthusiastic experiences with doctors, clinics, hospitals and the lot in the United States.
Steve, one of my homestay hosts took me to the East Oxford Health Center on Cowley Road at around noon. I was nervous because I’d imagined I’d be weeding my way through an enormous bureaucracy that would have me waiting for days, if not weeks for appointments. I had nightmarish visions of being without my medications and having to plead my case to some kind of panel or board. I thought I might be treated rudely because I was an American. All my thoughts and fears were unfounded. The Jenners complex is a modern structure housing three (clean) clinics and I had to go to the clinic that Jennifer, my other homestay host goes to. At 12:30 p.m., I received an appointment card for a 5:15 p.m. appointment, later that afternoon. I had to fill out a very brief information sheet, and that was that.
I arrived a little early for my appointment because I thought I might have to fill out more paperwork (in America, the paperwork is notoriously lengthy). However, the clerk told me that all I needed to do was to have a seat, and look for my name to appear on the screen at the front of the room. At 4:45, I was called into Room 8 down the hall, behind the closed door. Actually, I heard a beep from where the screen was, and saw my name and the room number flashing. How utterly efficient! I’m used to waiting for anything that is healthcare-related in the United States, so I figured I’d be put into a room and be tasked to do just that. When I arrived at Room 8, the doctor – Dr. Thompson – was already there.
Dr. Thompson questioned me with respect to the particular medications I needed, and I gave him the background information, while he entered everything into the computer. No notes to be transcribed, no huge stacks and files to put away. He typed in my information and was very understanding of my medical needs, and when he was uncertain about something, he went down the hall to consult with another doctor. He talked to me and made eye contact, and we conversed briefly. After about 20 minutes, the visit was over, and Dr. Thompson brought me electronically printed prescriptions and told me to make an appointment in two weeks.
I went back out, got in a short line, and paid £37 for the doctor’s visit. The clerk was most helpful and also very kind. She booked my next appointment and instructed me to take the prescriptions to the pharmacy, which was just across the clinic’s walkway. The prescriptions took about 15 minutes to fill because there were a few people before me. It was nothing like I’d ever seen before. Behind a glass panel are stacks and stacks of different medications (like 1½ stories’ worth), and on the side was a chute from which the medications were dropped down electronically. I think there were people working behind the very tall display. I paid £24 for four medications, three of which I have to go back to see the doctor for. The fourth one was just an inhaler.
Steve told me that if a person is unable to get to the clinic to see a doctor – such as with a severe virus where it’s impossible to go out, the doctors will make house calls. Of course, there’s a fee, but it is not exorbitant. This is what I believe healthcare is and can be in the United States if we stopped worrying about the possibility that if we allow people who can’t afford expensive doctors and insurance, they’ll mooch off the system and have no motivation to work or contribute to society. There are always those who will take and not give back, but I contend that most decent people want to make something of their lives and more simply, want to live. People have pride and aspirations and to discredit the human spirit as being incapable of receiving without giving is criminal, considering the number of illnesses that have to go unattended, and deaths that occur as a result of the lack of good and egalitarian healthcare privileges in the richest nation in the world. Taxation without representation may be criminal, but taxation with life in mind is far better than the mechanism we have in place now that takes more money out of our pockets than if we’d paid nearly half of our wages into systems that worked.
I’m sure there is a side of socialized medicine that I have yet to explore, because there are people who complain about the healthcare system here. Certain expenses are going up in the UK due to pharmaceutical strongholds, and people no longer have automatic dental care which has gone the way of the private sector. So I’ll try to put together a more well-rounded synopsis of healthcare in the UK (I have plenty of information and experience about healthcare in the United States). There are two sides to any coin, and I’ve presented the more Polyannaish side to the UK healthcare system. At least there is something by which I can measure the United States’ healthcare system, and then work the rest of my life to craft a hybrid of the two systems from that exceeds everybody’s expectations. This, alongside reforming our mental health system, is my cause. If I’m not busy doing that, I’ll teach. For now, I’m not really insured, and I don’t go to doctors because I dislike them – at my peril. The doctor I do go to costs me over $100 per visit, and I can’t afford some of the medications I take, so samples keep me supplied for the time-being, probably until I am sufficiently addicted to whatever drug I need but will not be able to afford… Who gave the pharmaceutical companies so much power in the first place? And here I thought we were conducting a war on drugs in the United States…
Steve, one of my homestay hosts took me to the East Oxford Health Center on Cowley Road at around noon. I was nervous because I’d imagined I’d be weeding my way through an enormous bureaucracy that would have me waiting for days, if not weeks for appointments. I had nightmarish visions of being without my medications and having to plead my case to some kind of panel or board. I thought I might be treated rudely because I was an American. All my thoughts and fears were unfounded. The Jenners complex is a modern structure housing three (clean) clinics and I had to go to the clinic that Jennifer, my other homestay host goes to. At 12:30 p.m., I received an appointment card for a 5:15 p.m. appointment, later that afternoon. I had to fill out a very brief information sheet, and that was that.
I arrived a little early for my appointment because I thought I might have to fill out more paperwork (in America, the paperwork is notoriously lengthy). However, the clerk told me that all I needed to do was to have a seat, and look for my name to appear on the screen at the front of the room. At 4:45, I was called into Room 8 down the hall, behind the closed door. Actually, I heard a beep from where the screen was, and saw my name and the room number flashing. How utterly efficient! I’m used to waiting for anything that is healthcare-related in the United States, so I figured I’d be put into a room and be tasked to do just that. When I arrived at Room 8, the doctor – Dr. Thompson – was already there.
Dr. Thompson questioned me with respect to the particular medications I needed, and I gave him the background information, while he entered everything into the computer. No notes to be transcribed, no huge stacks and files to put away. He typed in my information and was very understanding of my medical needs, and when he was uncertain about something, he went down the hall to consult with another doctor. He talked to me and made eye contact, and we conversed briefly. After about 20 minutes, the visit was over, and Dr. Thompson brought me electronically printed prescriptions and told me to make an appointment in two weeks.
I went back out, got in a short line, and paid £37 for the doctor’s visit. The clerk was most helpful and also very kind. She booked my next appointment and instructed me to take the prescriptions to the pharmacy, which was just across the clinic’s walkway. The prescriptions took about 15 minutes to fill because there were a few people before me. It was nothing like I’d ever seen before. Behind a glass panel are stacks and stacks of different medications (like 1½ stories’ worth), and on the side was a chute from which the medications were dropped down electronically. I think there were people working behind the very tall display. I paid £24 for four medications, three of which I have to go back to see the doctor for. The fourth one was just an inhaler.
Steve told me that if a person is unable to get to the clinic to see a doctor – such as with a severe virus where it’s impossible to go out, the doctors will make house calls. Of course, there’s a fee, but it is not exorbitant. This is what I believe healthcare is and can be in the United States if we stopped worrying about the possibility that if we allow people who can’t afford expensive doctors and insurance, they’ll mooch off the system and have no motivation to work or contribute to society. There are always those who will take and not give back, but I contend that most decent people want to make something of their lives and more simply, want to live. People have pride and aspirations and to discredit the human spirit as being incapable of receiving without giving is criminal, considering the number of illnesses that have to go unattended, and deaths that occur as a result of the lack of good and egalitarian healthcare privileges in the richest nation in the world. Taxation without representation may be criminal, but taxation with life in mind is far better than the mechanism we have in place now that takes more money out of our pockets than if we’d paid nearly half of our wages into systems that worked.
