I’ve learned to not watch television constantly as I did back in the States while being here in Oxford. This leaves me with a different kind of free time that I’ve grown to appreciate – the kind of “chilling” that isn’t in a pub or at parties – that brand of just “being” and using my time to be creative, write, and help out around the house. It is a good feeling to simply sit outside, take in the day, and not have to say much. When I do catch television here, I am more distracted than without it. This is not to say that the television shows and news here are not up to par; I just require far less of that passive kind of “zoning out” that I experienced back in Los Angeles. I don’t need to be distracted to enjoy myself here – perhaps it’s because of my sense of belonging as well as others’ more slow-paced and interactive nature. It’s quite liberating to be able to simply get things done that I might have avoided back in the States. Part of the freedom and casual lifestyle is due to the fact that I don’t have to drive places – I can take a bus wherever I want to go, or I can walk – nothing is too far away, relatively speaking.
The home which I am currently staying in is occupied by various students and people from around the world and locally who merely seek out a room and are content to live communally. This communal lifestyle is something I’ve always wanted to experience – where people are mindful of others, and relaxed about who has to do whatever task is at-hand, or who hasn’t done something. When a mess lingers somewhere, I just take on the task, as do others, and there is no finger-pointing and badgering. When an item is used up in the refrigerator or otherwise, we just go to the local market and fill it back up; there is an unspoken obligation to top up when supplies get low.
The only time I saw people at this house get perturbed was when one person took advantage of this system and took without replacing or asking. The other day, Sib came down to eat dinner – fish sticks and potato wedges that he had bought – and when he pulled the fish stick package out of the freezer, there were only two pieces left. He was not happy to be left with a mere two small fish sticks for dinner. There has to be group cohesion and personal responsibility in these kinds of settings because one person can upset the entire flow of life. Needless to say, the proverbial “one person” left, and things are very quiet now. I love this place – it feels like home to me and I hope that I can come back if I am able to get into Oxford Brookes University. But that’s neither here nor there at the moment; all I have is today, and today is a great day, like all the preceding days here.
I look forward to the afternoons and spend my days writing and reading mostly. Sometimes, and to a much less degree than before, I go to The Corridor and catch up with friends and chill out over a few drinks and whatnot. There is no rush to be places, to avoid traffic, to leave, etc. People stay until they’re ready to go, and sometimes, “ready to go” is when the establishment closes down. Protocol is different here – people are far more independent in general, and that is refreshing. They seem to be more pragmatic and self-sufficient, and that too is liberating.
Other than young college-aged students who often go to pubs or bars for the sole purpose of getting drunk, the older crowd all mingle and look after one another while getting their fair share of alcohol, albeit at a slower pace. I have my friends here – friends whom I have the great fortune of meeting, and we recognize and talk to one another at these places. Further, because it is a small community, there is little to no anonymity (a wonderful change for me) which for me was the norm back in the States due to the great distances that need to be traveled, as well as the hurry-up-and-serve-the-customer-and-get-the-next-party-in ethos of many food and bar establishments. I’m sure there is the type of cohesion I write about of Oxford in smaller towns or areas throughout the States. However, I live in Los Angeles, which is like spilled milk over the entire Southern California region wherein nothing is nearby, and people keep to themselves locally.
To be fair, when I’m in school taking classes, I rarely practice “chilling” because studying becomes the central focus of life for however long my classes last (usually 15 weeks). I treat school as if it was a job, and that means that there is a minimum eight hours that have to go into the combined time of the classes and studying afterwards. Furthermore, the eight-hour rule is just a rough guideline because there’s always homework, papers are become due, notes must be copied and organized, and tests are inevitable. Generally, that’s about 12 hours of school a day, minimally, once everything has been completed.
I chose the path of not being a “tourist” who merely stopped over for a few months to study. I ended up getting my four A’s and it didn’t have to be so difficult. My schoolwork got done when I was in school, and will continue to get done when I return. But I’ve realized that it doesn’t have to get done in a vacuum – there is room to sit down and enjoy an evening. This will change, of course, when I return because I simply can’t be bothered to transport myself here and there and everywhere – driving is time, and time is for studying. I hate it, but that’s just the way it is. Even if I lived here whilst in school, I wouldn’t have the same freedom as I do now. However, I would have a choice to meet up with friends from time-to-time and could look forward to finishing a day’s worth of studying whenever possible and thereby rewarding myself with a drink or two without having to drive home.
