Oxford Goodbye

Last night I went punting. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this method of boating, it is most similar to canoeing, but requires you to abandon all conventional wisdom that might normally inform your behavior in the water. Essentially, a punt is a long, wooden, vaguely rectangle-shaped vessel that you STAND in and push along the riverbed with the aid of a metal pole. Upon embarkation, you are outfitted with said pole, and a small paddle, roughly the length from your wrist to your shoulder. I really can't tell you what size person would find this piece of equipment to be useful. It certainly didn't earn its passage in my boat. I can tell you, however, a few things not to do on your first punting outing.

1. Do not wear a dress.
2. Or a cashmere sweater.
3. Leave your pearl necklace at home.
4. Do not drink too much Pimm's, even if you did, just one hour prior, submit a lengthy (and tedious) paper on a certain invasive species of freshwater plant, and even if you are leaving to go back to the States in just two days so you must celebrate! Because you are going to float away down a river and it is going to take you a very. long. time. to get. back.
5. And finally, and perhaps most importantly, do not listen to the obnoxious fellow in your boat who claims to be the most experienced punter, but in reality is only the most experienced loudmouth.

I will not regale you with all of the horrors attendant to this voyage. I will tell you that they included a snake, a head injury (Yes. Someone was smacked with the pole. Hint: See item 5, above), a patch of stinging nettles, and repeated use of the phrase "Brace for impact". My darlings, it wasn't pretty. Lucy and Ethel would have fared better navigating down that river than any of the five of us. Hours later, we arrived back at the boathouse, where the (Boatmaster? Dockmaster?) helped us to shore. I watched as his eyes moved from our damp and bedraggled hair and clothing to the floor of the punt, which, if you added a little soap and a rubber duck, you could have bathed a small child in, (that is if you are not opposed to bathing your child in a mixture of liquor, melting ice cubes, silty river water, and browning pieces of cut up fruit), and asked, with mild shock, if we had capsized. We hadn't.

Later that night, I was sitting in the library with a small group proofreading a paper, when the night porter, Jean-Baptiste, came by on his 'rounds'. If I haven't mentioned it before, each of the colleges here has a "Porter's Lodge" at the entrance, which is similar to the front desk of a hotel. It is staffed by Argus Filch, (no, just kidding, porters!) It is staffed by a handful of friendly chaps who are happy to help with just about anything you come up with. Locked yourself out of your flat again? The porter will let you in. Need a stapler, duct tape, coffee, or an extra blanket at 2 a.m.? The porter is your man. The duties of the night porter include making rounds through each of the quads, surveying the library, computer labs, laundry rooms, etc. to make sure things are running smoothly. Occasionally, as one gentlemen told me, he'll have to tap at a student's door and 'gently suggest', (not too harshly, because the students here are special- his words), that they should really continue their little gathering the next day, so as not to interrupt the dean's slumber with their piano playing. (On that note-ha!- there is a resident who lives on the first floor of my building, and he plays the piano almost every evening. He sits right next to the open window and it's just lovely. I feel like I should toss some change onto his sill before I leave tomorrow...) Anyway. Jean-Baptiste and I 'got talking', as the Brits say, and I learned that he came to Oxford from Rwanda about ten years ago. I offered him a look at some photos that Adam took when he was there, and we sat flipping through various sights of Kenya, Uganda, and Rwanda on my laptop- banana farms, hills dotted with little multicolored houses, streets crowded with motorbikes. We arrived at several photos of Hotel des Mille Collines, and he said, "Oh yes. I stayed there during the genocide." And so that's how I found myself sitting in the upper floors of a library, housed in the former college chapel, on the fringe of the English countryside at well past midnight on a Wednesday with a man who survived one of the most tragic conflicts of the past hundred years by hiding out in Hotel Rwanda to my right, three undergraduate girls from northern Illinois to my left. He stayed for a little over an hour with us, we chatted about BP, Bhopal, and the children of Chernobyl. He talked briefly about his life in Rwanda, (he studied journalism), and the trip that he and thirty other young African democrats took to the States for a tour through several cities and the United Nations, and his decision to settle here in Oxford, where he earned his degree at one of the colleges just up the road, got married and had two daughters. He told me proudly that they both do well at a grammar school in town and speak perfect English and French. "I'll never leave Oxford", he said. "I love it here." He knows everybody. This city, with its small-town charm, is full of friends and friendly faces. It's full of fascinating people and stories. There is another college library on almost every block, teeming with books, (the most in England, possibly), the sort of ancient, leather-bound tomes you want to curl up with on a rainy day, and you know there are plenty of those. You can't sit at a pub for long without overhearing heated conversations in German, Italian, Korean, all competing with each other over the noise of the crowd, all with one thing in common.