I’m sure there is a side of socialized medicine that I have yet to explore, because there are people who complain about the healthcare system here. Certain expenses are going up in the UK due to pharmaceutical strongholds, and people no longer have automatic dental care which has gone the way of the private sector. So I’ll try to put together a more well-rounded synopsis of healthcare in the UK (I have plenty of information and experience about healthcare in the United States). There are two sides to any coin, and I’ve presented the more Polyannaish side to the UK healthcare system. At least there is something by which I can measure the United States’ healthcare system, and then work the rest of my life to craft a hybrid of the two systems from that exceeds everybody’s expectations. This, alongside reforming our mental health system, is my cause. If I’m not busy doing that, I’ll teach. For now, I’m not really insured, and I don’t go to doctors because I dislike them – at my peril. The doctor I do go to costs me over $100 per visit, and I can’t afford some of the medications I take, so samples keep me supplied for the time-being, probably until I am sufficiently addicted to whatever drug I need but will not be able to afford… Who gave the pharmaceutical companies so much power in the first place? And here I thought we were conducting a war on drugs in the United States…
Sunday, 29 March 2009
Take a Deep Breath… 28 March 2009
Every day, wherever I am here, in the UK, I have to remind myself that I am not dreaming. I don’t mean to sound corny about it, but there is so much richness and history here, and the architecture is beautiful on a grand scale. Whether I’m walking to school, or meandering on an off day, I’m constantly reminded of this very different world – as if to be in an acute state of dreaming while awake. I am hyperaware of my surroundings, and when I am not, this surreal reality whips back at me and my senses are deluged by this new reality at any given moment. The sights – of the respective areas and of the variety of people, the sounds of different languages, the different smells – breads baking, coffee roasting, fried and ethnic foods coalescing, and the feeling of cool air upon me as I warm up during a brisk walk…
Yesterday, I went to London with Professor Branzburg. I had missed the first tour because I got sick during the first week, but I made up for it in spades. Every corner I turned, I saw a new picture – a photograph I had to take. We take so much for granted – media gives us a sense of “being there,” but when we’re actually in the picture we see on the television or silver screen, the experience is breath-taking. I had to occasionally take a deep breath and orient myself to the experience of seeing firsthand the scenery of London.
One of my goals I’ve kept since the beginning of my Oxford stay was to take a picture of every Starbucks that I encountered. Even though there are Starbucks here, and while many of the features are the same as the American stores, there is an infusion of something “different” within – whether it that reflects the more relaxed coffee culture here or the way the interior is designed. For instance, as I mentioned in a previous entry, from the outside, things often look fairly “status quo.” However, upon walking in, one of the Starbucks I looked into was incredibly spacious. Another one, which will appear in my follow up pieces, was quite quaint. Upon looking in I saw several people reading newspapers, facing the outside along a table along the window front. Finally, in an upscale London area, one of the Starbucks was decorated with rich black and gold wood frames. Each one has its own personality.
We walked for four hours straight before we took a break, and I was exhausted, but nevertheless wanting to take in more. I realized at dinner that I needed to travel to London alone and take in the view incrementally – piece by piece on different days, and allow myself absorb – as if by osmosis – this brave new world I am in. After walking, Professor Branzburg and I decided it was time to sit down and have a bite. I was very insistent on going to a pub, or at least an English restaurant; we were in London after all. My other goal is to experience at least one new pub a week, if not two. The beer is really good – the alcohol content is higher as a rule, and not all beers are chilled. Many of the pubs have their own “select” beer(s).
Yesterday, I went to London with Professor Branzburg. I had missed the first tour because I got sick during the first week, but I made up for it in spades. Every corner I turned, I saw a new picture – a photograph I had to take. We take so much for granted – media gives us a sense of “being there,” but when we’re actually in the picture we see on the television or silver screen, the experience is breath-taking. I had to occasionally take a deep breath and orient myself to the experience of seeing firsthand the scenery of London.
One of my goals I’ve kept since the beginning of my Oxford stay was to take a picture of every Starbucks that I encountered. Even though there are Starbucks here, and while many of the features are the same as the American stores, there is an infusion of something “different” within – whether it that reflects the more relaxed coffee culture here or the way the interior is designed. For instance, as I mentioned in a previous entry, from the outside, things often look fairly “status quo.” However, upon walking in, one of the Starbucks I looked into was incredibly spacious. Another one, which will appear in my follow up pieces, was quite quaint. Upon looking in I saw several people reading newspapers, facing the outside along a table along the window front. Finally, in an upscale London area, one of the Starbucks was decorated with rich black and gold wood frames. Each one has its own personality.
We walked for four hours straight before we took a break, and I was exhausted, but nevertheless wanting to take in more. I realized at dinner that I needed to travel to London alone and take in the view incrementally – piece by piece on different days, and allow myself absorb – as if by osmosis – this brave new world I am in. After walking, Professor Branzburg and I decided it was time to sit down and have a bite. I was very insistent on going to a pub, or at least an English restaurant; we were in London after all. My other goal is to experience at least one new pub a week, if not two. The beer is really good – the alcohol content is higher as a rule, and not all beers are chilled. Many of the pubs have their own “select” beer(s).
Wednesday, 18 March 2009
Tests and School Dominate the Week
First and foremost (which some may argue the priority of the matter), being here in Oxford, for all its adventure, is still an academic program and it's easy to lose perspective and just want to do everything possible as soon as possible. The reality is that there are two tests this week, an oral report next week, and tons of reading to do between this and the next week. School life does go on... Yes, school’s underway in a real way now, and the tests have asymptotically rushed downward to certain inevitabilities. I am really glad to have done most of my fiction reading over the winter break because I would have really been bogged down had I not. Professor Hanvey was absolutely correct in advising me to do so. There is nothing to be done about the Sociology and Psychology classes because the reading has to be done during and up to each test since it is "informationally-based."
I do have to say that one downside to having read the fiction early on was that I couldn’t remember the full range of characters in the various books – who did what to whom, who acted with which motive, etc. I’ll have to re-read them loosely to firm up my memory of the books. I’m still trying to get through the Dorothy Sayers book, Gaudy Night which will probably take up my spring break. That’s okay – it’s fictional. Other than that, I have two unread fictional pieces: Clutch of Constable, and Death and the Kings Horsemen. The latter is a difficult play for me to get into but ties in with the other plays in that there is a theme of the consequences of colonization and the price of the Victorian norms for a period in time, through to today. I think that I ran out of steam towards the end of planning prior to coming here, and now that I am settled, it is nice to read with severe intent.
I went to a nearby coffee shop and read my Psychology 33 texts on the stages of life, self-actualization, the various perspectives of psychology and development, and so on. It is useful to ponder on whether or not I have either defied or deferred any of the stages of my own development, of which I am certain I have done both. Still, I’m generally on-track with at least certain aspects of living, which is okay. I also delved back into Aphra Behn’s The Rover to remind myself of the plot, etc. Honestly, some of the coffee shops are so spacious and comfortable – I wish we had places like these for the students to study. I suppose that will occur once I’ve transferred somewhere…
I also stopped by a local grocery store, Tesco, which, from what I’ve heard so far is a fairly large grocery chain. It is not on the creepy-large scale of Walmart, but they have many locations throughout the U.K. The stores are fairly large, but compared to traditional American supermarkets, they’re smaller, and the packaging is smaller. For example, the standard carton of eggs contains six eggs, with some “larger sizes” of 12 eggs. Milk comes in smaller portions as well. Cookies come in rolls, and everything is more economically sized, probably for the smaller living quarters in the U.K. We do live in very large houses/apartments in America, respective to the quarters here, which I have no problems with because of my experiences growing up in Japan. Smaller, for me, is better in this regard. I’ve started to become aware of where my things are, and what I don’t need because space gets filled up quickly.