This is what I’ll take back with me when I return to the States: the knowledge that communities do indeed exist in certain places and the sense that there is the hope that I can return to this place and be remembered. Because of the proximity of places and things in Oxford, I’ve learned to take my schoolwork as seriously as before, while at the same time finding the ability to put my books away once the tasks are done and thereby allowing myself to relax. There will never be another Oxford, and this time I’ve spent here cannot ever be replicated.
Friday, 26 June 2009
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Summertime in Oxford
It's getting warm here in Oxford, and because of the rain & greeness, the price to pay for it is humidity. But, it's appreciable because the early part of March through mid-May was fairly cool/cold intermittently and now it's warming up. Still, it's humid.
Yesterday, we went to the Thames River and walked alongside it - there were SO many geese, ducks (of all kinds and their offspring) and swans (along with their gangly, fuzzy grey children) parked alongside the river banks just taking in the sun and plucking their feathers.
I haven't just sat on the grass for a LONG time and doing so was nostalgic. We eventually found a place to basque under the sun & fluffy white clouds for a while and then grabbed some ice cream before heading homeward.
It stays light until 11:00 p.m. or thereabouts - the 21st of June being the "longest" day (summer solstace), which we observed on a fairly clear eve and it was spectacular (still is). There are so many trees and so much greenery, alongside an assortment of animals and different species of birds as well, singing their songs. Further, the skies are actually blue and not a hue of brown as it is in Los Angeles.
As always, I am stunned by the beauty of this wonderful place - it never ceases to amaze me. I think back to one of the books we read last semester: Clutch of the Constables by Ngaio Marsh, wherein Constable was an painter of the classic English scenery that captures the feeling of this land. A picture is sometimes worth a thousand words...
Yesterday, we went to the Thames River and walked alongside it - there were SO many geese, ducks (of all kinds and their offspring) and swans (along with their gangly, fuzzy grey children) parked alongside the river banks just taking in the sun and plucking their feathers.
I haven't just sat on the grass for a LONG time and doing so was nostalgic. We eventually found a place to basque under the sun & fluffy white clouds for a while and then grabbed some ice cream before heading homeward.
It stays light until 11:00 p.m. or thereabouts - the 21st of June being the "longest" day (summer solstace), which we observed on a fairly clear eve and it was spectacular (still is). There are so many trees and so much greenery, alongside an assortment of animals and different species of birds as well, singing their songs. Further, the skies are actually blue and not a hue of brown as it is in Los Angeles.
As always, I am stunned by the beauty of this wonderful place - it never ceases to amaze me. I think back to one of the books we read last semester: Clutch of the Constables by Ngaio Marsh, wherein Constable was an painter of the classic English scenery that captures the feeling of this land. A picture is sometimes worth a thousand words...
Sometimes
Sometimes
I don't know
How to be
Or not to be
Sometimes
I am lost
When I am
Not alone
Sometimes
I don't understand
What happens to Alice
When she falls down
Sometimes
I soar with the birds
I'm the fool on the hill
Life is passing by
Sometimes
I don't know
What to say
Things having been said
Sometimes
I know
These are the best of times
And the worst of times
Sometimes
I know
I have time in a bottle
And a picture of 1,000 words
Sometimes
It hurts
Not to know
What already is
And sometimes
Knowing is worse.
I don't know
How to be
Or not to be
Sometimes
I am lost
When I am
Not alone
Sometimes
I don't understand
What happens to Alice
When she falls down
Sometimes
I soar with the birds
I'm the fool on the hill
Life is passing by
Sometimes
I don't know
What to say
Things having been said
Sometimes
I know
These are the best of times
And the worst of times
Sometimes
I know
I have time in a bottle
And a picture of 1,000 words
Sometimes
It hurts
Not to know
What already is
And sometimes
Knowing is worse.
Innuendo
Quiet murmurs
Filling the air
Spreading fervor
In the lair
Swirling 'round
Towards the center
Away from its bounds
All in quiet banter
The stillness remains
The silent refrain.
~J. L. Tornquist
24 June 2009
Filling the air
Spreading fervor
In the lair
Swirling 'round
Towards the center
Away from its bounds
All in quiet banter
The stillness remains
The silent refrain.