Today, my last day here, I bought a crepe from the cart, (Oh little red crepe cart, I'll miss you most of all!), strolled over to the Bodleian Library, and then saw the Stradivari violins, Monets, Rembrandts, and Pissarros at the Ashmolean Museum. And I had the distinction of being the last person to buy a roll of tape from a hardware store, (Gill & Co.), that is closing its doors after 450 years. This evening I popped into the King's Arms, a pub that has been serving up drinks since some time in the 1600's, and is joked to have the highest IQ per square foot of any bar in the world, thanks to the fact that it's owned by one of the neighboring colleges and apparently, until about thirty years ago, Oxford professors would grab a pint and hold their tutorials in a back room. I walked in, past several bikes leaning against the wall, and recognized one of the actors from last week's performance of The Tempest at a table near the bar. I sat with some friends and had a drink. And looked out the window and imagined how pretty Oxford must be in the fall, when the leaves start to change.

Cheers and thanks for reading!

Oxford Travel Diary: French Pets Edition!

Diary readers, today could be your lucky day! For the first person to correctly guess the number of dogs on this bench, I promise to send you a very fabulous, very exciting, European prize!

Oxford Travel Diary: L'Edition Paris-II

I know, I know, it has been a week since Paris. It is high time I moved on to something else. However! Before abandoning the topic entirely, I felt compelled to offer one small piece of advice for anyone who may currently be planning a trip to this splendid city. (And for anyone who isn't, there is something for you too.. be patient!) There is a certain well-known structure in Paris, (hint: see photo, above), one might even call it the focal point of the Parisian night sky, but then, I wouldn't know. Everyone from Samantha Brown to your butcher will impress upon you the importance of making an evening visit to the iron edifice. Your friends will coo about the romance and grandeur of this national treasure, sparkling in the moonlight. They may be right. What these friends, Romans, countrymen, (I'm sorry, I can't even help it at this point, I've been averaging 1.5 Shakespeare performances a week...) will not deign to tell you is this: La Tour Eiffel? Has a bedtime. Of course, I found this out the hard way, by dragging poor Phil Meade, at two in the morning no less, across the city, past various Metro stops, over a series of bridges, through deserted parks and dimly lit, pebbled alleys. Because I had to see! The Eiffel Tower! At night! This was my only chance! Alas, gentle reader, it was not meant to be. When we arrived at its base, the tower was dark, almost too dark, almost darker than the dark, menacing sky that enveloped it. Phil and I stood there in disbelief, and the tower stood there mocking us. Realizing that the Eiffel tower had now become my Hollywood sign (Hi Mollie!), there wasn't much left for me to do. I spit the ground and shook my fist at the air! Well, anyway, that's what I wish I had done. All I can really claim are some weak protestations and maybe an indignant foot stamp. We hung our heads and crept away, defeated. So please. Please. If you travel all the way across the Atlantic, and then all the way across the English Channel? And you have one night to witness this spectacle? Try to make it there before they tuck it in and turn out the lights.

And now, for those of you who are not quite so inclined to splurge on a round trip ticket, I am including a recipe- perfect for a summer evening- that will, (if you don't cut any corners!), transport you immediately for a pittance.



Spinach and Mushroom Crepes:

First, you'll prepare the filling. I hope you have paid a recent visit to your farmer's market, because we are using fresh mushrooms, fresh spinach, and some shredded cheese, (I think gruyere sounds nice, don't you?)

Put a little butter and a little olive oil in a pan. Add mushrooms, (and a bit of chopped up garlic if you are so inclined), saute until they soften up. Then add spinach and cook just until it starts to wilt. Add some salt and pepper. Remove from heat.