I’m really getting along well with my homestay family – Jennifer and Steve. They have been very generous and informative, and there are many things to talk about and compare notes on with respect to our similarities and differences. I try to capture as much as I can about the culture and mannerisms from her and Steve. There are many small differences (namely words) that sometimes catch me off-guard. For example, the word “tank top” for Americans is a sleeveless, narrow-shouldered, low-necked t-shirt type garment, whereas, here, it is called a “vest top.” A “tank top” in the British lexicon is a knit garment, like a pull-over sleeveless sweater. Further, what we call a "vest" (the kind of buttoned down sweater or sleeveless jacket, is called a "waist coast" in England. I’m going to start keeping a catalogue of these small variations on words, and display my “research” in small doses as I learn.
Peace.
P.S., aced the first test Tuesday and Wednesday (mini-woohoo).
I do have to say that one downside to having read the fiction early on was that I couldn’t remember the full range of characters in the various books – who did what to whom, who acted with which motive, etc. I’ll have to re-read them loosely to firm up my memory of the books. I’m still trying to get through the Dorothy Sayers book, Gaudy Night which will probably take up my spring break. That’s okay – it’s fictional. Other than that, I have two unread fictional pieces: Clutch of Constable, and Death and the Kings Horsemen. The latter is a difficult play for me to get into but ties in with the other plays in that there is a theme of the consequences of colonization and the price of the Victorian norms for a period in time, through to today. I think that I ran out of steam towards the end of planning prior to coming here, and now that I am settled, it is nice to read with severe intent.
I went to a nearby coffee shop and read my Psychology 33 texts on the stages of life, self-actualization, the various perspectives of psychology and development, and so on. It is useful to ponder on whether or not I have either defied or deferred any of the stages of my own development, of which I am certain I have done both. Still, I’m generally on-track with at least certain aspects of living, which is okay. I also delved back into Aphra Behn’s The Rover to remind myself of the plot, etc. Honestly, some of the coffee shops are so spacious and comfortable – I wish we had places like these for the students to study. I suppose that will occur once I’ve transferred somewhere…
I also stopped by a local grocery store, Tesco, which, from what I’ve heard so far is a fairly large grocery chain. It is not on the creepy-large scale of Walmart, but they have many locations throughout the U.K. The stores are fairly large, but compared to traditional American supermarkets, they’re smaller, and the packaging is smaller. For example, the standard carton of eggs contains six eggs, with some “larger sizes” of 12 eggs. Milk comes in smaller portions as well. Cookies come in rolls, and everything is more economically sized, probably for the smaller living quarters in the U.K. We do live in very large houses/apartments in America, respective to the quarters here, which I have no problems with because of my experiences growing up in Japan. Smaller, for me, is better in this regard. I’ve started to become aware of where my things are, and what I don’t need because space gets filled up quickly.
I’m really getting along well with my homestay family – Jennifer and Steve. They have been very generous and informative, and there are many things to talk about and compare notes on with respect to our similarities and differences. I try to capture as much as I can about the culture and mannerisms from her and Steve. There are many small differences (namely words) that sometimes catch me off-guard. For example, the word “tank top” for Americans is a sleeveless, narrow-shouldered, low-necked t-shirt type garment, whereas, here, it is called a “vest top.” A “tank top” in the British lexicon is a knit garment, like a pull-over sleeveless sweater. Further, what we call a "vest" (the kind of buttoned down sweater or sleeveless jacket, is called a "waist coast" in England. I’m going to start keeping a catalogue of these small variations on words, and display my “research” in small doses as I learn.
Peace.
P.S., aced the first test Tuesday and Wednesday (mini-woohoo).
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Stop, Do Not Go Any Further!
Friday, 13 March 2009
I had been going non-stop all week and had been walking just as much – considering I am still the same Los Angelean who, just one week ago (give or take a few hours), relied on driving to get anywhere and everywhere. So, I heeded my body’s protest this morning and decided that it was more important for the long-haul for me to be as strong as possible, rather than ignore the signs and go to London. During a “free” weekend in the near future, I will sojourn to London on my own and try to recount the steps of my class today.
I felt the same way on Wednesday; however, I was able to override it to attend class. This morning was different; it was not a “YIELD” sign; it was a “STOP, DO NOT GO ANY FURTHER” sign. I think I am undergoing a delayed jet lag. I have a pretty strong mind, and generally, I abide by the mind-over-matter rule to get me through life, but I woke up with a slight fever, complete exhaustion, and a feeling that my body wouldn’t get me through the day. While I could not miss class on Wednesday, the field trip unfortunately had to be sacrificed. It is too bad because I really enjoyed our tour guide, Brian. I had a million questions for him, but lucky for him, I was nowhere to be found.
I allowed my body to do its mandatory catching up and as a result, I slept until 2:30 p.m. It was so devastating to have missed the field trip. While I take pride in not being a morning person, I certainly take even more pride in being present and punctual. Sometimes the body has to win though… Just like Professor Miller says: the mind and body are one and both needed to be treated with respect. Honestly, I scare myself sometimes with the things I remember. She called me this afternoon and told me that they had been walking senselessly up and down hundreds of stairs and all over the place, and wished me well. I will go on my own.
Last night, in the spirit of Oxford academia, Professor Branzburg, Joe, and I went to Blackwell Bookstore to sit in on a lecture. The speaker’s name was Tariq Ramadan, and he spoke passionately about the past, present, and future of Islam, as well as the Muslim condition that exists in the 21st century. He made so much sense, and I could see the parallels between some their trajectories and that of some of the fundamental Christians who have narrowed their view of the world into “us and them” terms. He is no longer allowed into several countries, including Saudi Arabia because of his controversial views, even though on a personal level, he elicits positive responses from those on high in those very countries. I had never concretely realized that Islam is the state, and that there is no separation between church and state. It was a lot to absorb, and I took profuse notes which were mostly universal morsels of wisdom for all of humanity and not just one targeted group.
We went to a small Parisian coffee shop afterwards for pastries and talked about the lecture, incorporating into it this morning’s lecture on Othello. Three views arose out of our coffee shop rendezvous. First, it is impossible and too idealistic to believe that freedom would result in unity – instead, it would result in chaos, or a lackadaisical response. No one would be able to agree on anything, and it would result in complete mayhem within their organization. Another view was more diplomatic – it was that religion is not really where the answers exist, but that we are responsible for our actions towards a better future and understanding of the life. I waffled somewhere in the middle trying to piece all the information together and knit the various logics being passed back and forth. Had I been less tired, I might have forthright in addressing the “but” bubbling to the surface within me in response to the other two. My third relatively unexpressed view I had was that what Mr. Ramadan proposes is far deeper that his ideas suggest, and it will require a great deal commitment to face down some serious problems that exist; it will not happen in a vacuum. It demands that risks be taken and that we, as a human race, must never stop trying to become a functional community on the global arena, as well as in our local places of residence. Change is here to stay, and one can get caught up in trying to keep old things new, or one can move forward and adjust to it in the context within which one exists. Both are valuable sides of a single coin, and must be reconciled in order for the larger mass to thrive.
Peace.
I had been going non-stop all week and had been walking just as much – considering I am still the same Los Angelean who, just one week ago (give or take a few hours), relied on driving to get anywhere and everywhere. So, I heeded my body’s protest this morning and decided that it was more important for the long-haul for me to be as strong as possible, rather than ignore the signs and go to London. During a “free” weekend in the near future, I will sojourn to London on my own and try to recount the steps of my class today.
I felt the same way on Wednesday; however, I was able to override it to attend class. This morning was different; it was not a “YIELD” sign; it was a “STOP, DO NOT GO ANY FURTHER” sign. I think I am undergoing a delayed jet lag. I have a pretty strong mind, and generally, I abide by the mind-over-matter rule to get me through life, but I woke up with a slight fever, complete exhaustion, and a feeling that my body wouldn’t get me through the day. While I could not miss class on Wednesday, the field trip unfortunately had to be sacrificed. It is too bad because I really enjoyed our tour guide, Brian. I had a million questions for him, but lucky for him, I was nowhere to be found.