~J. L. Tornquist
24 June 2009
Monday, 22 June 2009
Nonsensically Beautiful
There is nothing I can add to what people have been writing about since the beginning of time: “friendships,” “relationships,” “love,” “community,” “affection,” “like,” “adoration,” or whatever else word(s) appropriately describe this odd creature that I cannot make sense of. It has been a freefalling journey that has rushed up against my daily life and has seeped into every part it, asserting itself upon my every thought. I suppose that the more one tries to figure these things out or control them, the stranger they become, and the less likely it might be to truly grasp events. I have been struck by the very virus of all that is nonsensically beautiful, and I don’t want to forget.
Every day I wake up, and every night before I go to bed, I thank whatever deity is out there, if not the universe, for my truly good fortune to be here in Oxford and the greater U.K. I couldn’t have asked for more – this is my magical spring and summer – of 2009, and I suspect it will be awhile before I see or experience something similar in the future. I take snapshots of all that has become familiar so that later on, I can conjure the images and memories in the vacuum of California. I have to remember I am a student on a mission, and being here has brought me down to a crazy new reality that makes me forget; I have partaken in the elixir of traveling and meeting new friends in ways I could never have imagined prior to coming to Oxford.
Overall, Oxford has been a life-altering experience from which everything in my life has shifted in its definition. Sometimes, I think, “Why does life demand we ‘return’ to something or head towards something else? Why can’t people find their Zen in other ways outside of the parameters of ‘normal’? That would be ‘unrealistic’ to say the least by common standards. If one can provide for one’s self and is responsible, then why can’t he or she decide how that will unfold?” Instead, there seem to be a series of hoops through which I know I have to jump just so that another party will get to give its “acceptance” or “declination” notice. But then, pipe dreams are what keep us going.
Starting this fall, I’ll have to start applying for different universities. It is a nerve-wracking process designed to maximize neurosis and minimize chances, and I will have to jump into the deep end of that pool of water sooner than I wished. I wish I could make sense of that process as well, but that is not mine to question. My task is to simply stay on task. I have decided to apply to the Oxford Brookes campus just to see if I have a chance, since I have taken to this place like none other. People I’ve spoken to have told me that my grades and studies should carry me without a problem and I’m going to visit their office soon. I’ll still apply to Cal Berkeley, Stanford, Cornell, and other similar schools in the States because I have to, and because I can’t put all my eggs in one basket. For once in my life, I feel like I belong some place.
Every day I wake up, and every night before I go to bed, I thank whatever deity is out there, if not the universe, for my truly good fortune to be here in Oxford and the greater U.K. I couldn’t have asked for more – this is my magical spring and summer – of 2009, and I suspect it will be awhile before I see or experience something similar in the future. I take snapshots of all that has become familiar so that later on, I can conjure the images and memories in the vacuum of California. I have to remember I am a student on a mission, and being here has brought me down to a crazy new reality that makes me forget; I have partaken in the elixir of traveling and meeting new friends in ways I could never have imagined prior to coming to Oxford.
Overall, Oxford has been a life-altering experience from which everything in my life has shifted in its definition. Sometimes, I think, “Why does life demand we ‘return’ to something or head towards something else? Why can’t people find their Zen in other ways outside of the parameters of ‘normal’? That would be ‘unrealistic’ to say the least by common standards. If one can provide for one’s self and is responsible, then why can’t he or she decide how that will unfold?” Instead, there seem to be a series of hoops through which I know I have to jump just so that another party will get to give its “acceptance” or “declination” notice. But then, pipe dreams are what keep us going.
Starting this fall, I’ll have to start applying for different universities. It is a nerve-wracking process designed to maximize neurosis and minimize chances, and I will have to jump into the deep end of that pool of water sooner than I wished. I wish I could make sense of that process as well, but that is not mine to question. My task is to simply stay on task. I have decided to apply to the Oxford Brookes campus just to see if I have a chance, since I have taken to this place like none other. People I’ve spoken to have told me that my grades and studies should carry me without a problem and I’m going to visit their office soon. I’ll still apply to Cal Berkeley, Stanford, Cornell, and other similar schools in the States because I have to, and because I can’t put all my eggs in one basket. For once in my life, I feel like I belong some place.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
Sheer Silliness
There are not many people in this world who bring me the brand of laughter that makes me nearly cry. Yesterday was lovely. I had been battling a migraine (still am) for days, had taken two Maxalts, and was resigned to the prospect that I would simply have to endure the pain because it had a foothold on me. Nonetheless, I decided on a whim to go to The Corridor, semi-migraine in tow, and just write or draw or whatever.