Now you will make the crepes. Do not run, this is easy! And if I were you, I'd make a few extras to stuff later with Nutella. Mmmm.

1 C. Flour
1/2 C. Milk
1/2 C. Water
2 Eggs
2 Tbsp. Butter, melted (plus some extra, set aside)
Pinch of Salt

Whisk flour and eggs together in bowl. Slowly pour in milk and water while stirring. Keep stirring while you pour in the butter and salt. Now you have the batter! Next, ladle about 1/4 cup batter onto your (piping hot) greased griddle. Spread it around quickly so that you have a very thin layer. Leave for about half a minute, then flip. Now you are ready to stuff!

While the crepe is still in the pan, brush some melted butter across the top (use your pastry brush!), then layer on the shredded cheese, top with sauteed veggies, and fold it up.

Serve with a green salad and maybe a nice plum tart. And a little cinnamon ice cream.

And if you dine outside at your rusting metal cafe table? With a couple of flickering candles, a chilled bottle of something tasty, and perhaps a few lichen-covered clay pots full of lavender or red geraniums tucked into a corner? Why then I am sure you will feel just exactly like a pretty French girl with a new haircut and a pair of yellow Repetto ballet flats. Accordion player (highly) recommended.

Bon appetit!

Oxford Travel Diary: "L'Edition Paris"

Bonjour, mes amis! I am newly returned from my trip across the Channel, where, I am delighted to report, I found Paris to be entirely bewitching- the art, the chansons, the baguettes and puff pastry, the bridges and fountains, and the multicolored bateaux cruising up and down the Seine.

My train arrived Saturday morning at Gare du Nord, and I was thrilled to see this fellow waiting at the depot:

First up was a quick stop at Hotel Therese, which was very conveniently located within walking distance of nearly everything on my 'must-see' list, and lovely to boot, with a cozy library, chilled champagne in the lobby, and a huge, ancient gold room key, adorned with a decorative tassle. How quaint! After depositing my superfluous bags, it was time to hit the ground running. Due to its size and our time constraints, Phil and I made the executive decision to skip this museum:

Instead, we made a beeline for the left bank of the Seine and the Musee d'Orsay, where, after browsing the works of Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, and Renoir, we were treated to a combo of French musicians, (complete with accordion player!) while eating quiche and baguettes on the museum steps.

Following this light lunch, we strolled over the Pont Neuf to Ile de la Cite, where we toured Notre Dame Cathedral, taking a brief respite to enjoy the choir.

Next, we crossed a smaller bridge to arrive at Ile St. Louis, home to the celebrated Berthillon ice cream, as well as the most enchanting collection of candy-colored storefronts- cafes, patisseries, boulangeries, confiseries, and fleuristes. We ambled up and down the narrow streets while savoring our ice cream cones, (Phil: L'abricot, Me: Le framboise...)

Soon it was time to change for dinner, for me that meant my puffy-skirted blue and white 'Bastille Day' dress. We took the Metro up to Montmartre, and I literally mean 'up', as this historic district (and home of Amelie!) is the highest point in the city, crowned by the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur, which affords incredible views of Paris, and is thronged day and night with residents and tourists alike, there to take in the skyline as well as the bohemian ambience that is still alive and kicking in this quarter known for its cabarets, (including the Moulin Rouge), in addition to the numerous singers, poets, and painters who have lived and worked in the neighborhood. We had dinner at La Maison Rose, a pretty little Parisian cafe immortalized in an Utrillo painting. After sampling escargot, I dined on a fromage et champignon omelette, salad, baguettes, and a glass of vin blanc. For dessert it was deux cafes, followed by a crepe stuffed with Nutella.
Note to the makers of Nutella: Je t'adore. Vous etes tres beaux.
Note to George: I am changing your name to Nutella.

After dinner, we wound our way up the steep Rue des Saules to Le Lapin Agile, a cabaret dating back to the mid-1800's, painted and frequented by Picasso, where we were ushered up a handful of steps, past a burgundy velvet curtain, and into a cramped and dimly lit room. Spectators lined the perimeter, some huddled at long wooden tables, drinking kir, singing along in french, and clapping time with the accordion player. She performed, at times accompanied by a pianist or by the owner, who would poke his head in for a song or two, a number of French classics made famous by the likes of Edith Piaf, Charles Trenet, etc. It was such good fun, and a little after midnight, Phil and I left, gliding back down the hill, wishing for all the world that we could sing in French, (Well, maybe that was just me...), and making big plans for the next day.