I allowed my body to do its mandatory catching up and as a result, I slept until 2:30 p.m. It was so devastating to have missed the field trip. While I take pride in not being a morning person, I certainly take even more pride in being present and punctual. Sometimes the body has to win though… Just like Professor Miller says: the mind and body are one and both needed to be treated with respect. Honestly, I scare myself sometimes with the things I remember. She called me this afternoon and told me that they had been walking senselessly up and down hundreds of stairs and all over the place, and wished me well. I will go on my own.
Last night, in the spirit of Oxford academia, Professor Branzburg, Joe, and I went to Blackwell Bookstore to sit in on a lecture. The speaker’s name was Tariq Ramadan, and he spoke passionately about the past, present, and future of Islam, as well as the Muslim condition that exists in the 21st century. He made so much sense, and I could see the parallels between some their trajectories and that of some of the fundamental Christians who have narrowed their view of the world into “us and them” terms. He is no longer allowed into several countries, including Saudi Arabia because of his controversial views, even though on a personal level, he elicits positive responses from those on high in those very countries. I had never concretely realized that Islam is the state, and that there is no separation between church and state. It was a lot to absorb, and I took profuse notes which were mostly universal morsels of wisdom for all of humanity and not just one targeted group.
We went to a small Parisian coffee shop afterwards for pastries and talked about the lecture, incorporating into it this morning’s lecture on Othello. Three views arose out of our coffee shop rendezvous. First, it is impossible and too idealistic to believe that freedom would result in unity – instead, it would result in chaos, or a lackadaisical response. No one would be able to agree on anything, and it would result in complete mayhem within their organization. Another view was more diplomatic – it was that religion is not really where the answers exist, but that we are responsible for our actions towards a better future and understanding of the life. I waffled somewhere in the middle trying to piece all the information together and knit the various logics being passed back and forth. Had I been less tired, I might have forthright in addressing the “but” bubbling to the surface within me in response to the other two. My third relatively unexpressed view I had was that what Mr. Ramadan proposes is far deeper that his ideas suggest, and it will require a great deal commitment to face down some serious problems that exist; it will not happen in a vacuum. It demands that risks be taken and that we, as a human race, must never stop trying to become a functional community on the global arena, as well as in our local places of residence. Change is here to stay, and one can get caught up in trying to keep old things new, or one can move forward and adjust to it in the context within which one exists. Both are valuable sides of a single coin, and must be reconciled in order for the larger mass to thrive.
Peace.
Thrift-shopaholic and Tidbits
12 March 2008
I am having a field day at the thrift shops here. Of note for me has been the one pound purchase of a very sturdy and well-pocketed canvas book bag, as well as the purchase of several very English-looking overcoats (whatever that means in this global community). I might not wear them all here, but I certainly would embellish my wardrobe with them, back in the States. One of the coats I am so excited about is an actual “riding coat” which has the air of something out of 19th century detective novels. Now, all I need is either or both of a top hat or an actual Sherlock Holmes hat that I saw at a nearby shop. I will have to have this coat slightly altered because it is just a little large. For the men out there, think of it as buying a useless old car that you want to renovate and “fix ’er up” with a new engine and paint-job. The same goes for me with this riding coat. It is totally unnecessary, but it has a character beckons me to invest in it. In the back of my mind, I have been thinking about the cheesy gifts I promised to bring back to my Writing Center colleagues. A few possibilities have arisen already. However, I will not divulge because I do not know which eyes will read this post, and of that, which people are prone to talk.
I think the initial, “Oh my god, I’m in England and look at all the things they sell…” switch is off and worn down now. I’ll settle for a coffee now and again, and start walking in the opposite direction towards my particular campus: Brookes College. It’s quite a bit more modern and doesn’t have that in-town feel to it, but I have paid for their amenities and need to start settling in where schoolwork and my blogs need to be done. Only because this first week has been quite a whirlwind have I allowed myself to go to the local internet cafes, but I have too much to print to make it an inexpensive enterprise. I’ve completed all my notes from last week’s classes, and on Saturday, I’ll email and print them out at another local shop at the end of Rectory Road (just down the street from me). It will be another new adventure.
One thing to note about the shops and restaurants in Oxford is that many of them appear very small from the streets – the kind of “small” that might discourage one to go in for the lack of space, but you see a lot of arrows pointing up or down – many of the shops are underground (very cool indeed) or an upstairs area lurks behind the main shop area if you go far in enough. At the recommendation of Dean Ulmer, I went to Café Nero, and found that they had an entire floor above the cramped first floor area. For example, though I have no reason to go to Pizza Hut (being an American in Oxford), Pizza Hut has a most interesting and alluring restaurant that almost compels me to go in. On the ground level, there is nothing but the signs on the glass store front, but if you look in, you can see the entire restaurant below, like an underground cavern.
On another matter, I’ve been enthralled by the various language patterns here. In America we also have variations of our own language and the various foreign languages that surround us. Here, however, we are daily exposed to the variety of “English” English which has an entirely different rhythm as well as different stresses. It’s quite melodic, and in the larger picture, it is not uncommon to hear the languages studied in school or viewed in movies (French, Italian, German, and Spanish in particular). It is surreal! I love languages, and even if I don’t recognize them all, my imagination fills in the spaces and I feel like I’ve been transported to an unreal place.
I am having a field day at the thrift shops here. Of note for me has been the one pound purchase of a very sturdy and well-pocketed canvas book bag, as well as the purchase of several very English-looking overcoats (whatever that means in this global community). I might not wear them all here, but I certainly would embellish my wardrobe with them, back in the States. One of the coats I am so excited about is an actual “riding coat” which has the air of something out of 19th century detective novels. Now, all I need is either or both of a top hat or an actual Sherlock Holmes hat that I saw at a nearby shop. I will have to have this coat slightly altered because it is just a little large. For the men out there, think of it as buying a useless old car that you want to renovate and “fix ’er up” with a new engine and paint-job. The same goes for me with this riding coat. It is totally unnecessary, but it has a character beckons me to invest in it. In the back of my mind, I have been thinking about the cheesy gifts I promised to bring back to my Writing Center colleagues. A few possibilities have arisen already. However, I will not divulge because I do not know which eyes will read this post, and of that, which people are prone to talk.
I think the initial, “Oh my god, I’m in England and look at all the things they sell…” switch is off and worn down now. I’ll settle for a coffee now and again, and start walking in the opposite direction towards my particular campus: Brookes College. It’s quite a bit more modern and doesn’t have that in-town feel to it, but I have paid for their amenities and need to start settling in where schoolwork and my blogs need to be done. Only because this first week has been quite a whirlwind have I allowed myself to go to the local internet cafes, but I have too much to print to make it an inexpensive enterprise. I’ve completed all my notes from last week’s classes, and on Saturday, I’ll email and print them out at another local shop at the end of Rectory Road (just down the street from me). It will be another new adventure.
One thing to note about the shops and restaurants in Oxford is that many of them appear very small from the streets – the kind of “small” that might discourage one to go in for the lack of space, but you see a lot of arrows pointing up or down – many of the shops are underground (very cool indeed) or an upstairs area lurks behind the main shop area if you go far in enough. At the recommendation of Dean Ulmer, I went to Café Nero, and found that they had an entire floor above the cramped first floor area. For example, though I have no reason to go to Pizza Hut (being an American in Oxford), Pizza Hut has a most interesting and alluring restaurant that almost compels me to go in. On the ground level, there is nothing but the signs on the glass store front, but if you look in, you can see the entire restaurant below, like an underground cavern.
On another matter, I’ve been enthralled by the various language patterns here. In America we also have variations of our own language and the various foreign languages that surround us. Here, however, we are daily exposed to the variety of “English” English which has an entirely different rhythm as well as different stresses. It’s quite melodic, and in the larger picture, it is not uncommon to hear the languages studied in school or viewed in movies (French, Italian, German, and Spanish in particular). It is surreal! I love languages, and even if I don’t recognize them all, my imagination fills in the spaces and I feel like I’ve been transported to an unreal place.
No Hurries, No Worries
10 March 2009
I made a quick stop at Puccino’s for a cappuccino and a roll. I woke up not feeling well, but it did not get in the way of my time here. It turned out that Puccino’s was out of the raisin croissants (“croissant au raisin”) that I had the last time, and the server asked me if I could wait while they made one. One? Just for me? Indeed, I tell you the truth! After several minutes, the server brought me the most fresh and out-of-the-oven croissant I have ever feasted my eyes upon. The aroma of the butter was beyond exceptional. I feel like I’m writing for a “Dining for One” magazine because what I am about to write is how I experienced this particular croissant. First of all, a freshly made, and freshly out-of-the-oven croissant melts in your mouth because they make the layers very, very thin. They use real butter and take no short cuts. The outside of the croissant was dark brown, and crunchy and flaky. Parts of it flew apart like ashes when I peeled the roll apart. The raisins were still plump from having been in the hot oven. I wish I could convey the flavor through my writing.
Point number two with respect to my stop at Puccinos for a cappuccino and that scrumptious raisin croissant: I have noticed that people here are in no hurry to be anywhere. They take their time and enjoy their moments of respite. They talk with one another, and aren’t always on their cell phones (though there are still some cell-ites out here). If not that, they’re doing what I am doing – writing, reading, or absolutely nothing. I don’t feel like the establishment is trying to meet a quota by cycling customers out so that new people can come in and make more money for the restaurant. Instead, they leave you alone to your vices and no one interrupts in regular intervals, “Would you like…” or “Is there anything else I can get you…” or “Shall I bring your check…” In the states, I hate going to restaurants because everything is on a clock – even in the better places. The poor servers in American middle-of-the-road restaurants look so uneasy with the picture of people simply talking and enjoying each other’s company and manage to constantly interrupt the flow of the conversations with some not-so-dull hint that our time is up.
This stay is really starting to inform my ideas about transferring next year. I definitely want to be at a “pedestrian school” with that institution being within a pedestrian region where trains, busses, and walking are the primary modes of getting around. I want to be able to be healthy and not stressed out by driving. This brings me to a closer examination of the schools far north of Los Angeles, such as Stanford or Berkley, or completely eastwardly, such as Cornell, Columbia, UPenn, Smith, Boston University, or any number of colleges or universities situated in that area. I’m sure my choice of schools will prove far more tedious and difficult a task than simply listing them here and now; that is for autumn and I will not ruin my stay in Oxford by getting too bent out of shape about those prospects.
I made a quick stop at Puccino’s for a cappuccino and a roll. I woke up not feeling well, but it did not get in the way of my time here. It turned out that Puccino’s was out of the raisin croissants (“croissant au raisin”) that I had the last time, and the server asked me if I could wait while they made one. One? Just for me? Indeed, I tell you the truth! After several minutes, the server brought me the most fresh and out-of-the-oven croissant I have ever feasted my eyes upon. The aroma of the butter was beyond exceptional. I feel like I’m writing for a “Dining for One” magazine because what I am about to write is how I experienced this particular croissant. First of all, a freshly made, and freshly out-of-the-oven croissant melts in your mouth because they make the layers very, very thin. They use real butter and take no short cuts. The outside of the croissant was dark brown, and crunchy and flaky. Parts of it flew apart like ashes when I peeled the roll apart. The raisins were still plump from having been in the hot oven. I wish I could convey the flavor through my writing.
Point number two with respect to my stop at Puccinos for a cappuccino and that scrumptious raisin croissant: I have noticed that people here are in no hurry to be anywhere. They take their time and enjoy their moments of respite. They talk with one another, and aren’t always on their cell phones (though there are still some cell-ites out here). If not that, they’re doing what I am doing – writing, reading, or absolutely nothing. I don’t feel like the establishment is trying to meet a quota by cycling customers out so that new people can come in and make more money for the restaurant. Instead, they leave you alone to your vices and no one interrupts in regular intervals, “Would you like…” or “Is there anything else I can get you…” or “Shall I bring your check…” In the states, I hate going to restaurants because everything is on a clock – even in the better places. The poor servers in American middle-of-the-road restaurants look so uneasy with the picture of people simply talking and enjoying each other’s company and manage to constantly interrupt the flow of the conversations with some not-so-dull hint that our time is up.
This stay is really starting to inform my ideas about transferring next year. I definitely want to be at a “pedestrian school” with that institution being within a pedestrian region where trains, busses, and walking are the primary modes of getting around. I want to be able to be healthy and not stressed out by driving. This brings me to a closer examination of the schools far north of Los Angeles, such as Stanford or Berkley, or completely eastwardly, such as Cornell, Columbia, UPenn, Smith, Boston University, or any number of colleges or universities situated in that area. I’m sure my choice of schools will prove far more tedious and difficult a task than simply listing them here and now; that is for autumn and I will not ruin my stay in Oxford by getting too bent out of shape about those prospects.
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
Please Forgive My Flighty Narrative
The flight had been delayed for over an hour; we were told to be at Terminal 23 at 5:30 p.m., and we waited. And waited. Slightly before 7:00 p.m., the gates were opened for us to board the airplane...
Shortly afterwards and in quick order, all the passengers had boarded, overhead bins had been shut, and the captain apologized for the delay, citing a lengthier than expected flight from London-Heathrow. “However,” he noted, “…with the winds behind us, we will arrive at Heathrow at the time originally scheduled. Please expect some turbulence and do enjoy your flight with us…”
By 7:00 p.m., people were now fastened into their seats, and the customary “what to do if the plane goes down” video was presented. Finally, the announcement was made that all doors have been secured, and that we should prepare for departure momentarily. At 7:02 p.m., I felt the giant ship beginning to move backwards out of the terminal, working its massive size against the inertia, heaving. I noted the vast wing span because I was seated behind the wing in a window seat – the tips of them were bent upward at an angle and displayed the British flag. It then dawned on me, “This is it. I’m actually going to Oxford – to Europe!”
I took notice of the thin fluorescent lights that guided the ship backwards, out of the flight docks and I didn't want to miss one moment of the process because I had immediately been transformed into an eager child of long ago. I sat there, with a fixed grin at the anticipation of taxiing down the runway and then taking off. I wrote down a play-by-play unfolding of events that few people might give consideration to in this modern era of flying. If I could have free-framed every moment, I would have. We were moving towards the taxi route that was decorated with deep blue lights – ever closing in – in mere moments! I heard the engines revving up as another Virgin Atlantic airbus passed on the tarmac in the opposite direction, followed by a Southwest Airlines jet.
Suddenly there was a burst of acceleration, followed by an eerie howling sound coming from the engines. The acceleration was quick to pick up and lo, we were jettisoning down the final runway. I cannot begin to express the exhilaration I felt during take off; I could do it over and over, day after day, and never get tired of the experience. Soon, we were thrust forward by Newton’s “opposite and equal reaction” as the plane pushed forward in a burst almost. The lights of Los Angeles were passing by quickly at ground level and we were moving with considerable velocity. Then, the lift! We've been transformed into winged creatures – into gods, flying effortlessly, taking off into the air, defying the laws of man and physics but for the will to do so. I jotted down in my textbook, “Fare thee well, Los Angeles” as I watched my city pass by quickly. Within moments, a black sea held the city lights in suspended animation – circuit boards patterns floated beneath me, and the land was swallowed up into the void until there were no lights. The plane turned slightly northward towards the black of night, of space.
At around 9:00 pm, dinner and drinks were being served. I had already ordered my customary alcoholic beverage, but now it was time to choose between beef and mashed potatoes, chicken and rice, or a vegetarian pasta dish. “Chicken and rice,” I responded, as politely as possible. I was not interested in the dinner. Aside from reading a very arduous first chapter of my Sociology class, I was busy staring outside. I tried hard to outline what seemed to be a coastline. Minute clues of speckled lights littered the view below. Were we in the tundras of Canada, or had we encroached upon the coveted Arctic Circle route?
In the dark black, at 30,000 feet, the clusters of light loose their linear relativity with respect to their horizons. Instead, these sporadic settlements sprinkling the night sky appeared as constellations interspersed in space – mere ornaments against the blackness. Soon thereafter, there were no more lights to be seen, save the blinking red lights fastened upon the wings. We were now suspended mid-air against the void backdrop. Frost was building up on the exterior window, etching crystallized patterns. The air was also beginning to chill a bit.
By 3:00 am Los Angeles time, we had been flying for eight hours. The daylight broke through the windows as I awoke to an unsatisfying catnap. I had to throw my jacket over my head to block everything out and was not sure if I slept or not. We were clearly over the Atlantic Ocean, and the earth’s rotation seemed to be in our favor. Time was getting short now before we would be arriving at Heathrow. And so the journey continues… More to come soon… Sleep beckons...
Peace.
Shortly afterwards and in quick order, all the passengers had boarded, overhead bins had been shut, and the captain apologized for the delay, citing a lengthier than expected flight from London-Heathrow. “However,” he noted, “…with the winds behind us, we will arrive at Heathrow at the time originally scheduled. Please expect some turbulence and do enjoy your flight with us…”
By 7:00 p.m., people were now fastened into their seats, and the customary “what to do if the plane goes down” video was presented. Finally, the announcement was made that all doors have been secured, and that we should prepare for departure momentarily. At 7:02 p.m., I felt the giant ship beginning to move backwards out of the terminal, working its massive size against the inertia, heaving. I noted the vast wing span because I was seated behind the wing in a window seat – the tips of them were bent upward at an angle and displayed the British flag. It then dawned on me, “This is it. I’m actually going to Oxford – to Europe!”
I took notice of the thin fluorescent lights that guided the ship backwards, out of the flight docks and I didn't want to miss one moment of the process because I had immediately been transformed into an eager child of long ago. I sat there, with a fixed grin at the anticipation of taxiing down the runway and then taking off. I wrote down a play-by-play unfolding of events that few people might give consideration to in this modern era of flying. If I could have free-framed every moment, I would have. We were moving towards the taxi route that was decorated with deep blue lights – ever closing in – in mere moments! I heard the engines revving up as another Virgin Atlantic airbus passed on the tarmac in the opposite direction, followed by a Southwest Airlines jet.
Suddenly there was a burst of acceleration, followed by an eerie howling sound coming from the engines. The acceleration was quick to pick up and lo, we were jettisoning down the final runway. I cannot begin to express the exhilaration I felt during take off; I could do it over and over, day after day, and never get tired of the experience. Soon, we were thrust forward by Newton’s “opposite and equal reaction” as the plane pushed forward in a burst almost. The lights of Los Angeles were passing by quickly at ground level and we were moving with considerable velocity. Then, the lift! We've been transformed into winged creatures – into gods, flying effortlessly, taking off into the air, defying the laws of man and physics but for the will to do so. I jotted down in my textbook, “Fare thee well, Los Angeles” as I watched my city pass by quickly. Within moments, a black sea held the city lights in suspended animation – circuit boards patterns floated beneath me, and the land was swallowed up into the void until there were no lights. The plane turned slightly northward towards the black of night, of space.
At around 9:00 pm, dinner and drinks were being served. I had already ordered my customary alcoholic beverage, but now it was time to choose between beef and mashed potatoes, chicken and rice, or a vegetarian pasta dish. “Chicken and rice,” I responded, as politely as possible. I was not interested in the dinner. Aside from reading a very arduous first chapter of my Sociology class, I was busy staring outside. I tried hard to outline what seemed to be a coastline. Minute clues of speckled lights littered the view below. Were we in the tundras of Canada, or had we encroached upon the coveted Arctic Circle route?
In the dark black, at 30,000 feet, the clusters of light loose their linear relativity with respect to their horizons. Instead, these sporadic settlements sprinkling the night sky appeared as constellations interspersed in space – mere ornaments against the blackness. Soon thereafter, there were no more lights to be seen, save the blinking red lights fastened upon the wings. We were now suspended mid-air against the void backdrop. Frost was building up on the exterior window, etching crystallized patterns. The air was also beginning to chill a bit.
By 3:00 am Los Angeles time, we had been flying for eight hours. The daylight broke through the windows as I awoke to an unsatisfying catnap. I had to throw my jacket over my head to block everything out and was not sure if I slept or not. We were clearly over the Atlantic Ocean, and the earth’s rotation seemed to be in our favor. Time was getting short now before we would be arriving at Heathrow. And so the journey continues… More to come soon… Sleep beckons...
Peace.
Monday, 9 March 2009
Live and Learn, Watch and Live
March 8, 2009: Today was my second full day here in Oxford and I am taken aback by the spectacular snapshots of history that date back to at least 1150 AD.
Yesterday, our weary group of travellers congregated at Brookes College for our first (of many I suspect) mandatory meetings, which produced mostly a restless, if not listless bunch of tired students. Afterwards, Corinne took us past the Magdalene Bridge (pronounced, “Maudlin”) where we grabbed a quick bite before embarking on our first official “tour” of the many Oxford Colleges, as well as the greater “city of Oxford.”
Though I was no longer jet-lagged, I was slightly “off” and very over-clothed, so I kept putting on and taking off my outer layer of garments; live and learn… We walked upon the coble stone street that wove around Oxford to Christchurch, University College, Exeter, Merton, and Jesus College, to name a few stops. Apparently the ancient “exams college” was the building that PCC students used to go to back when we had money (it was a $1,000 more). I know I would have paid; what’s the saying – “In for the penny, in for the pound”? I thought I didn’t have a camera (much to my chagrin, and to which I did) but found the same in my backpack the next morning.
At Exeter College, Brian, our very charming and erudite tour guide led us inside, into the walls of its quad. Awaiting us from inside the dining hall was a complete layout of sandwiches, cakes, scones, quiches, and tea and coffee. All the goodies were served with cream, jams, and the beverages with cream and sugar. I felt like I was a part of a rendition of Hogwortz Hall from Harry Potter. Within the Dining Hall were many original paintings of the lofty people who had long ago inhabited Oxford. The furniture and walls were darkly stained all throughout the room and all in all, it was spectacular.
Apparently, it is a customary affront for visitors to step on the quad’s large grassy area. The privilege of walking on the grass is reserved for seniors only. Unfortunately, one of our more active members was slightly less aware of said tradition and leapt onto the grass before realizing (through our reactions of dread) that she had committed a major faux pas.
I would be remiss to omit from this entry that we passed JRR Tolkien’s house, or that we saw the Radcliffe Towers from an unusual purview. Oddly and cleverly, cameras are hidden everywhere: to illustrate, what looked like an old street lamp had within it a very sophisticated 360 degree camera. I had fully expected this; I was more amused at the way they “concealed” it.
Later on, we broke off to get some shopping out of the way. I got my cell phone and then picked up an umbrella (at a steep price of £22 because I hadn’t mentally converted pounds to dollars and was exhausted). I also picked up the basic necessities that we were instructed not to bring: shampoo, conditioner, etc. Afterwards, we coalesced with another small group of students and went to a pub. I have to get the name of that pub. What was unusual was its custom of cutting the neckties of Oxford’s “Freshers” (Freshmen’s) and displaying them wherever there is room on the walls, in neat glass exhibits. These display cases covered every wall and ceiling. There was another upside to the pub: the ceilings were very low, so in essence, we were all quite tall. Alas, I had to do the inevitable: use the restroom. I was mortified to have to ask the bartender (“barkeep”) where the “toilet” was. Some things don’t come so naturally. When I spoke to Jennifer, my homestay host later, she said that it would have been perfectly acceptable to ask where the “luu” or “ladies” was. Further, the word, “bathroom” is not really inappropriate, she added, because Oxford is inundated with people from all over the world and has become inured to the words we use.
People here are quite polite, and far more liberal than our prior orientation led me to imagine. I did hear about one of our student’s “unfortunate encounter” wherein she had conveyed a food order quite “American-like,” which in response, the server imitated her “American-ese” in quite an exaggerated fashion. Hearsay has it that the student was quite angry for a while afterwards. I also heard about a person disposing of food wrappers on someone’s property, and that was a bit disturbing to me.
Although it was pouring when I left the house today, I am beginning to see glimmers of sunshine here in the café where I’m writing this entry. I settled in at Puccino’s for a cappuccino and a raisin croissant for the duration. I think I’ll be able to take some pictures now… I saw the café that Dean Ulmer had suggested to me prior to my departure: Café Nero and made a mental note to go there during one of my trips into to town next week. As it turned out, I took over 150 pictures of Oxford, but that is merely the tip of the iceberg! There are so many sights, sounds, smells, and new ways of seeing the world – too many to write at the moment, but I will keep a detailed journal of my daily travels and misadventures. My time on the computer is somewhat limited as of the moment, but as soon as things become a little more regular, I’ll be able to upload the pictures and more entries.
Peace.
Yesterday, our weary group of travellers congregated at Brookes College for our first (of many I suspect) mandatory meetings, which produced mostly a restless, if not listless bunch of tired students. Afterwards, Corinne took us past the Magdalene Bridge (pronounced, “Maudlin”) where we grabbed a quick bite before embarking on our first official “tour” of the many Oxford Colleges, as well as the greater “city of Oxford.”Though I was no longer jet-lagged, I was slightly “off” and very over-clothed, so I kept putting on and taking off my outer layer of garments; live and learn… We walked upon the coble stone street that wove around Oxford to Christchurch, University College, Exeter, Merton, and Jesus College, to name a few stops. Apparently the ancient “exams college” was the building that PCC students used to go to back when we had money (it was a $1,000 more). I know I would have paid; what’s the saying – “In for the penny, in for the pound”? I thought I didn’t have a camera (much to my chagrin, and to which I did) but found the same in my backpack the next morning.
At Exeter College, Brian, our very charming and erudite tour guide led us inside, into the walls of its quad. Awaiting us from inside the dining hall was a complete layout of sandwiches, cakes, scones, quiches, and tea and coffee. All the goodies were served with cream, jams, and the beverages with cream and sugar. I felt like I was a part of a rendition of Hogwortz Hall from Harry Potter. Within the Dining Hall were many original paintings of the lofty people who had long ago inhabited Oxford. The furniture and walls were darkly stained all throughout the room and all in all, it was spectacular.
Apparently, it is a customary affront for visitors to step on the quad’s large grassy area. The privilege of walking on the grass is reserved for seniors only. Unfortunately, one of our more active members was slightly less aware of said tradition and leapt onto the grass before realizing (through our reactions of dread) that she had committed a major faux pas.I would be remiss to omit from this entry that we passed JRR Tolkien’s house, or that we saw the Radcliffe Towers from an unusual purview. Oddly and cleverly, cameras are hidden everywhere: to illustrate, what looked like an old street lamp had within it a very sophisticated 360 degree camera. I had fully expected this; I was more amused at the way they “concealed” it.
Later on, we broke off to get some shopping out of the way. I got my cell phone and then picked up an umbrella (at a steep price of £22 because I hadn’t mentally converted pounds to dollars and was exhausted). I also picked up the basic necessities that we were instructed not to bring: shampoo, conditioner, etc. Afterwards, we coalesced with another small group of students and went to a pub. I have to get the name of that pub. What was unusual was its custom of cutting the neckties of Oxford’s “Freshers” (Freshmen’s) and displaying them wherever there is room on the walls, in neat glass exhibits. These display cases covered every wall and ceiling. There was another upside to the pub: the ceilings were very low, so in essence, we were all quite tall. Alas, I had to do the inevitable: use the restroom. I was mortified to have to ask the bartender (“barkeep”) where the “toilet” was. Some things don’t come so naturally. When I spoke to Jennifer, my homestay host later, she said that it would have been perfectly acceptable to ask where the “luu” or “ladies” was. Further, the word, “bathroom” is not really inappropriate, she added, because Oxford is inundated with people from all over the world and has become inured to the words we use.
People here are quite polite, and far more liberal than our prior orientation led me to imagine. I did hear about one of our student’s “unfortunate encounter” wherein she had conveyed a food order quite “American-like,” which in response, the server imitated her “American-ese” in quite an exaggerated fashion. Hearsay has it that the student was quite angry for a while afterwards. I also heard about a person disposing of food wrappers on someone’s property, and that was a bit disturbing to me.Although it was pouring when I left the house today, I am beginning to see glimmers of sunshine here in the café where I’m writing this entry. I settled in at Puccino’s for a cappuccino and a raisin croissant for the duration. I think I’ll be able to take some pictures now… I saw the café that Dean Ulmer had suggested to me prior to my departure: Café Nero and made a mental note to go there during one of my trips into to town next week. As it turned out, I took over 150 pictures of Oxford, but that is merely the tip of the iceberg! There are so many sights, sounds, smells, and new ways of seeing the world – too many to write at the moment, but I will keep a detailed journal of my daily travels and misadventures. My time on the computer is somewhat limited as of the moment, but as soon as things become a little more regular, I’ll be able to upload the pictures and more entries.
Peace.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
The Long Therapy Session of Getting to Oxford
Up until school re-started this Spring Semester, I couldn’t quite sense the reality of Oxford. I tried “getting into the mood” by packing my bags bit-by-bit; I read most of the books required for my English classes, and everyone knows I’ve been on a sort of bragging spree on going to Oxford. Instead, I’ve felt like time had been running out in some ambiguous way, and that I would stumble or forget many items. I made list after list, but none of them instilled confidence in me that I was actually going to Oxford.
Oddly, the greater part of the anxiety over my packing, planning, and the business of travelling has been expressed by my family. I was reminded that no matter how old we get, we’re always “children” to those who raised us. There is an odd mix of my lack of anxiety over the “small stuff” and their level of anxiety over the “big stuff.” I know I’ll hear, “I told you so,” because inevitably, I will have forgotten something, but the truth is that if this is true, then I’ll figure out a way to deal with my oversights.
I’m not sure if I’ll be missed at home; I think my family probably will feel like I left them in a frenzy, and will sigh, “Good riddance!” They’ll finally have some privacy and won’t have to “clean up after Joanne” for all my chaos and haphazard surroundings. They will never truly understand me. I will miss them a lot, and I can never express how much I appreciate them because I think they don’t want to hear it from me. They’d rather “see” it from me – like, through being more orderly in their world. Sadly, I’m just an odd duck who thinks and feels too deeply, looks at too many angles of any given idea, gets too passionate, and is far too sensitive for their tastes. This is one area of my life that I feel like a total disappointment and like I have fallen short, despite my academic and life accomplishments. It is a curse to have the ability to be expressive while not being able to convey the same. I am a verbal klutz to my family, and if not that, then I am simply not properly understood for all the language and generational barriers of a bi-cultural household.
I am really quite lovable, but different personalities result in different realities that sometimes don’t coalesce. Some things don’t ever change – both within ourselves, and within those individuals who have walked with us far too long to see in the moment. I want to say, “I love you” a million times and then some, but it would not be enough because my actions do not seem to adequately reflect my sentiments. I understand this deeply and wish I were different at times, but I’ve come too far to give up who I’ve become. I don’t think they know how much I adore and cherish them. This is the unfinished business that I’ve run into as I’ve been getting ready for Oxford: we’re never fully grown up where our parents are involved; we’re reduced to the amalgamation of our pasts, and for a vast many, the present is elusive. Further, to add to the dysfunction of being human, we’re quick to prognosticate for those who are younger, pointing out our insecurities onto those who look to us for guidance, acceptance and love.
In this long and arduous leading-up process to the Oxford Study Abroad semester, I’ve learned something else about myself: I cannot plan certain tasks out too early because those tasks cannot be executed until it is time to do them. Alas, I speak in generalities, but to illustrate my point, I tried to heed my father’s advice to start packing early. When I did, I found myself digging through all of my neatly packed clothing regularly because I still needed those items in my life. Daily, I reluctantly rummaged through my neatly packed suitcase and ended up with a bigger mess than I started with than before the process. Anyone who knows me well knows that I live by a certain order of chaos. I know my chaos well, and apply order when the time is upon me to do so. It is my way to economize on my time and energy. The “big stuff,” however, was easier to understand and execute: getting my passport, my Embassy/State Department letter, establishing new bank accounts for Oxford, exchanging currencies, getting doctors’ appointments out of the way, medications updated, and reading all the books that I could, to give a few examples. It was “required” and unless these chores got done, I was not going to Europe – it was as simple as that. And, of course, the more fun part of the “big stuff” is shopping for the things I have to have for this trip, much to my chagrin as well as my pleasure.
My friends, classmates, colleagues, bosses, mentors, counselors, and professors have been far more mindful of the clock ticking down to March 5th than I have been. I’ve verbalized my departure date frequently because I needed to feel that Oxford was actually going to happen for me. I put up a Facebook page so that I could solidify the reality of studying abroad. I felt like the recipient of the famously coined line by Shakespeare that all of life was but a play and we were all but actors upon life’s stage (slightly revised). I had to take my “exit stage right” cue, reluctantly.
Finally, now, the reality of Oxford is unfolding. It was crystallized when Professor Perea, the Writing Center director asked if anyone could work more hours (tutoring). I wanted to jump in and volunteer, but was promptly reminded by my supervisor, Mary, that I would not be present to help fill in the schedule. I actually felt sad in a strange way – like I was leaving something very important behind – like I was really going to miss everything, even though I was moving on to something as grand as studying abroad. This is an unfamiliar sensation for me and one that is uncomfortable. I love my life at PCC and I love the paths I’ve crossed along my PCC journey. Getting to Oxford has been one very long therapy session for me and I hope that being in Oxford will open out even greater insights! Adieu.
Oddly, the greater part of the anxiety over my packing, planning, and the business of travelling has been expressed by my family. I was reminded that no matter how old we get, we’re always “children” to those who raised us. There is an odd mix of my lack of anxiety over the “small stuff” and their level of anxiety over the “big stuff.” I know I’ll hear, “I told you so,” because inevitably, I will have forgotten something, but the truth is that if this is true, then I’ll figure out a way to deal with my oversights.
I’m not sure if I’ll be missed at home; I think my family probably will feel like I left them in a frenzy, and will sigh, “Good riddance!” They’ll finally have some privacy and won’t have to “clean up after Joanne” for all my chaos and haphazard surroundings. They will never truly understand me. I will miss them a lot, and I can never express how much I appreciate them because I think they don’t want to hear it from me. They’d rather “see” it from me – like, through being more orderly in their world. Sadly, I’m just an odd duck who thinks and feels too deeply, looks at too many angles of any given idea, gets too passionate, and is far too sensitive for their tastes. This is one area of my life that I feel like a total disappointment and like I have fallen short, despite my academic and life accomplishments. It is a curse to have the ability to be expressive while not being able to convey the same. I am a verbal klutz to my family, and if not that, then I am simply not properly understood for all the language and generational barriers of a bi-cultural household.
I am really quite lovable, but different personalities result in different realities that sometimes don’t coalesce. Some things don’t ever change – both within ourselves, and within those individuals who have walked with us far too long to see in the moment. I want to say, “I love you” a million times and then some, but it would not be enough because my actions do not seem to adequately reflect my sentiments. I understand this deeply and wish I were different at times, but I’ve come too far to give up who I’ve become. I don’t think they know how much I adore and cherish them. This is the unfinished business that I’ve run into as I’ve been getting ready for Oxford: we’re never fully grown up where our parents are involved; we’re reduced to the amalgamation of our pasts, and for a vast many, the present is elusive. Further, to add to the dysfunction of being human, we’re quick to prognosticate for those who are younger, pointing out our insecurities onto those who look to us for guidance, acceptance and love.
In this long and arduous leading-up process to the Oxford Study Abroad semester, I’ve learned something else about myself: I cannot plan certain tasks out too early because those tasks cannot be executed until it is time to do them. Alas, I speak in generalities, but to illustrate my point, I tried to heed my father’s advice to start packing early. When I did, I found myself digging through all of my neatly packed clothing regularly because I still needed those items in my life. Daily, I reluctantly rummaged through my neatly packed suitcase and ended up with a bigger mess than I started with than before the process. Anyone who knows me well knows that I live by a certain order of chaos. I know my chaos well, and apply order when the time is upon me to do so. It is my way to economize on my time and energy. The “big stuff,” however, was easier to understand and execute: getting my passport, my Embassy/State Department letter, establishing new bank accounts for Oxford, exchanging currencies, getting doctors’ appointments out of the way, medications updated, and reading all the books that I could, to give a few examples. It was “required” and unless these chores got done, I was not going to Europe – it was as simple as that. And, of course, the more fun part of the “big stuff” is shopping for the things I have to have for this trip, much to my chagrin as well as my pleasure.
My friends, classmates, colleagues, bosses, mentors, counselors, and professors have been far more mindful of the clock ticking down to March 5th than I have been. I’ve verbalized my departure date frequently because I needed to feel that Oxford was actually going to happen for me. I put up a Facebook page so that I could solidify the reality of studying abroad. I felt like the recipient of the famously coined line by Shakespeare that all of life was but a play and we were all but actors upon life’s stage (slightly revised). I had to take my “exit stage right” cue, reluctantly.
Finally, now, the reality of Oxford is unfolding. It was crystallized when Professor Perea, the Writing Center director asked if anyone could work more hours (tutoring). I wanted to jump in and volunteer, but was promptly reminded by my supervisor, Mary, that I would not be present to help fill in the schedule. I actually felt sad in a strange way – like I was leaving something very important behind – like I was really going to miss everything, even though I was moving on to something as grand as studying abroad. This is an unfamiliar sensation for me and one that is uncomfortable. I love my life at PCC and I love the paths I’ve crossed along my PCC journey. Getting to Oxford has been one very long therapy session for me and I hope that being in Oxford will open out even greater insights! Adieu.
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