Sib was present and it was good to see him. It was Friday, and the mood was generally relaxed and relieved all-around. He was going to go home to shower, but one beer (pear cider for me) after another later, we amassed some semblance of inebriation, helped along with some other factors. We got to talking about many different things – all of which are always very interesting and sometimes unusual subjects, and sometimes the actual fact of a matter is so true that it becomes funny.
The biggest bang of our discussions was about how many people erroneously label the moon as having “zero gravity.” I remember having asked this question in my Physics class because in my mind, I viewed the moonwalk as evidence of gravity, despite the light weight (pull/force) on the moon; astronauts did always seem to land back onto the surface. My professor informed me that while there is less gravity on the moon, gravity definitely exists. That part I knew. There is a gravity well that keeps the moon tethered to the earth, and the earth tethered to the sun, etc.
It started to get very strange and hilarious when Sib pointed out the error of “experts’” postulations of “zero gravity” on the moon and explained to me that he had told the experts that if there was “zero” or “no” gravity, the moon would simply “piss off.” There would be only one tide, which means there would be no tide really, and people could cross vast expanses of the ocean and return relatively quickly, like, “See you in a couple of weeks…”
Up until yesterday, when I thought of the moon, I had a pleasant sort image of it dating back to nursery rhymes and old sayings: the man on the moon, the cheese in the night sky, cows jumping over it, the smiling face of the moon seen in lots of art, and so on. The thought of the moon “pissing off” on account of there being zero gravity sent me on a lengthy laughing spree. But it is true. If the moon was “zero gravity,” then it would whiz on past the earth and keep moving forward at its own velocity relatively quickly, like, “Hello, good-bye.” In space, I think, without gravity, objects continue to travel in their trajectories unless something gets in its path, and then… well, objects still collide with tremendous force. I was also thinking that if the moon didn’t whiz by, but instead continued on a trajectory (in its zero gravity state) and the earth was in the way, there’d be no time to say, “Excuse me…” That would be that.
And, if that hadn’t been a big enough lengthy bit of laughter, there was already the precursor in play of something that struck me dumb silly: “A camel is a horse designed by a committee.” I had to ask Sib to repeat his comment, and then wrote it down. Immediately I broke out into laughter and couldn’t stop laughing. Camels are willful creatures, don’t do what you tell them to when you want them to do something, spit at you, are cantankerous, and regardless of whether or not they have one hump or two, they are still not horses. Or, could camels simply be “horses in drag”?
Finally, somewhere between all this laughter, we got into a discussion about mediocrity. I am passionately against mediocrity, or settling for anything less than one’s highest aspirations. I know that things get in the way of plans unfolding properly, but life is meant to be lived, and to be lived with full participation within it. Sib said something that, at the time, sounded hilariously apropos (to which I also laughed lengthily) but was actually very true. He said, “The height of mediocrity is ultra individualism.”
With all this laughter going on, people wanted in on the joke, but the problem was that there really wasn’t any joke. One person asked if we were talking about him while I was laughing uncontrollably. I’m sure I looked foolish, but sometimes the truth can be awfully hilarious. We would have had to retrace the premise of zero gravity on the moon and explain why it cannot be so, and then all of the sudden, it would have become un-funny. It’s priceless.
Sib was present and it was good to see him. It was Friday, and the mood was generally relaxed and relieved all-around. He was going to go home to shower, but one beer (pear cider for me) after another later, we amassed some semblance of inebriation, helped along with some other factors. We got to talking about many different things – all of which are always very interesting and sometimes unusual subjects, and sometimes the actual fact of a matter is so true that it becomes funny.
The biggest bang of our discussions was about how many people erroneously label the moon as having “zero gravity.” I remember having asked this question in my Physics class because in my mind, I viewed the moonwalk as evidence of gravity, despite the light weight (pull/force) on the moon; astronauts did always seem to land back onto the surface. My professor informed me that while there is less gravity on the moon, gravity definitely exists. That part I knew. There is a gravity well that keeps the moon tethered to the earth, and the earth tethered to the sun, etc.
It started to get very strange and hilarious when Sib pointed out the error of “experts’” postulations of “zero gravity” on the moon and explained to me that he had told the experts that if there was “zero” or “no” gravity, the moon would simply “piss off.” There would be only one tide, which means there would be no tide really, and people could cross vast expanses of the ocean and return relatively quickly, like, “See you in a couple of weeks…”
Up until yesterday, when I thought of the moon, I had a pleasant sort image of it dating back to nursery rhymes and old sayings: the man on the moon, the cheese in the night sky, cows jumping over it, the smiling face of the moon seen in lots of art, and so on. The thought of the moon “pissing off” on account of there being zero gravity sent me on a lengthy laughing spree. But it is true. If the moon was “zero gravity,” then it would whiz on past the earth and keep moving forward at its own velocity relatively quickly, like, “Hello, good-bye.” In space, I think, without gravity, objects continue to travel in their trajectories unless something gets in its path, and then… well, objects still collide with tremendous force. I was also thinking that if the moon didn’t whiz by, but instead continued on a trajectory (in its zero gravity state) and the earth was in the way, there’d be no time to say, “Excuse me…” That would be that.
And, if that hadn’t been a big enough lengthy bit of laughter, there was already the precursor in play of something that struck me dumb silly: “A camel is a horse designed by a committee.” I had to ask Sib to repeat his comment, and then wrote it down. Immediately I broke out into laughter and couldn’t stop laughing. Camels are willful creatures, don’t do what you tell them to when you want them to do something, spit at you, are cantankerous, and regardless of whether or not they have one hump or two, they are still not horses. Or, could camels simply be “horses in drag”?
Finally, somewhere between all this laughter, we got into a discussion about mediocrity. I am passionately against mediocrity, or settling for anything less than one’s highest aspirations. I know that things get in the way of plans unfolding properly, but life is meant to be lived, and to be lived with full participation within it. Sib said something that, at the time, sounded hilariously apropos (to which I also laughed lengthily) but was actually very true. He said, “The height of mediocrity is ultra individualism.”
With all this laughter going on, people wanted in on the joke, but the problem was that there really wasn’t any joke. One person asked if we were talking about him while I was laughing uncontrollably. I’m sure I looked foolish, but sometimes the truth can be awfully hilarious. We would have had to retrace the premise of zero gravity on the moon and explain why it cannot be so, and then all of the sudden, it would have become un-funny. It’s priceless.
Friday, 5 June 2009
Happily, Sadly, Tangentially
It is the day after my birthday and today, I am a bit sad and want to cry a little. I had the most phenomenal birthday ever in my life and it was all a great day, and somewhat undone by my state of inebriation wherein I probably made a fool of myself towards the end. I am left with a big question mark on one side of my state of being, whereas, lengthy dashes and pauses inhabit the other side. This dichotomy may be tugging at my heart ever-so-slightly. It is difficult to discuss, so writing about it seems apropos for the moment.
At noon, I hopped a bus to City Centre and went over to Primark where I bought my first pair of sandals for a very long time. I met Mad Mick (from Tiger Lilly) at 1:00 and we proceeded to board the Hop-On-Hop-Off bus – this time with a live tour guide as opposed to a tape recording. It was once again a stunning day and a little cooler than the last time I went on the bus tour on Tuesday. I was glad to see Mick again because we had lost contact after I completed my semester. I was flattered that someone would go out of his (or even her) way to make my birthday so memorable – something I am unfamiliar with.
After the tour, we walked around a little, took in a smoke, and headed off to the tavern where Bill Clinton “smoked but did not inhale” back in the day before anyone ever knew he would become an American dynastic power. The Turf Tavern was tucked away behind the city wall – a nook and a cranny away from the bustle of the tourists. The tavern had many layers in it and each point of egress folded out into a different outdoor seating area where graduating students – some with their gowns – sat drinking and smoking, and where balloons and glitter filled the areas.
* * * * *
When I got to the Corridor, I had already had a few beers. Coincidentally, early in the day, I ran into Kat (awesome person from the Corridor) and found out that we both shared a birthday. I told her I’d be at the Corridor later on in the evening. It was wonderful to celebrate our birthdays together, and inebriation was the common denominator between us – much more so than the rest. For once, I was content with this celebrative frame of mind, and enjoying the full-on party of sorts. Julie got me a drink, and I also got a free beer for my birthday. And the piece de resistance was a birthday cake. No apologies, no regrets, save one, which is innocuous enough of a matter, and not mentionable.
* * * * *
What I don’t understand scares me. I read about or do research on things so that I can understand the matter better when I don’t understand something. However, when “understanding something” involves a relationship wherein “something” is “someone,” I become hopelessly stupid and lost, and lose my sense of perspective. I am not the type of person to ask people what they think about me or to ensnare them with the cliché words or moves that are commonplace with respect to this matter. Better my heart break now than later, I suppose, although there is no indication of impending doom barring my eminent departure. Human nature varies from person to person, is extremely layered and complex, cannot be predicted, and books are insufficient towards answering any question that I might have.