Sunday morning, we indulged in a traditional "continental breakfast", which includes fresh juice, croissants with preserves, tartines, and, in my case, a nice big mug of chocolate chaud.

We ate outdoors at a cafe near La Sorbonne, and afterward walked the couple of blocks to Jardin du Luxembourg, adjacent to Luxembourg Palace, where clever Parisians flock on weekends and sunny days to lounge in the most beguiling 1920's green metal chairs, surrounded by formal gardens, apple and pear orchards, and gravel paths and swathes of lawn dotted throughout with statues. In the center of all this sits an expansive octagonal fountain, where the children of Paris float their model sailboats. C'est charmant!

Making our way back through the Quartier latin, we found ourselves in the middle of an outdoor market, crowded with peddlers proffering all the makings for a very fine picnic- wines, pastries, fresh fruits and vegetables, and more exquisite cheeses than even I could dream how to serve, though I am certainly not above trying.

We finally made it over to Shakespeare and Company where we bought our postcards, lingered in the tiny rooms, thumbed through a book or two from the precariously stacked piles, and then took advantage of the cafe tables and chairs out front to lament our misfortune that Dylan was not one of our party, (yes, we did), and to watch the passersby.

Phil and I ended our day, and our weekend excursion, at another sidewalk cafe, with yet another French classic, the Croque-Monsieur. Then we bid our adieus to each other and to Paris and I hopped back on my train.

I am very sorry to report that I have retained no photographic evidence of Phil in his (tres chic) black scarf, smoking his hand-rolled cigarettes, and sipping his espressos. Quel parisien!

I am also loathe to admit that in the past week I have toured Avebury, Stonehenge, and Salisbury Cathedral, but in the shadow of Paris, am now struggling to remember any items of singular interest to share with you, diary readers. My apologies to the Church of England. And to any neo-pagans or Druids who may be reading.

Grosses bises!

London

Today I made my first visit to London, but I've been there a thousand times before. I was there to clasp hands with Peter Pan when he soared past the Darling family's windowsill and out over the bridges, rooftops and twinkling lights of Kensington Gardens, and I stayed up all night in front of the Old Curiosity Shop with little Nell Trent while we worried and waited for her grandfather to come shuffling up the street out of the early morning fog. I've been there at twilight to hear the pensive sound of Sherlock Holmes at his violin, floating over from Baker Street, where I'm sure I could smell the sagging leather chair and the last bit of smoke from his pipe. I danced over chimneys, covered in soot and singing along with Mary Poppins and Bert, and I skipped silently into place beside Christopher Robin just in time to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. I grew up in London, crisscrossing the city from Charing Cross to Hampstead Heath to Notting Hill, I know its corners and its secret gardens. I've hurried down its cobbled alleyways, peeked wistfully into shop windows at dusk when the streetlamps are flickering to life, and I've come in from a blustery winter's night to warm my face and fingertips at the crackling hearths of, truth be told, far too many of these grand old houses. Today London was on its best behavior, it offered me a prim handshake and a 'Welcome.' But it felt more like a welcome home.

Alice's Day

Saturday was "Alice Day" here at Oxford, which means the English embraced their eccentricity, donned their fancy dress, (Brit-speak for costumes), and celebrated Lewis Carroll's flight of fancy with performances, exhibits, live music, and, naturally, snark-hunting. For my part, I grabbed a blanket and my used copy of Alice in Wonderland and headed over to Christ Church College, the largest and arguably most prestigious of Oxford's colleges, where Charles Dodgson, a.k.a. Lewis Carroll, taught math for thirty years, to catch what I could of the festivities. I reclined on the grass and tumbled down after the white rabbit, amid the surreal sea of little Alices, flamingos, and Mad Hatters frolicking around in the meadow. And of course, this isn't just any meadow, but is, in fact, 'The Meadow' where Charles whiled away his own sunny Oxford afternoons playing croquet on the lawn with young Alice Liddell, daughter of the dean of Christ Church.