However, I can speak for myself, and right now, I seem to be clueless and suffering from a tinge of “why?” and “how?” and so forth. I count my blessings daily, but the pain cuts deeply and without an explanation. My whole being has been touched by this wonderful and magical place, and by the people who inhabit it, and more to the point, by a particular wondrous aspect – a singularity of sorts. But I am an innocuous sort who will never be able to fathom the depths.
At noon, I hopped a bus to City Centre and went over to Primark where I bought my first pair of sandals for a very long time. I met Mad Mick (from Tiger Lilly) at 1:00 and we proceeded to board the Hop-On-Hop-Off bus – this time with a live tour guide as opposed to a tape recording. It was once again a stunning day and a little cooler than the last time I went on the bus tour on Tuesday. I was glad to see Mick again because we had lost contact after I completed my semester. I was flattered that someone would go out of his (or even her) way to make my birthday so memorable – something I am unfamiliar with.
After the tour, we walked around a little, took in a smoke, and headed off to the tavern where Bill Clinton “smoked but did not inhale” back in the day before anyone ever knew he would become an American dynastic power. The Turf Tavern was tucked away behind the city wall – a nook and a cranny away from the bustle of the tourists. The tavern had many layers in it and each point of egress folded out into a different outdoor seating area where graduating students – some with their gowns – sat drinking and smoking, and where balloons and glitter filled the areas.
* * * * *
When I got to the Corridor, I had already had a few beers. Coincidentally, early in the day, I ran into Kat (awesome person from the Corridor) and found out that we both shared a birthday. I told her I’d be at the Corridor later on in the evening. It was wonderful to celebrate our birthdays together, and inebriation was the common denominator between us – much more so than the rest. For once, I was content with this celebrative frame of mind, and enjoying the full-on party of sorts. Julie got me a drink, and I also got a free beer for my birthday. And the piece de resistance was a birthday cake. No apologies, no regrets, save one, which is innocuous enough of a matter, and not mentionable.
* * * * *
What I don’t understand scares me. I read about or do research on things so that I can understand the matter better when I don’t understand something. However, when “understanding something” involves a relationship wherein “something” is “someone,” I become hopelessly stupid and lost, and lose my sense of perspective. I am not the type of person to ask people what they think about me or to ensnare them with the cliché words or moves that are commonplace with respect to this matter. Better my heart break now than later, I suppose, although there is no indication of impending doom barring my eminent departure. Human nature varies from person to person, is extremely layered and complex, cannot be predicted, and books are insufficient towards answering any question that I might have.
However, I can speak for myself, and right now, I seem to be clueless and suffering from a tinge of “why?” and “how?” and so forth. I count my blessings daily, but the pain cuts deeply and without an explanation. My whole being has been touched by this wonderful and magical place, and by the people who inhabit it, and more to the point, by a particular wondrous aspect – a singularity of sorts. But I am an innocuous sort who will never be able to fathom the depths.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
"The Only Time You Go Punting in the Rain is to Hunt Ducks..." (Sib)
Last weekend (including Friday), the weather was absolutely beautiful here in Oxford. After a relatively strange week of miscellaneous misadventures, I was ready to get back into the swing of being here in this beautiful country. On Friday, Steve (Jennifer's partner and part of my homestay family) took me out to Cotswold in his car, and I was floored by the confluence of perfect weather alongside the quaint village backdrop where a river (Bourton on the Water) ran through it. Children were playing in the water, ducks were out in great abundance, and everywhere I looked, people were out on the grassy parks around the river lounging about and taking in the sun. It was an unfamiliar sight for this Los Angeles resident. People brought their dogs that were also joining in the aquatic fun. I have to say that the dogs here are much cuter because they’re not accessories as much as they are companions and very well-behaved at that.
Afterwards, Steve took me to one of the Inspector Morse sites that became very popular after his appearances there. The pub/restaurant was called the “Trout Inn,” and we stopped in there to have a pint. The outdoor lounge area was packed, and no better weather could have been asked for and I took several pictures that day. There is something magical about the backdrop of magnificent trees intermingled with the quaint old houses, buildings, and layered brick-work, and I cannot imbibe enough of it.
While Saturday was similarly beautiful, I misused part of it by being a useless being in a pub for the better part of the day. When Sunday rolled around, I was truly looking forward to a change of scenery. Saturday evening, I received a text from a friend from the Corridor, Cotty, who asked, “Weather looking good for punting, pick you up about 2? If you’re still up for it…” Was I ever!
At 2:00 p.m. on Sunday, Cotty came rolling up in his Honda CB1000 motorcycle, and I was introduced to riding pillion (as a passenger)! I had never been on a motorcycle before; a scooter in Japan was my only experience of motorized bikes. I was instructed on the manner in which I was to get on the motorcycle and put on my helmet so as to not look like a dunce. (It turns out that Steve had heard this lesson from his window and joked about it to me later.) Properly helmeted and with the motorcycle turned on, I proceeded to ride pillion step-by-step, and off we went. Mind you, it’s exhilarating feeling the air rushing on your face as the world speeds past you. I remember thinking, “Hang on for dear life and enjoy the thrill – this is living fully!” From time to time, he accelerated or took hard turns, where we were tilted at least at a 60 degree angle, if not even more close to the ground. We stopped off at Tescos for some strawberries, grapes, food, juice, water, and a bottle of champagne and made our way to the very place where my class went punting in the rain.
“The only time you go punting in the rain is to hunt ducks…” (Sib). I had had a negative view on punting from my last experience of it – it was a pre-planned event, and if one learns anything in the U.K., it is that one cannot foresee what the weather will do from day to day (much less weeks from a day). The “event” was abysmal to say the least. It was cold, raining hard, and so windy that my umbrella broke. Further, I was in no mood to be there, in the rain, in the wind, in the cold and soaking wet. But, to be fair, it was our farewell party and probably obligatory to show up and say the proper good-bye’s and thank-you’s to the staff at AIFS (American Institute of Foreign Studies). In reality, they were probably thinking, “Good riddance, Pasadena!”
Sunday, however, was a whole different universe. It is as Ngaio Marsh writes in Clutch of the Constables wherein one gets a sense that there is an element of timelessness, and that somehow the big busy world “out there” gets swallowed up by the beauty and peacefulness of the river. The sun was out, the sky was blue, and every aspect of green was accentuated and complementary to the canvas of nature. Iridescent dragon flies danced on the leaves and water, and various birds appeared, namely different species of ducks and geese, and a few sea gull-type birds skimming the surface for fish and water bugs. Further, the ducklings and goslings were also out, and a duck actually ate from my hand.
I was the privileged recipient of the punting, and was told that the proper way to punt is with champagne and strawberries. We took boat number 80 out and went north upon the Cherwell River. In the beginning, there were a lot of punters, a few row boats, and maybe one or two single kayakers. As soon as we were underway, we popped open the champagne, said “cheers” and started this all-day party. It was magnificent.
The further we went up the river, the thinner the punting population upon the river became, and it was as if we owned the river. We started around 2:30 and didn’t return until after 6:00 p.m. There was one red pub/restaurant along the way that looked a bit like a Swiss chalet (but not) and people were lounging around up and down the grassy areas, fully occupying the picnic benches, and playing various games. We moared the boat for about a half an hour, sat at a picnic table and “smoked a fag.” (This phrase is not as Americans would translate it; it is an extremely commonplace way of saying, “have a smoke,” and I put it in quotes because despite innocuous nature of the phrase here, I still can’t say it properly without feeling like I’m betraying an entire population.)
We continued upon Cherwell River towards some beautiful and posh houses to the left of the river bank. Eventually, the river thinned out because of the trees and shrubbery, and it almost appeared impassable. However, Cotty was very capable of handling the narrow passageway, and each time, we ended up in a new pocket of pristine nature. As the sun started downward, it reflected its light upon the leaves that shimmered with the light breezes. I was in a storybook image and wished that I could put all the beauty, sun, experience, and joy into a bottle. Alas, the next best way of properly capturing the magic for me is to write about it.
When we finally made it back to the boat house from where we first started, it was after 6:00 and the air was quickly cooling down. To top off this wonderful day, I was once again on the motorcycle – this time more relaxed, and taking in the balance of the day that sped by me with each acceleration and turn. With the wind on my face, Oxford whisked past me in a most extraordinary fashion. Perfection. Thank you Cotty!
Afterwards, Steve took me to one of the Inspector Morse sites that became very popular after his appearances there. The pub/restaurant was called the “Trout Inn,” and we stopped in there to have a pint. The outdoor lounge area was packed, and no better weather could have been asked for and I took several pictures that day. There is something magical about the backdrop of magnificent trees intermingled with the quaint old houses, buildings, and layered brick-work, and I cannot imbibe enough of it.
While Saturday was similarly beautiful, I misused part of it by being a useless being in a pub for the better part of the day. When Sunday rolled around, I was truly looking forward to a change of scenery. Saturday evening, I received a text from a friend from the Corridor, Cotty, who asked, “Weather looking good for punting, pick you up about 2? If you’re still up for it…” Was I ever!
At 2:00 p.m. on Sunday, Cotty came rolling up in his Honda CB1000 motorcycle, and I was introduced to riding pillion (as a passenger)! I had never been on a motorcycle before; a scooter in Japan was my only experience of motorized bikes. I was instructed on the manner in which I was to get on the motorcycle and put on my helmet so as to not look like a dunce. (It turns out that Steve had heard this lesson from his window and joked about it to me later.) Properly helmeted and with the motorcycle turned on, I proceeded to ride pillion step-by-step, and off we went. Mind you, it’s exhilarating feeling the air rushing on your face as the world speeds past you. I remember thinking, “Hang on for dear life and enjoy the thrill – this is living fully!” From time to time, he accelerated or took hard turns, where we were tilted at least at a 60 degree angle, if not even more close to the ground. We stopped off at Tescos for some strawberries, grapes, food, juice, water, and a bottle of champagne and made our way to the very place where my class went punting in the rain.
“The only time you go punting in the rain is to hunt ducks…” (Sib). I had had a negative view on punting from my last experience of it – it was a pre-planned event, and if one learns anything in the U.K., it is that one cannot foresee what the weather will do from day to day (much less weeks from a day). The “event” was abysmal to say the least. It was cold, raining hard, and so windy that my umbrella broke. Further, I was in no mood to be there, in the rain, in the wind, in the cold and soaking wet. But, to be fair, it was our farewell party and probably obligatory to show up and say the proper good-bye’s and thank-you’s to the staff at AIFS (American Institute of Foreign Studies). In reality, they were probably thinking, “Good riddance, Pasadena!”
Sunday, however, was a whole different universe. It is as Ngaio Marsh writes in Clutch of the Constables wherein one gets a sense that there is an element of timelessness, and that somehow the big busy world “out there” gets swallowed up by the beauty and peacefulness of the river. The sun was out, the sky was blue, and every aspect of green was accentuated and complementary to the canvas of nature. Iridescent dragon flies danced on the leaves and water, and various birds appeared, namely different species of ducks and geese, and a few sea gull-type birds skimming the surface for fish and water bugs. Further, the ducklings and goslings were also out, and a duck actually ate from my hand.
I was the privileged recipient of the punting, and was told that the proper way to punt is with champagne and strawberries. We took boat number 80 out and went north upon the Cherwell River. In the beginning, there were a lot of punters, a few row boats, and maybe one or two single kayakers. As soon as we were underway, we popped open the champagne, said “cheers” and started this all-day party. It was magnificent.
The further we went up the river, the thinner the punting population upon the river became, and it was as if we owned the river. We started around 2:30 and didn’t return until after 6:00 p.m. There was one red pub/restaurant along the way that looked a bit like a Swiss chalet (but not) and people were lounging around up and down the grassy areas, fully occupying the picnic benches, and playing various games. We moared the boat for about a half an hour, sat at a picnic table and “smoked a fag.” (This phrase is not as Americans would translate it; it is an extremely commonplace way of saying, “have a smoke,” and I put it in quotes because despite innocuous nature of the phrase here, I still can’t say it properly without feeling like I’m betraying an entire population.)
We continued upon Cherwell River towards some beautiful and posh houses to the left of the river bank. Eventually, the river thinned out because of the trees and shrubbery, and it almost appeared impassable. However, Cotty was very capable of handling the narrow passageway, and each time, we ended up in a new pocket of pristine nature. As the sun started downward, it reflected its light upon the leaves that shimmered with the light breezes. I was in a storybook image and wished that I could put all the beauty, sun, experience, and joy into a bottle. Alas, the next best way of properly capturing the magic for me is to write about it.
When we finally made it back to the boat house from where we first started, it was after 6:00 and the air was quickly cooling down. To top off this wonderful day, I was once again on the motorcycle – this time more relaxed, and taking in the balance of the day that sped by me with each acceleration and turn. With the wind on my face, Oxford whisked past me in a most extraordinary fashion. Perfection. Thank you Cotty!
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