At six o'clock, I strolled over to the 12th century cathedral for 'Evensong', which takes place nightly, is free, and features the renowned Christ Church Cathedral Choir, who, allowing for some obvious changes to the line-up, have been singing by candlelight there for 500 years. Following their performance, I attempted to gain entry (pried, scraped, clawed, what have you...), into the adjacent dining hall- the very same dining hall used in the Harry Potter films! Christ Church was a step ahead of me though, as the entrance was locked and the side staircase cordoned off. Well, they have to eat sometime, so vowing my return, I retreated across the street for a blackberry ice cream and, in case you think I am neglecting my studies, spent the rest of the evening examining the reproductive structures of an aquatic plant, with a nightcap of Henry IV, part one. Yes, Shakespeare and I stayed in on Saturday night, which, considering that my windows open out into the bustling High Street, the equivalent of a busy Main Street in the States, was no small feat. This place may have produced some kings, a dozen or so prime ministers, and assorted Nobel laureates, but let's not forget the distinguished alumni also include, (my personal favorites), Hugh Grant and Bill Clinton, so I guess what I'm getting at is, Oxford? At the end of a long day? Likes to have a good time. Inhaling optional.

Cotswolds, Carnivals, and Kissing Gates

Well, this week has been a whirlwind of activity! I kicked things off in Oxford on Sunday with a visit to the Cowley Road Carnival, where I ate lunch off the carts, listened to some live music, and took in a street performance or two. Then on Tuesday, I made a trip to Stratford-on-Avon for a tour of Shakespeare's birthplace, Mary Arden's house, and Anne Hathaway's cottage (see photo, above), which was overflowing with all the delphiniums, foxglove, hollyhocks, hydrangeas, climbing roses, and hybrid teas you could imagine, not to mention a gorgeous vegetable garden, orchard full of fruit trees, and a yew maze! I capped off the day with fish and chips at a pub along the Avon river, and watched King Lear performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company.

Today I hopped on a train that took me up into the rolling hills of the Cotswolds, the area most people imagine when they conjure up scenes of pastoral England- narrow lanes edged with lavender, stone cottages covered in flowering vines, and sheep dotting the landscape behind them. After a brief consultation with Ben Jeffrey, the village ironmonger, who informed me that no, he would not be able to stamp me a cottage nameplate while I waited, but that it would instead take 9 (NINE) weeks to make, and also that no he did not ship them to the States, (or take too kindly to being asked that particular question), I picked up a walking map, had lunch at Tilly's Tea House, and set off on the "Public Footpath", which was essentially a tire track through miles of open countryside. I attempted to channel Marianne Dashwood on one of her slow rambles through Devonshire with Willoughby, but realizing that I was the sole human in a field full of cows encouraged me to pick up the pace. You see, there is some sort of shaky agreement here between land owners and county councils, which basically dictates that public footpaths will exist and be maintained right through, well, your backyard, essentially. These paths are known as a 'right of way' and anyone with a foot can travel them, take photos, etc. The routes are marked every so often with miniscule, (I mean, really tiny..) signposts and 'kissing gates' (google them), and are kept generally clear of overgrowth, although I think the National Trail people and I differ slightly on the exact point at which we consider a path to be overgrown. And if you should decide you do not want a publicly traversed path running through your pasture? And you think you will make navigating said path less convenient for the walkers? Well then, the walkers, a seemingly docile group composed of middle-agers with binoculars and expensive hiking staffs, will proceed to A.) remove the obstruction and B.) possibly vandalize you, because "once a highway, always a highway!" All told, my walking tour had me fairly convinced that I was, at any time, about to be bitten by a rattlesnake, clawed by a bird of prey, stung by a bee, snared by the horns of angry cattle, kicked by goats, and kidnapped by the big bad wolf, who was pretty obviously lurking just inside the boundary of the forest.

And lest you think I am pulling the wool over your eyes, (that's a little Cotswolds humor...) and I did not spend my morning traipsing through farmland, I leave you with the following piece of evidence. Yes. That is the path. See it? No? If you look I think you can just make out a kissing-gate ahead: